Communication Breakdown

++ Iacon ++

Gleaming gold, silver and blue as far as the eye can see: the capital of  Cybertron itself can be breathtaking to behold. Architecture both old and reflect a sense of stately order as well as artistic beauty, with gentle arches, gilded domes and spiraling towers that rise into the skyline. Even the walkpaths and roads are copper and bronze, the maintenance workers here diligently tending to them to prevent any kind of rust and corrosion. The city itself almost seems alive, with glowing power conduits in circuit pathways running along the streets and buildings, powering external lights and glowing holomatter signs. Cyan-colored crystal and glass windows reflect the hue of the sky in day, or glow from internal lighting at night.

Populated mostly by high caste and above, Iacon is the seat of Cybertron's government, military and intellectual class. At the end of the main road into Iacon is Trion Square, which features an enormous video screen, every bit as big as a combiner, constantly flickering with news feeds,  state-sponsored messages and advertisements. Translucentia Heights, the most elite residential area on Cybertron, is nestled into a corner of Iacon's living quarters. Energon refineries, technoversites, merchant plazas, a nurturing creche and even a nature preserve fall within the massive polity's boundaries, making Iacon one of the few completely self-sufficient cities on the planet.

The 3-Brewers is a known spot, operated by a three mechs who operate different aspects of the business. Kinda like a small tavern. Not too quiet but the music is not too loud either. There are a couple of usuals that can be seen and recognized day after day and a couple of occasionals that come from the nearby offices and buildings.

Near the middle of the room at a small round table not far from the bar is Skids! Sitting there with a brew and a datapad. The pad is currently turned off and the mech seems to be relaxing and looks a bit exhausted.

Blurr hasn't been to a bar in a while. Suffice it to say that his life has been rather eventful for the past few solar cycles. The ground tournaments were to resume soon, and...well, everything else had kind of springboarded off of that. The Ibexian Athletic Association was frantically searching for someoneone to replace his former handler Axle, who had suddenly and 'mysteriously' committed suicide, and it appeared that his assistant Doubletap had been shot by security drones.

Needless to say, the media are going wild over it, and there are all the conspiracy theories running rampant. However, no one in the IAA seems to want to give anyone any more information about the incident surrounding Axle's death. Perhaps they simply don't know any more than everyone else does--or perhaps they are hiding something.

At any rate, the famous racer enters the 3-Brewers without the usual throng of fans and reporters who follow him around, having managed to temporarily evade them by visiting a bar that he doesn't usually frequent. He draws a few surprised glances and excited murmurs but fortunately no one seems to rush up and start bombarding him with questions. The speedster walks over to the small round table Skids is sitting at and plops himself down. Some of the other patrons might be glancing at Skids with just a tad bit of jealousy.

Skids looks up at Blurr and raises an eyebrow. "Seems this place is the prime spot for those who have recently lost their 'home'." He takes a quick glance around "Mech like you cannot go anywhere unnoticed but this place is probably more discreet than your usual hangouts." Skids turns back and motions the bartender to stop being starstruck and take Blurr's order.

Blurr peers at Skids with a confused expression on his face. Lost their 'home'? What's he talking about?

Upon receiving that look from Skids, the bartender hops to it, fumbling a bit awkwardly. "Ah, right, right!" This place isn't exactly the Circle, you know. It's not every cycle he gets someone as famous as Blurr. He hurries over to the table. "Phew, never expected to see someone like you around a place like this! Anyway, can I get you anything?"

But Blurr just shakes his head and waves the mech off.

The bartender looks crestfallen at this. "Oh--really? Are you sure?"

Blurr nods.

"Oh...well alright...if you change your mind let me know..." he glances at Skids. "And everything okay for you, sir?"

As an occasional person of interest and, at least, known Decepticon sympathizer, it's not typically usual for Breakdown to be seen bumming around Iacon after a long shift hauling junk and doing whatever else it is he has been doing to make ends meet between illegal demolition derbies while waiting for the races to open up again and resuscitate his dwindling shanix. Yet, when he rolls into the 3 Brewers, he does so with every appearance of being wholly assured that he belongs here. His frown is written deep into his aspect, grooved so hard into the plating of his face that it might be permanently affixed there. He glances around the bar like he's looking for someone in particular, and grinds a low noise in his throat like the frustrated growl of an engine on not immediately seeing whomever it might be.

Skids tilts his head "You lost your racetrack, for now at least and I lost my Academy." He takes a swig from his mug and motions to the datapad "And now I am scrambling to put back together years of theoretical research because some jerks torched my 'home'." Skids leans back in his chair a bit and notices Breakdown walking in. Does not know the guy but he looks like he had a bad day. Well he is in the right spot.

Oh, so that's what he meant. Well, the tracks weren't really Blurr's 'home'. Maybe sort of, but he doesn't live there. However, the racer nods anyway, and his optics follow Skids' hand motion toward the datapad, wondering what the research was about.

And then Breakdown walks in, with his usual unpleasant demeanor. Has Blurr met this guy before? He doesn't quite recall, but he doesn't exactly look like the type who is pleasant to be around. Thus he quickly averts his optics, looking elsewhere so as not to draw Mr. Grumpy Blue Guy's attention.

Unfortunately for Blurr, Breakdown sure as heck remembers the last time they met; since nobody messes with his head except in fairly standard, he makes an obvious straight man kind of way, and their last meeting was pretty /distinctive/. His frown changes in aspect distinctly when the angle of his gaze lights on Blurr across the bar. He pauses visibly, his weight balanced backward on the heavy plant of his large feet. Then he begins to lumber across the room, avoiding eye contact with a bartender or any staff that might prefer someone of his aspect drink somewhere else, to come to a halt at the table he and Skids share.

"Evenin'," rumbles Breakdown. It's a fairly good approximation of cordiality, except for the snarky edge that he doesn't seem to remember how to put down. He looks at Skids, finds him unfamiliar and makes a decision that this means that he needs to be indirect in his inquiries, and then looks back at Blurr. "Assumin' you've got our mutual friend someplace safe," he says, possibly just for the maximum amount of confusion he could create right now. (No, it could probably be worse.)

Skids watches Breakdown approach the table with a decisive pace. Hopefully this one does not bring trouble. Quite rude not to introduce himself which lowers Breakdown's stock in Skids's optics. For now Skids remains quiet as he has absolutely no idea what they are talking about.

Blurr tenses a little. Oh no, the mean grumpy one is coming over here, isn't he? He just -had- to...or does he seem to know the racer? Yep, that is certainly a hint of recognition in his optics.

It's not that Blurr doesn't remember their last encounter; it's just that he doesn't recall Breakdown being there specifically. It's kind of always been a problem, with him--not remembering people. He's always getting people's names wrong. So if Breakdown was trying to confuse Blurr as much as possible, he's certainly done a good job of it. The speedster stares up at Breakdown with a blank 'Huh?' look on his face.

It's hard to say specifically that Breakdown looks annoyed, because let's be clear here, his face basically just looks like that -- except when it's smirking, or on those rare occasions that he is actually smiling. A lot of bots have existential guilt, but Breakdown basically has existential rage, and it informs his features accordingly.

A wheeze of air escapes him as he clanks in place, arms crossing over his bulk. "Breakdown," he says on a sigh weighted with exasperation (and, well, weighted generally), which is at least an introduction, if not a particularly enlightening one for either of those bots that he currently addresses, most likely. "From Ibex. That little /party/ off the Dead End. You left with our mutual friend like a bolt-bat riding a lightning bolt. Haven't seen her since. Somewhere safe?"

Skids mentally notes all the info: 'Breakdown' 'Blurr in Ibex' 'Party off the Dead End' 'Blurr left with a her in a hurry'. Is the famous racer involved in mech-napping? Maybe this is the wrong crowd for a nerdy theoretician. He checks his chrono and stands up picking up his datapad. "Excuse me gentlemen. Got to get a little recharge before another hard day of work." With that being said he heads out.

Blurr shifts uncomfortably under Breakdown's gaze of existential rage. Party in the Dead End? Which mutual friend? He doesn't ever remember going to a party in the Dead End, in fact the Dead End doesn't sound like a place where people go to have a party. So he's still drawing a huge blank on everything the other mech is saying. Not to mention, the name doesn't sound familiar, either. He...looks quite like a confused child. That is if Cybertronians actually -had- children.

"Ug," grunts Breakdown. His weight settles back on his heels, rocking back in a way that at least changes his stance to one less immediately /looming/. He glances after Skids's departure, and then returns his attention to Blurr, less glarey now but more personally mystified by the apparent confusion. He asks: "What is with you, anyway?"

Oh, there is definitely something up with Blurr. Probably more than one something, given the fact that Feint had pulled cables in the middle of the memory compression procedure. He just...keeps staring confusedly at Breakdown. It gets pretty awkward. He'd probably perk at Feint's name, but this 'mutual friend' business is just confusing him.

Returning the look for a long moment spent silent, it seems likely that this is going to become a very confused staring contest between the two racers. Awkward is definitely the right word. Fist closing in place in a quiet scrape of metal, Breakdown leans forward with its brace on the table, and goes, "You lost? Remember how to /talk/? I remember you chattin' pretty quick at the creepy guy with extra arms." He growls in a low seethe that snaps at the edge of temper, not quite spilling over into threat, "I ain't askin' you to tell me where Feint is, fragging paranoid--" Yeah, because that's-- accurate to /who/ in this conversation? At least he got to mentioning her by name /eventually/, even if it took awhile . . . "--I just want to know if she ended up someplace safe."

Ooooh! Recognition lights up Blurr's face it dawns on him what Breakdown must be talking about. Yes, there had been some -other- mechs there, that one cycle when Feint had been in trouble and that big ugly beast mode guy had been trying to steal her spark. Perhaps this mech was one of them? Well anyway it's good to know that he isn't the only one who cares for her. He smiles and nods reassuringly. Of course she's safe! As long as she's with Blurr, she's safe. At least as far as he's concerned. Never mind that the IAA could order a hit on her any time they wanted....after all they'd apparently succeeded in ending Rung, and if they decided she was too much of a nuisance or whatever they could do the same to her.

But they wouldn't do that, would they? Nah.

"All right. Well. Good." Uncertainty still lingering about him in the aftermath of confusion, even with the main point answered, the big racer stands there for a moment. Letting his hand fall away from the table, Breakdown takes a half-step back (grind ... clank), and studies Blurr for a long moment frownishly. "You /actually/ get fried or somethin'?" he says, like this is a question that he expects an answer to.

At Breakdown's question, Blurr glances down at himself as if to check for any evidence that he might have gotten fried somehow. Upon seeing none, he looks back up again with yet another befuddled stare. Here we go again...

Beginning to look mildly unsettled by this ... conversation, if that's the right word for it, Breakdown makes a disgruntled noise that sounds a little like the whine of an engine that doesn't want to turn over, and shakes his head. "Fine," he tells Blurr, tone gone a little blank. "Great. Wonderful. Scrap." It's remarkable that all these words are spoken in much the same tone.

Breakdown is so confusing! He seems to be happy about something, but then he curses, so was that supposed to be sarcastic? Blurr looks even more baffled, but this time he at least stops pointlessly staring at the larger racer. Instead, he pulls out a small card and gives it to Breakdown. It has his hailing frequency on it. What was this? Call me maybe...?

There is something peculiarly delicate about the way Breakdown takes the card, holding it between the points of his fingers. He vanishes it into the close of his palm and says, "...Thanks," the delay marked by lingering baffle. He surveys the much more famous racer with a fainter frown than usual, consideringly. "Guess I'll talk at you later, then," he says. The 'at' sounds particularly wry. Optic ridges weighting heavy over the bright gleam of his eyes, he steps back another pace, and then turns in a shifting clank of his weight to start moving off across the bar.

Blurr facepalms. No, no...why is Breakdown so dumb?! Ugh. Oh well. His loss, right?