Culture Fair

Blast Off has received orders from Megatron himself to show Starchamber around the \*glorious\* (\*cough\*) city of Kaon. It might be a good thing, or maybe it's a bad thing- lately Blast off and Starchamber have just been yelling "FINE" at each other and not saying a lot beyond that. Though she did get Rumble to give him some engex the other night, so maybe she's not ALL bad, after all. Plus, she's a fellow Combaticon AND space worthy, so deserves a second chance or two. So now the shuttleformer walks down a city street, pointing out landmarks as they go.

But he has a hidden agenda. Yes, an eeeevil hidden agenda. He's really heading the way he is because he caught wind of something he almost dares not get his hopes raised too high for. A flier he spotted about an annual "Kaon Culture Fair" starting up today. Here? Now? In this city? Who knew! But apparently it's some sort of tradition, and ...dare he hope? He might find something /classy/ there. PLEASE let it be so.

"And over there? That dive is where a lot of the card sharks and gamblers hang out, or where people go to bet on games." He keeps walking, getting closer all the time to the "Kaon Culture Fair" location. "And there? That's where the druggies tend to hang out. /Loovely/ city we found ourselves in, isn't it?" Yes, he's being facetious.

"I see nothing amiss here," Starchamber muses, looking around. "This is a civilian populace, the hardy industrial sort. They tend towards vices to ease the sting of their labor." She strolls around proudly, arms clasped behind her back, letting Blast Off lead and advise her on what is going on around her.

The giant femme is in a reasonable mood and is not ignoring Blast Off at all! If there was any friction before, it's evaporated completely. She doesn't often hold on to grudges.

Blast Off looks up to Starchamber (who is taller than he, and why is that annoying? Hmm.) and cocks an optic ridge. "I suppose. They have a lot to want to forget, or ease their sorrows about, or try some escapism from time to time. There are certainly a great deal many bars here." He should know, he's among the ones drowning those sorrows in them from time to time. "However, so few of them can even \*imagine\* the sort of life and opportunities people like us are generally privy to." People like us meaning /spacecraft/.

"... Like the glory of being a part of a grand army?" Starchamber asks, because that is apparently the only opportunity and advantage she can think of it. I mean, what else IS there?!

Blast Off brings up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Siiigh. "No, the glory of being a ...spacecraft?" C'mon, where's your space pride here, Starchamber?

"Well flight DOES sit at the apex of the triangle of victory," Starchamber agrees, hands on her hips.

Blast Off looks up at her, head tilting as he eyes her critically. "How about the glory of space itself? The feel as you break free from a planet's gravity and know that the entire universe is yours to explore? The feel of soaring through an alien planet's atmosphere, witnessing colors no one else even knows exist, flying through weather combinations groundpounders like the ones here could never possibly even comprehend? Seeing landscapes and skies and nebula clouds that groundpounders could never begin to imagine? Riding the cosmic wind? Not to mention the freedom and prestige and usefulness that brings to our kind when we ARE back on a planet?"

"After three million years it gets kind of passe`," Starchamber confesses. "Hundreds of thousands of miles of nothingness from port to port. I like to actually have conversations once every, oh, -century- or so." She folds her arms and looks down at Blast Off. "I understand, though. Feeling a bit planetbound?"

That's a surprise to Blast Off. "How can you say that?" He can't imagine space ever getting... "passe'" Of course, he never had the huge amount of time in it that Starchamber has had. He spent half his existance stuck in a box with only the longing memories of the things he loved, like space, to keep him company for millions of years. "We were BUILT for space, it's in our circuitry!" Never mind that he does remember getting lonely up there, from time to time. But he considers that a WEAKNESS. Because a shuttle shouldn't GET lonely.

"We were built to be alone. We were built to be up THERE." He glances skywards, yearningly, and sighs. "Of course I do. I want up THERE so bad I can taste it. But I need a cloaking device, and special fuel, and..." His voice trails off with another sigh.

"We were built for space but I was -also- built to be in the hands of a capable soldier," Starchamber points out. "My altmodes generate different needs. I suppose you have the benefit of not needing to be held; and for that I commend you. Such a stoic, unsocial personality program would have greatly come in handy back on Combatron." Sounds like they both have some unfullfilled needs.

Blast Off straightens up a little at those remarks. Those /compliments/. "...Well, yes. I am the \*perfect\* shuttle. I've always been quite proud of it." He continues walking along, pointing out yet another landmark of scum and villainy, then goes back to eyeing the large femme. An offer sits unsaid on the tip of his tongue (does he have one?) for the longest time. Finally, though, he remembers her earlier kindness when they first met, and it breaks free. Quietly. "Well... I AM a sniper. Any...time you need to be, uh...shot, just let me know."

Starchamber puts a hand on Blast Off's shoulder. "I greatly appreciate that. And mark my words, we'll find a way to get you back into space. If nothing else I'll just shoot down the orbital patrols myself!"

That's probably supposed to be comforting, but Starchamber is forgetting that this is a traumatized space shuttle we're talking about here. especially when femmes get close. He flinches back, stiffening, before visibly \*forcing\* himself to calm down. He absolutely \*panicked\* when Scorn tried to grab him and get close recently, and he embarrassed himself, her, just ... he just wanted to go crawl under a rock then, he was \*ashamed\*. And Blast Off is not used to \*shame\*. "...Don't..." He takes a step back, shaking his head slowly. He finally calms the reaction, bringing a hand to rub down his face. "....I mean... apologies."

He makes himself focus back on what she says. "Uh... yes. I tried that once. Didn't work very well for me." It's one of the major reasons he's on the run from the law now. "But perhaps... with \*teamwork\*... we could finally break their oppression."

The jumpiness is noticed. "I see you're still just a bit reflexive. My apologies." She seems less.... bombastic now, as if she's slipped into a secondary personality that is far more calm and understanding. Maybe there actually IS something to that 'multiple forms, multiple behaviors' philosophy Froid was throwing around a few years ago in academic circles. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's never to ignore your instincts and base desires. They were put into your spark for a reason and they help the species to survive. Repressing them does no one any good."

Blast Off admits very quietly, "I wasn't always like this." He pauses, "Well, I always wanted my \*space\*, but... not like... this." He then shakes his head and continues forward. "But my instinct? Is to get back to space and perform my function up there. THAT is my instinct." That and enjoying the finer things in life- that's an instinct of his, too, and speaking of which they should arrive to the "Kaon Culture Fair" soon.

Blast Off quickens his pace. "Ah... and we'll be at the Kaon Town Square soon... sometimes they even hold events there! Let's see if there's something going on." Yes, this wasn't orchestrated AT ALL. The crowd seems to pick up a bit. Does look like people are heading that way. "So I suppose YOUR instinct is to shoot and fight and reap the rewards of "glorious combat"?"

Starchamber moves along with Blast Off, easily matching him because he has short little legs compared to her. Yes, those legs go all the way up. And up. And UP. "Need I remind you that I am a gun?" she asks with a bemused chuckle.

"But..." Blast Off brings up two hands as if trying to weigh his words. "Is there anything else? Do you, I don't know... ever enjoy a little quiet time? Have a hobby that isn't guns and shooting things? (Not that there's anything wrong with that, I like it myself, but...)" He grasps around for what he's trying to say. "Something ... non-combat you do for fun?" He's not hoping for \*going to the opera\*, though he's not even sure he could handle it if she said that... it would just be too glorious and wonderful and... highly unlikely.

They round a corner, and /there's/ the fair not far away. "Ah... there we go. I don't know, go to a place like this, perhaps?" Culture, sweet culture... he can't wait! There are a number of somewhat shoddy-looking booths, tents and a crowd of various mechs and femmes milling about. "Oh, look!" He just so \*happens\* to notice a flier posted nearby. "A CULTURE Festival! How nice."

"... cul... ture?" She says it like it's some kind of foreign concept. "I... Well I do -read-," Starchamber notes, wondering what all this hubbub that appears to be disappointingly non-military is all about. Blast Off seems very enthusiastic so SURELY it has SOME kind of merit. She hopes it's a display on ammunition or maybe even -- she dares to hope -- a MILITARY PARADE?@!"

Blast Off perks up at that. "Read? Reading is \*good\*!" Of course, knowing her, it's probably all military manuals and things like THAT. Sigh. "That's a start! Ever read some astronomy journals? Or... even..." (dare he ask) "fiction?" The fact that he's been known to read romance novels is a secret he intends to take with him to the GRAVE, however.

He advances on the milling crowd. "Yes, culture. You know, something you do in your spare time, when you're NOT killing people? When you want to relax? Soak up some arts, or be entertained, or explore new ideas and even new worlds, whether real or fictional?" He walks up to the nearest booth. There is a somewhat rusty-looking mech standing there, filling large glasses with something. Maybe wine? "Or even wine tasting?" He pauses a moment, suddenly losing his taste for THAT (still has a thing against wine, thanks Feint and Arcee)... but Starchamber probably doesn't. "Excuse me, is this a wine tasting?"

The mech just stares at Blast Off. "Beer. You gonna buy some or not?" He then looks to Starchamber. "How 'bout you? Beer and some enerpretzels, 5 shanix."

"So culture is overenergizing. Check!" She hands the mech some shanix, though most of her money is stored in GCU -- the shanix may as well be pesos or yen these days. She works in -pounds sterling-, thank you verry much. "How badly are we going to get over-energized tonight, Blast Off? Enough to make you 'Blasted' off?" She quips with a big grin.

Blast Off stares at this development, then looks up at Starchamber. "Well... um... sometimes? I mean, it's \*part\* of enjoying oneself, or CAN be, but... I am sure we can find the traditionally more... /classy/ elements of a proper cultural festival. This..." He looks with a little frown evident on his face (yes, even under the faceplate- the brand new one, at that) at the beer mech, then waves a hand to dismiss him. "This must just be the concession they make because... well, you know, we're in KAON. But let's find something proper. Something /classy/." Her last comment causes him to blink, >:I... and then look slightly embarrassed given the state he got in the first night she came planetside. He tries to mask feeling flustered as he says, "Well... um... Let's just... let's just concentrate on finding something to DO first..."

The shuttleformer strides over to the next booth. "Ah! Now, see? Look at that assortment of glass sculpture propped up \*just so\* on the table there? Obviously a fine artisan selling their craft! Finally- some \*fine arts\*! This is classy, see? We can-" He begins to head over to look, when suddenly \*WHAM\*!!! A giggling femme stands not far away, holding several balls after having just thrown one right into one of the sculptures, and knocking it down with a shattering of glass. "STRIKE! YES!!!"

"Fun and games! Yes, I think I could get to liking this culture of yours!" Starchamber admits, admiring that femme's skill with 'bowling'. "Are you any good at this game?" she asks Blast Off, pointing it out with a large smile. She stops to chug some enerbeer out of her mug.

Blast Off flinches as the glass strikes, then just sort of... stares at the ruins for a moment. WUUUUT. His shoulders sag a little as he looks over at the destroyer of art/actually just somebody playing a Strike-out game. Le sigh. Then he looks up at Starchamber. "No... see... this...." Looks back. "I....." Stare. "Uh...." He straightens up. "NEVERMIND. MOVING ON." Now determined to find something actually "\*cultured\* about this- somewhere, somehow- surely must be something right? He moves on.

"OK, now... now THIS should be something good." He points to a musician onstage nearby. "Here we go, this..." He stops as suddenly a screen comes scrolling up in front of the musician and- yep, sure enough, people start throwing bottles at the singer in their appreciation. OMP NO BEEN THERE DONE THAT ALREADY MOVING ON.... Hastily he ushers Starchamber to the next display. PLEASE PLEASE let this be something reasonable. A meek, quiet-looking mech peers up at them from a stack of datapads. "Can I help you? Have you come to read my works?"

Starchamber is pulled around by Blast Off, letting him grab her by the hand and lead her (stumbling along) past what look like such interesting things! What could be wrong with throwing bottles at a singer on stage, especially if they want it? What in the world is this shuttlecraft looking for that isn't already here? It's all so potentially FUN!

NO NO NO, this isn't fun at ALL. Well, I mean, maybe it IS, but Blast off is too focused on OMP CULTURE to notice. He looks down at the mech. "...Possibly. Are you an author?"

The mech lights up. "Yes! I've written several works already. My latest (he pulls up a datapad) is "The True Story of Primus. I have done a LOT of study, and if you read certain manuscripts and sources you start to notice troubling patterns emerging. Did you know that in just 70 vorns Primus himself will appear to his chosen? But ONLY his chosen. Fortunately, I've done enough research that \*I\* know who they are and what one has to do to become one! Though..." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "There are still some passages I am not certain about. For instance there's something about "the meek shall inherit Cybertron"... or...." The tapping increases, ""The meek shall /destroy/ Cybertron". It's... not entirely clear. You know how that Ancient Cybertronian dialect can be... Oh! Or how we must all be chaste and virtuous." Tapping again. "Or possibly, that we must eradicate the chaste and virtuous. These little details, you know... "

Starchamber looks over at Blast Off, "... Is this the reading you prefer, comrade?" She is very curious, because if it is, she will obviously need to study Blast Off more. these sort of mental quirks are important to know for STRATEGY.

Blast Off stares at the mech. "Wait, how can you possibly claim to know that Primus himself is coming in 70 vorns..." He glances sharply over at Starchamber "NO IT IS NOT" before returning to the author, "and yet you don't even know if we should eradicate the meek or BECOME them?" The author looks quite affronted at this, and puts on a righteous pout before HMPPHing and turning away. Blast Off in turn HUFFFs and motions to Starchamber to follow him. "Come on, Starchamber ... NO, no, I read astronomy journals and scientific reports and..." (a little more quietly)..."(mumble)fiction(mumble)".

On to the next booth then! Here there are various chairs and tables, and sweet-smelling oils and polishes. An attractive looking femme walks up to them both, her smile just \*gleaming\*. "Would you like to try our sample polish massage?" Hmm. Now THIS seems more promising.

Starchamber is suspicious, slightly. "Does it come with a happy ending?" she asks the proprietress coyly.

Blast Off is already about ready to sign up for this delight when Starchamber asks her question. "Why YES!" The femme beams even brighter. "We start you out here, work you up, polish you REAL GOOD, really work those joints, finger those curves and dig into the TIGHT spots- then uh... well.... /release/ your tensions... though that's done in the privacy booth over there. Your choice of femme or mech!" She adds brightly, pointing to the booth.

Blast off turns a shade of magenta (is that possible?) and stiffens up even more than he was. It's possible Starchamber might hear a gear or two pop. "/THAT WILL BE ALL, THANKS/." And he's trying to shove the other Combaticon on to the next booth.

"Oh that sounds positively wonderfu--"

Starchamber is pulled away quickly with an apologetic wave to the proprietress. She isn't sure what Blast Off is looking for but it seems like he's missing out on all the fun around here. "A-A-Are you sure you know what it is you're looking for?!" she questions, stumbling behind the smaller, highly flustered mech.

"Yes! YES. CULTURE. Of which there is NONE to be found here, apparently." The shuttleformer is indeed flustered. He really wanted to make a good impression. Show Starchamber the benefits of culture, of having a good time. Show her that life doesn't have to be all fighting and combat. That there are other things to life to enjoy. Of course, if he's missing those HIMSELF right now he hasn't noticed yet.

"You know, fun? Like... non-combat fun? Like.. like..." He looks around again. Hmm. There seem to be artists over there. Canvases on easels. More paints. He studies the scene carefully. No "privacy booth"... no people standing with balls in their hands. Could it be...? He hardly dares hope at this point. "Ok, let's try this." Walking up to the booth, another femme comes over. "Would you like to try our arts demonstration? 5 shanix or credits and you get a sampling of paints and a canvas to try."

Starchamber sighs. "I'm going to time you," she asides flatly to Blast Off, standing next to him, folding her arms. "I want to see if you can beat your last record for dragging me away from the interesting things."

Blast Off is just about to stick his nose up at THIS too when Starchamber makes that little comment. He blinks and stares up at her, 'WHAT? No, I... well, it's just... THIS isn't really..." He starts waving his hand to poo-poo the whole childish (to him) setup, but looking up at her, arms crossed, he falters a bit. His hand comes back down. "But...I... am not an artist. Why would I?..." He looks at the femme standing there, waiting for his answer, "I... uh..."

"Is this the culture you were looking for?" Starchamber asks, relenting in her seriousness, melting into a warmer demeanor.

Blast Off continues to look a bit lost. "Well... I mean, it IS art, I suppose but..." His optics flicker and he glances from the femme to the easel to Starchamber again. Then those shoulders sag in defeat. "FINE." He huffs, bringing out 5 shanix and handing it to the booth worker. Then he walks over to a blank canvas... and stares at it.

Starchamber pays her five as well and has a seat next to Blast Off. "Have you ever done this before?" she asks him, before looking at her paints and contemplating what she can create with them.

There's a long silence. "....No." Blast Off looks at her, his gaze as blank as that canvas. "You?"

"No. But I'm going to give it a try. You finally look like this might be something you're interested in, though I have -no- idea why you passed up the polish. Primus knows you could use something to relieve your tension!" She picks up a brush, and dabs it into the paint, choosing black.

Blast Off looks forlornly at the blank canvas before wincing just slightly at the mention of the "polish". He also seems to hunch down subconsciously like he doesn't want anyone to even see him here talking about THAT. "Oh My Primus. Because it was not PROPER. I mean, really, you have no idea who those people ARE, or where they've BEEN, how many those hands have TOUCHED, and no self-respecting mech is going to be caught DEAD in a.. in a place of heathens like THAT!" \*Shudder\* He adds quietly, "Besides, I... don't like people touching me. ...Like that. Especially strangers." Of course, \*everyone\* seems to be a stranger as far as he's concerned- or the way he acts at least.

He goes back to staring at the scary blank canvas (FEEEAR IIIT), then turns to watch her. "What are you painting?"

"You'll see!"

Starchamber mixes some colors and starts with broad strokes, making a strange red-purple pattern; satisfied with the loopy structure, she starts dabbing the brush to make a smokey, flecked, cloud-like halo around the shape. She dabs again with more colors, adding oranges and yellows, and then with a fresh brush, takes white, and begins to flick it all over the canvas.

Blast Off hunches over his canvas, still feeling a bit guarded after his little confession, and stares hard at the canvas. But soon the sound of paintstrokes gets him to glance over at the femme and watch her go at it. It actually IS kind of cool to watch an artist at work, even a newbie artist like her, and soon there is something where something didn't exist before. He looks at the image. He makes a wild guess, knowing her. "That an explosion?" It /has/ to be an explosion. Then he looks at the blank canvas in front of him, trepidatiously picking up a brush. He dabbles it in purple (he likes purple, Okay?) and starts smearing it on the canvas.

Star is now putting effort into some of the white fleckes on the canvas, altering their color and size. "Nope," she causally replies. "It's a nebula."

Blast Off blinks. He looks to the canvas and then back to her. "Really?" He sounds almost surprised.

"Yes, it's called the O'ogwassi Nebula by the populace of Draconis-3," Starchamber replies. "It's a place I enjoyed flying through. Tremendous ion storms, it would light up the entire area with such brilliant color and the plasma winds would play with the lose gasses. Liquid mercury there - you could fly through silver mists." She beams over at Blast Off. "I thought you might enjoy it."

Blast Off blinks, then stares up at the other Combaticon. He looks rather impressed, his surprise still there but turning into a pleasant thoughtfulness. "I.. I was there once. It was beautiful." He looks back down at her painting. "That is beautiful." Seemingly a little inspired himself now, he decides to follow suite and slathers the canvas with shades of purple, black, and gray, then goes back over them with contrasting blobs that seem to stack on top of each other like pillars of orange and pink.

"This is the Horsehead Nebula. I've traveled through it a number of times. When you get to this point.." \*he points at a dense cluster inside one of the stacks\* "...there's enough accumulation of space dust and particles to let sound travel through. There's one spot near a small planet where I've seen traveling asteroids actually create a harmonic... well, /orchestra/. The sound is... eerie. Haunting. Beautiful beyond anything I've ever heard planetside. Then when you get to this star here, Sigma Orionis, the magnetic fields almost tickle as you soar through. It is... majestic."

Starchamber chuckles, femininely even! AMAZING.

"Oh yes! Yes, I've been there, isn't it fun?" she asks in return. "You've got the details down very well, too."

Blast Off looks at her, unsure how to take that. She... is she ...laughing AT him, or WITH him? Given how socially clueless he can be sometimes... he's not sure. The doubt is etched there on his face, what's visable of it.... but gets softened a little at her response. "Oh... uh, yes." He stops, staring at his canvas and trying to decide which of those possibilties it actually was. Or if he should respond.

Starchamber notices the pause. "I wasn't laughing -at- you, comrade. I was just delighted to see the way you just lit up describing the nebula, and remembering passing through it myself. It was just happiness. Nothing meant to offend," she reassures.

Blast Off glances at the femme through the side of his optics, studying her... then he relaxes. Looking a bit happier now, he nods and picks up his brush again to continue adding points and dabs of white and yellow. "Space... makes me happy," he admits. "I... am pleased it is something that brings you pleasure, as well."

"I suppose we have -something- in common after all," Starchamber chuckles. "Even if we don't seem to agree on much else." She reaches over to gingerly touch one of his shoulder pauldrons in a comforting way. "You were right. Culture is quite nice."

The shuttleformer looks up as Starchamber chuckles, just about to nod when she pats his shoulder carefully. He stiffens at the touch. It's hard for him not to. However, the gentle touch- from a fellow Combaticon- allows him to relax again and he gazes down at his canvas. She calls this "culture", and his immediate response is to want to correct her, say that this isn't really culture at all... just some meager low class approximation of, you know, REAL art and culture... but something stops him.

Perhaps... this is culture, too, in its own way. Achieving the same kind of goals culture can achieve, whether in a snooty high class haute couture-sort of event or a simple street festival such as this. He blinks, then turns to look back up at Starchamber, a faint smile on his face (under that faceplate of course). "..Yes... yes, it is. It lets one relax, expand one's mind, explore one's horizons in a safe environment, get exposed to new things without any major consequences for being "right" or "wrong". Sometimes... it's simply nice to .../be/, for awhile."

"Are you happy right now?" Starchamber asks Blast Off, as she touches up her painting, getting it just the way she wants it. "From what I've seen of you so far, that seems to be a very elusive state for you."

Blast Off optics darken a little as he turns to his own painting. He starts trying to dab on more stars, then slows and stops, staring at them instead. "... I'm cast out of my comfortable life and job, stuck in a town I don't like on a planet I can't get off of, while friends get taken from me and the Authorities do their best to hunt me down so they can extract my spark and stick it in a box again for a few more millions years. That... answer your question?" He sighs, then brings a hand to his face. "...Apologies. I... do not mean to be so... much of a downer. I CAN be happy, it is simply... more trying than usual, given all that has happened." He looks to Starchamber. "What about you?"

"I understand your situation, believe it or not. I just choose to take pleasure in the here and now, wherever it comes, rather than dwell on what I've lost or what I once had. So long as I survive, that is all that matter." Using quote in a scene? Check.

Starchamber sits back from her artwork and is pleased with it. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Thank you for the opportunity to expand my repetoire of skills, Blast Off - illegal as that might be here."

Blast Off isn't the only one who can use a quote a scene! "Yes, but I want to do things by CHOICE, not by command- or fear- or ridiculous laws." HUFF. "It... isn't right. Especially for people like us, who should be free to soar among the stars..." He looks a bit sadly at the stars he just painted, then \*bahs\* and shakes his head. "That... doesn't look right."

Blast Off is also a bit of a perfectionist, and since his first painting (probably ever) isn't a MASTERPIECE he's already frustrated with it. He gets up, leaving the painting on its easel. But he does stop to look at Starchamber, his expression softening just a tad. "Yes. I like your painting. I am... glad you're enjoying yourself. And don't EVER let them dictate to you what you can or cannot do...." He glances upwards. "Well... when you CAN choose it, at least."

"There are times when it's all right to let someone give you orders, especially if they know more than you do," Starchamber says, picking up her painting carefully.

Blast Off leaves his. He turns to give the femme another HUFF. "That's fine... WHEN you can FIND someone like that. In my experience, there's... Onslaught and... well, Onslaught is it. Everyone else who presumes to tell me what to do is usually a self-important buffoon."

"Keep an open mind," Starchamber advises. "What other culture did you have in mind? We seem to have missed some fun back there."

Blast Off huffs a little, "We don't need THAT sort of... of.... I can't even CALL THAT \*culture\*. It's... hooliganism, is what it is." Haughty sniff. "I'd like to find something more classy. We found this- I suppose it wasn't too bad... There must be more here as well."

"Have you -tried- being a hooligan?" Starchamber grins.

Blast Off pfffts. "NO. Of COURSE not. I am a \*space shuttle\*! We have a LONG and PROUD tradition to maintain. One of high class, and elegance, and impeccable behavior!" He eyes Starchamber. "Something you should strive towards, as well. There aren't many of us left, you know. We carry a legacy on our shoulders."

"You have a long proud tradition of hauling cargo. You could stand to enjoy some more sensate pleasures once in awhile, Blast Off. Perhaps it might even relax you!" Starchamber quips, grinning. She wants to push him just a little, as she is almost entirely certain that if he'd just get overloaded once in awhile he would be far less high-strung.

Blast Off continues to look haughty and proud- until Starchamber mentions CARGO. OMP. That takes the wind out of his sails, and the shuttleformer suddenly wilts a little. "MORE than just THAT. I \*was\* Primal Vanguard, you know. I am a mighty WARRIOR- AND a SNIPER. YOU should remember that!" He lifts an optic ridge and eyes the femme, remembering what it felt like to hold her in his hands and.... OMP again, she starts talking \*sensate pleasures\* and he's immediately wide-opticed and trying not to look flustered as he quickly glances away.

This leads to thoughts of her and... him. It also leads to thoughts of a certain one-opticed cyclops living in Nyon and no, no, no mustn't even think of Whirl right now. There's the briefest whirring of cooling fans before he stops them again. Now much more uncomfortable, he looks to change the subject. Mainly because like it or not, she's probably right.

Which brings him back to Whirl- and then some feelings of.... is it guilt? He suddenly remembers her speaking of wanting to BE with him (there go those pesky cooling fans again)... but unfortunately for her, she is a FEMME with a FACE and HANDS. (Well, unfortunate in the sense that that is what Feint has managed to traumatize him about, not the simple fact that she is, or she has those things). So Whirl is much less... \*triggery\* in that sense and... mech, does it get complicated fast. "I... I...uh... I..." He brings a hand up to the heat shield on his arm and starts picking at it without realizing it again. "It's just that... well, you know. I TOLD you about... how.... you know."

"I know, but back at the polishing tent they DID offer your choice of mech or femme," Starchamber replies pointedly. "As for the Primal Vanguard - never forget that \*I\* was a part of the ORBITAL ASSAULT DIVISION of COMBATRON and that I SURVIVED A DIRECT NUCLEON WARHEAD. What -sniper- can walk away from such a bombardment and FUNCTION?!" She has one hand on her hip, the other hand holding her painting, as she needles Blast Off even more with the biggest scrap-eating grin.

Blast Off's shoulders hunch up as his hands fling into the air. "It's not a matter of MECH or FEMME! I.. I actually usually /prefer/ femmes!" ...Usually. And... not like he's got a TON of experience here in the matter lately. ...except Whirl now all of a sudden, oh my, so suddenly complicated, but... NO NOT THINKING of HIM. "It's...it's... well, what I TOLD you about." He glances around to make sure no one's listening in on them. "YOU KNOW. If someone... gets... well, YOU KNOW. ...What happened." His hands cut down quickly and he glares off at a random spot in the distance. HUFFF.

Then Starchamber goes on about nucleon warheads. He manages to look haughty again, drawing up to eye the much larger femme smugly. "A SNIPER knows better than to get himself in that position in the FIRST place!"

"That's because a sniper is a COWARD," Starchamber taunts.

Ok, now THAT is playing hardball. The sniper draws up to his full height (again not that impressive compared to her, but hey he's trying) and stares her optic to optic. "Excuuuuse me? Say that again?"

"Snipers are mechs that can't take an enemy on up close and personal. They have to kill from a distance because they're /useless/ otherwise," Starchamber replies, leaning down to get in Blast Off's face. She can FEEL the huffing, even through that faceplate.

OH NO SHE DIDN'T. (Oh yes she did.) She can also probably feel the annoyance just crackling off Blast Off's energy signature now, too. His armor plates bristle and ventilations systems let out a long, low huffff. "Snipers are skilled, precise and intelligent enough not to NEED to take on enemies up close and personal when they can accomplish more with one /stroke/ of their finger on a trigger than a LEGION of roughneck WARMONGERS can accomplish with all the arsenal at their command."

Starchamber smiles. "There you are... there's the fire in your belly. I was wondering if you'd let it be snuffed out yet," she appraises. She leans a little closer, off to the side to ask in his audials, whispering, "And how does it make you feel to pull that trigger? Is that the center of your pride? Is there any rush you feel when you make that shot connect...?"

Just what is she doing?

Blast Off tenses as she leans in, though he's just full enough of righteous indignation right now to keep standing his ground. Armor plates still bristle- then slow in slight confusion. The shuttleformer's optics narrow. he considers this a moment, and, misgivings about shooting Whirl in the head earlier aside, he knows the answer. He growls back, "... Of course. It is ALWAYS satisfying to do my job... well."

"... How satisfying?" she asks.

Blast Off blinks, though he still maintains his ground. "....." He turns his head to look at her, trying to figure out what she's getting at. "... Very. I take immense PRIDE in my work, and I LIKE seeing things fall neatly into place just EXACTLY as I deemed they should. To know that I am the BEST."

"... Now you know how I feel when I am in battle," Starchamber explains. "How I love to test myself against the best, how the raw cascade of data through my sensors gives me joy and satisfaction. Whether or win or lose, I do not care -- all that matters is the struggle, the conflict. It gives me pride and pleasure both to -fight-."

Blast Off lets out a mildly annoyed huff. "I know that. I \*am\* a Combaticon, in case you HADN'T noticed. I understand the thrill of the fight. Though I always seek to WIN. I... I just don't seek battle out ALL the time. There's... a balance to achieve."

He then looks up at her, and POKES her with a finger. YES OMP ACTUAL PHYSICAL CONTACT. "Do NOT forget it. And do NOT call me a coward again."

"And if I do, what then?" Starchamber asks, not budging from the poke. Don't break your finger, Boff.

Blast Off growls a little under his "breath". He \*pokes\* again. Yes, not exactly fear-inspiring perhaps, but he does anyway. He has RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION to motivate him. "Well, I HAVE garnered a reputation for \*shooting\* people who annoy me."

Starchamber laughs softly, perversely enjoying the shuttle getting worked up. "I would like to see you try it. I haven't been tickled in so long."

Ok, now she definitely IS laughing at him! The shuttle is indeed getting worked up now, armor bristling, violet optics glowing a deeper purple. He maintains his stance, though now his hand falls down by his side as he fights the temptation to bring out his weapon and start shooting it. In the middle of a \*culture festival\* no less.

"The last person who asked me to shoot them was sent to the HOSPITAL. /Barely/ survived."

"The last person you shot wasn't a combaticon," Starchamber points out. Fight me, she thinks. Give in just a little, fight me!

Blast Off is trying so hard NOT to fight her! He HURT Whirl, and now he actually feels bad about that. He thought he could shoot Blurr without knicking Swift Blade in the process, and he failed on THAT account, too. Shooting people -or near people- he likes has had a very BAD track record lately... imagine that.

But the fact remains that he IS a Combaticon, just as she is. And like it or not, fighting IS in their circuitry. And she is pushing him VERY close to his edge. That trigger finger of his twitches again. "Don't PUSH me, Starchamber. People think they can just PUSH me around, then get surprised when they CAN'T...."

"-I want you to push back-," she murmurs almost seductively.

Blast Off wasn't quite expecting THAT. He blinks, recoiling back... but only for a moment. Then his look hardens, he lets out a HUFFFF- and he brings out his blaster. He's TRIED to remain civilized here, but he IS a Combaticon sniper, and he can only TAKE SO MUCH. She likes fighting? FINE. His gun is out, aimed and fired at one of the wing "jodhpurs" at her hip almost instantaneously.

-Combat- You hit Starchamber with your ranged attack!

It stings.

Starchamber likes it.

She squeals -- yes, /squeals/ in delight. "THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE!" She tries to tackle Blast Off to the ground.

-Combat- Starchamber hits Blast Off with a melee attack!

Blast Off fires- and hits Starchamber... not a huge surprise given his skill at aiming and how close he is. Sadly, being close ALSO means that he is less able to get OUT of the WAY when she suddenly launches right at him, knocking him down onto the ground. "GAHHH!" Suddenly he's flat on his back with a much larger femme pinning him down. This MIGHT make some mechs happy. Not Blast Off, of course... especially not after Feint.

He's immediately struggling to get loose. At least he doesn't completely freak out- not this time. His reaction to Scorn clued him in last time to how deep that trauma has reached- far worse than he had even realized. It's at least not as much of a shock to him this time. It's also possible that spending time getting rather...uh, /close/ to Whirl just recently has helped ease some of the most extreme fear. But the PTSD is still there; it's not gone yet. "Get off get off GET OFF!" He fights panic, fights anger, and also fights those slagging cooling fans that are kicking in again.

He should NOT be reacting that way, but somehow this reminds him of Whirl and their fight-turned-foreplay that happened not long before. Given that he's still got his gun in his hand he shoots again, this time twisting his wrist servo around to try to shoot along one of her shoulders.

-Combat- You hit Starchamber with your ranged attack!

Starchamber is careful not to smoosh Blast Off. His squirming and wiggling only excites the predator part of her design, the hunter-seeker of a space fighter, and his flailing and panicking is exactly the thing he SHOULDN'T be doing if he wants her to stop being excited by wrestling him around. She yelps as she's shot, the weapon leaving a burn mark but ... well she's not leaking. She's just a bit blackened. It hurts. Hurts and stings.

BUT IT HURTS SO GOOD!

The fact that this is happening right out in the open is drawing the crowd you'd expect. Starchamber's painting is over on the ground (paint side up, what luck!) and she's smothering him. With affection. And almost literally. She kisses the side of his neck. "Shhh, it's all right. Remember your pride, darling!"

OMP. This is straight out of Blast Off's dreams-/I mean worst nightmares/. Ahem. Yes, nightmares. And she won't relent, sending the shuttle into another wave of panic and struggles- useless against the much larger and stronger femme. Then she starts nuzzling his neck and -OMP- there go his cooling fans again. He jerks against her a few more times, then starts quieting down except for a few gasps as she kisses him because Primus help him, he's not immune to her... administrations. His own ventilation systems start cycling more heavily, and he's definitely turning a bright red along his cicuitlines now.

"I..." OMP again. First Whirl and now Starchamber just can't seem to keep their hands off him, and he DOESN'T like it at all, no, no, not at... oh /slag that feels good/.

So much conflict! Though the conflict here is not that a pretty femme- a space alt and a Combaticon like himself- is interested in him. He'd normally be interested in her, too. Still /is/ under all his neurosis, actually. It's just that pesky trauma that tells him he's going to be hurt if he lets her close. (Though... he did just let Whirl get close, and he survived that. (OMP what would Whirl think of this right now?))

There's also the little matter of all the people staring at them right now. OMP a third time. "But... but... //people are watching//...." So says the mech who claims to DO WHAT HE WANTS, WHENEVER.

"Maybe they'll learn something, hmm?" Starchamber teases. "But if you'd rather not embarass them all with your prowess, I'll just have to carry you away and keep you all to myself for awhile. I've been waiting patiently for you, but I can only wait so long."

Oh this is JUST NOT FAIR. Blast Off stares up at Starchamber, vents heaving, torn between OH YES PLEASE LET'S and Waaait no so many issuuuuues... (And what about Whirl? Though.... technically, with Whirl it was just that ONE time and they'll never do it again. Blast Off and he agreed to that, in fact. So it's not like Whirl should be expecting any sort of... exclusivity, right? Riiight?)

The shuttleformer is being tempted far too much here, his inner conflict playing upon what's visible of his face, especially as she mentions "waiting patiently" for him. Which... she has. "But... I... what if I...? You know what I...I went through...." (\*gasp wheeze stop doing that wait /don't/ stop doing that\*) "I don't know if I... can...." He glances up at some random onlooker who is just GAAWWWPing at them, then hurriedly looks back to her and blurts out, "And... and also there's... there's someone else. OR THERE WAS, they're gone now. I... I think.... Yes, they're gone." Probably.

"Oh come here my indecisive little sniper. This time the GUN is going to pull YOUR trigger!" Starchamber laughs and tries to scoop up Blast Off into her arms. If she manages to get him, she'll jet her way up to a higher perch on a building, away from prying optics.

Who are, by the way, cheering, hooting and generally encouraging the show.

The normally eloquent and OH-SO-SOPHISTICATED Blast off is pretty much reduced to a blabbering pile of turbo-jelly by THAT comment. Be still his beating spark, the sniper and his gun, the gun and her sniper.... He makes a feeble attempt to get away, but his spark isn't really in it by this point (he's about to start swooning here instead) and he gets scooped up and flown away with.

"But... I mean it, I can't... I mean, I don't know if... what if things don't..." Well, he KNOWS "things" work, he just used them with Whirl. Ok, actually that's not so much of a concern anymore. "I mean I have NOTHING to be ashamed of, but...." But still... there's the matter of Whirl, and of femme /faces and hands/.

Like an eagle carrying its prey to a nest, Starchamber finds a high, flat building roof that will serve her needs. "Oh it's all right. If you're uncomfortable tell me and I'll stop, but I'm warning you that I really don't want to stop. I've had my optic on you for awhile and I'm not going to settle for anything less than one of my own comrades." She kneels and lays Blast Off on the ground, hovering over him on hands and knees. "I understand you might be a little uneasy with me, so--" \*snikt!\* There's a faceplate and visor covering her expression, one she wears while in deep space. "Does this help?"

Blast Off gets swooped away! It's not often the shuttleformer gets swept off his feet like this by a femme, nor often that he finds himself in this situation either. Whirl may have brought a little healing to him, too... as well as reminded him how NICE this can feel. How nice it can be, despite all his protestations and insistence that WHY NO I am not LONELY at ALL. And then he's on his back again, looking up at Starchamber and torn between that trauma telling him to flee-flee for your liiiife- and that flush of anticipation that's starting to heat up his circuitry. The conflict- and her words of warning- keep him from fighting back this time... keeps him from really doing much of /anything/ until she suddenly snaps on that faceplate.

This causes a surprised blink. She will still be able to see the chaotic emotions flickering across his optics. He could fight, could pull away and reject her. But it might be final this time if he does. She really \*can't\* wait forever, and it wouldn't be fair to ask her to. And... honestly, if he found out she went to someone else, some NON Combaticon, NON space alt to finally find some...relief he'd feel he let her down somehow. Didn't let her choose the best, as any Combaticon AND space alt deserves.

After a moment of staring up at her, finally he tilts his head and actually reaches a hand up towards her face. Her /covered/ face. "I... I didn't know you had one of those..."

"I usually prefer to show my face, you can play havoc with your enemy when they see you grinning over their defeat," Starchamber confesses. "But I know you're uncomfortable with some parts of seeing a face right now -- and discomfort is really the last thing I want to be on your mind."

She places a hand on the side of Blast Off's head, gently and carefully, caressing him, moving down to his neck, running a finger along some of the seams of his armor. "How deep do you want me to go?" she whispers huskily.

Oh my~ ~ ~. Going with the combat metaphors, Blast Off is fighting a battle all his own right now. Still torn between anticipation and fear, he twitches a little as she starts running her hand down his head and neck. His own hand moves instinctively to try and catch hers, going from resistance and pushing her arm away in one moment to then relaxing and wrapping his hand around her wrist, moving with her motions instead. "But am I your enemy?" His own cultured drawl contains static all its own.

There is a slight shudder at her question, again from a whole variety of sources. The shuttle's ventilation systems start working harder, cycling more frequently now, and his free hand returns to her faceplate. "Let's go... slow for now." He's still trying to get used to this, and to see HER and not the nightmares Feint superimposed on his psyche.

"You're not my enemy. You're my kinsmech." She stays her hand as Blast Off tenses up and then as he relaxes, she lets him set the pace at which things progress. "And I -want- you." She nuzzles the faceplate against his hand, curled over him. "I can -hear- your excitement," she whispers. "If you tell me to stop, I will stop, but dear astroframe, there will come a point where I will not be able to stop myself. Make your choice soon - don't be cruel and leave me half-charged."

That just makes his ventilation systems cycle all the harder. Blast Off has a lot of personal demons (like Feint) that he usually tries to deal with by compartmentalizing and neatly placing aside through denial, delays, and deception (including to himself). But Starchamber wants an answer, wants the truth, and it means facing those demons. There's a flashback to Scorn grabbing him and triggering a humiliating panic attack, and he does NOT want that to happen again. However, he doesn't want to be ruled by these demons either. He IS an astroframe- he's PROUD and STRONG and planet-bound conjunx endura of \*Blurr\* of all people should not get to keep damaging not only /him/ but those /around/ him as well. No, he deserves better- and the femme curled up around him now does too.

His grip tightens on her wrist as if to brace himself as he makes his choice. "....Alright. I... I don't want you to stop."

With those words breathed into existence, Starchamber begins calculating how best to please Blast Off. It will take some exploring to find just the right pressure points, but isn't that half the fun?

Feeling dominant and proud herself, she nods in affirmation to him, keeping quiet so he does not hear a voice that will stirr up unpleasant things. Now is not the time. Putting her weight on her knees she leans back so as not to fall on Blast Off, and with her free hand, begins to explore him, caressing places where sensors would be most acute - stabilizer fins. Thrusters. Aeilerons. She presses in on them and manipulates them in a languid rhythm.

The thrusters and aelirons/elevons definitely get little gasped out reactions of pleasure from the shuttle, but when she digs in and strokes at the vertical stablizer on his back that \*really\* kicks in the cooling fans. He arches into that pressure as his engines flicker to life and rev up, sounding almost startled, and both of his hands reach up to clasp onto her arms. There's another moment he seems to be fighting between pleasure and panic, and he just braces himself and lets her do what she will. It's not like it feels \*bad\* or anything, that's for sure.

So Blast Off focuses ON that- the fact that it feels good. He is Ok. He is intact. Her touch is gentle, and there are no harsh, barked out jeers and clanging parts and dripping energo- NO, don't think about that. The touch... the touch feels good, and it's safe. He's safe.

That wave of panic subsides, and soon he dares bring one hand away from its grip on her to start its own set of exploring- starting with her neck and shoulders. Not the face- not yet... but he looks up and traces along the almost "shoulder-pad" like armor lining of the femme before reaching the yellow cockpit right in front of his face. Pressing his fingers along her chest he focuses on that area, seeking any sensitive spots along the glass and lining. His own energy field is still largely withdrawn, but he dares to flare it out a little there, seeking reaction.

She pauses when he grasps at her arms; letting him relax before going on. Here a little, there a little, she works on lowering his resistances, letting him pace himself to his comfort. When he's settled, she focuses on the location and kind of manual stroking the shuttle responds best to. Seems to be that vertical stabilizer, and that would make the most sense.

Her cockpit is naturally more sensor prone and the contact along with energy field elicits a pleased noise. She allows the substructure of the cockpit to iris open and present the warm, golden glow of her internal fusion core, the very thing that give her her name.

It doesn't take her long to realize that what she wants most of out this is not her own pleasure - it can wait - but to reduce Blast Off to a trembling mass of overloading components.

If Blast Off could read her thoughts, that alone might just do it. But he can already guess, and as he gets more comfortable being this close: feeling her touch, her energy, her/self/... he's able to enjoy himself and find the courage to reach out and explore more on his own. Take more risks. When she opens her internal fusion core, his hand pauses- and then withdraws a little as if afraid to hurt her. But his violet optics drink in the sight, turning almost golden in the radiance so close to him.

Eventually, his hand draws near again as he allows himself to focus on that light like a moth to a flame, letting it become his entire world. The shuttleformer's finger touches- gingerly- along the edge of the iris and begins tracing around it, soaking in the energy and testing its sensitivity. And speaking of sensitivity, her manipulations along his stablizer has the shuttle nearly wriggling under her with positive, passionate energy of his own.

Starchamber sits up, on her knees, and gently pulls Blast Off up to her, and against her, so she can embrace him while paying greater attention to his stabilizer. She lets her antigravity field crackle and buzz against his own shielding, holding him up and simulating his sensors all over. The iris covering her interior magnetic jar is loaded with sensors; they're needed to make sure a fusion reaction doesn't spiral out of control. The petals of the iris are quite durable by necessity.

"... Do you want me to connect to you?" Starchamber asks, low and rumbling, a female baritone. She has no jet turbines to spin or grounder engine to roar - just an intense energy field that makes the ground around them begin to dance with glittering white pops of static.

Blast Off senses their durability the more he plays with those petals, and as such his fingers' strokes become firmer and reach in deeper as he plays along the edges. Though this is interrupted for a bit when she pulls him up to her. The shuttleformer isn't used to being "mech-handled" (femmehandled?) like this, and has another awkward moment of surprise and fighting that panic again. Once again he braces \*against\* her, but the more she plays with his weak spots (and oh, that vertical stabilizer most definitely \*IS\* one) and lets her antigravity field wash over him the more his resistance melts away- until he's mere putty in her capable hands.

He hears her question, but can't answer just yet... the desire for sweet surrender still clashing against \*No must fight for life protect self from harm\*. Flashes of Feint's lifeless body knocking against his juxtapose themselves with the gentle, passionate caresses Starchamber is bringing to him. There's another moment of stillness as he deals with those inner conflicts, then -finally- his answer comes as he allows his interface panel to open.

"As you wish."

Continuing to manipulate Blast Off and hold him, trying to elicit the most potent reaction she can, Starchamber connects to Blast Off. The protocol handshake is easy, immediate and seamless - they're of the same colony, sparked from the same planetary soil. The larger triplechanger's firewalls are dropped to allow Blast Off access to herself.

He has a potent reaction all right, though desired outcomes still conflict with the lingering PTSD. Blast Off's ventilation systems cycle heavily, puncuated by a gasp as she connects with him. His hands come to brace themselves on her arms again as if stabilizing himself as he suddenly feels her presence entwining with his own. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic... the shuttleformer's post-traumatic disorder threatening to take control and send him screaming and flailing away from her touch in blind terror. His grip becomes vice-like and might even scratch or dent parts of her armor, though fortunately for her he doesn't have a lot of strength to really do any true damage.

Engines rev, this time in protest... not so much at /her/ as they do to the fear, and shame, and even some anger at the /ghosts/ that just won't stop haunting him. It paralyzes him for a moment, the only thing still really moving at all being those outraged, sputtering engines. Then he lets himself roll with \*that\*, too, using the righteous anger to give himself the courage to push forward, through the firewalls she's laid open for him and venture deeper inside. And the fact that it IS somehow familiar, being a fellow space alt and fellow Combaticon, helps ease his passage, though every circuit, every bit of data is still an almost painful process for him. And for her? He's... almost afraid to find out.

Starchamber guides Blast Off through her own times of hardship and loneliness, walking alongside him mentally and holding his proverbial hand as his trauma is triggered. She extends him her intentions of comfort and solace. If he's flaking off her armor with his death grip she pays it no heed, patiently letting him claw at his inner demons in an exterior way.

And then, inside, the dawning of the sun, the rising of golden light over the masses of glorious armies. All moving in perfect unison, all bedecked with the colors of the homeworld, all displaying order and precision and professionalism, and all of them sporting culture - /military/ culture. The barrack-cities of Combatron spread out around their ancient Metrotitan home, Vastatoris, a proud father-figure working in tandem with the powerful bulk of Megatronus Prime.

The hesitation returns, and there is a moment Blast Off almost pulls out again in another wave of terror. And then he detects something from Starchamber that draws him back again. It's an emotion he spends his whole life denying... and yet it rules his existence. Loneliness. Feeling that from her acts like a gravitational pull he's unable to resist. And suddenly his loneliness and hers are one, and he flutters around the edges, moth to a flame. There's an odd harmony to this, and like a moth he only wants to come closer, never mind the burn on his wings.

But he is pulled away by a flash of color. Combatronian color. Starchamber saw a lot more of his homeworld than he ever did. He started his days there, and his formative cycles. But he doesn't know it like \*she\* did, and now he draws, fascinated, to the glorious scene below. And merged with her like he is, he is swept away with patriotic fervor. His own Combatronian pride stirs and roars to life. It's military, it's hard, and it's beautiful. The prideful professional in him, the sniper, can almost feel a gun in his hands as he draws a bead on a target- and KNOWS he'll hit his mark.

And then there's Megatronus Prime himself, and even the ordinarily smug and unimpressed by authority Blast Off feels awe and respect gazing upon the figure. Which is... foreign to him, and yet it feels totally right. His spark flickers for a moment in confusion, reaching for Starchamber's and allowing his own Firewalls down in that search for stabilization and balance.

Starchamber welcomes the connection with Blast Off, like helping an injured friend and comrade get his legs after he's been knocked down repeatedly. She offers Blast Off the next sense of thrill that she enjoys: The thrill of the fight.

Cue memories of wrestling, grappling and hand-to-hand combat. Training, competition, testing one's mettle against another; in the process both warriors define a little more of themselves, know a little more about who they are, what they can do, and how to push themselves to improve. Like stags in rutting season clashing and tussling with antlers, she experiences great happiness, joy even, with this kind of combat. Even the pain is not so bad - can she ignore it? Can she move past it? What is she made of? It's a quest for self as much as it is a quest for victory.

Being part gun she's highly tactile and physical sensations are amplified, almost to an overloading pitch. Combat is a heady drug that whets her appetite every time she feels it. This is why she loves war - it is her calling, who she is, and what she wants. /Death/ is not necessarily a part of it, and is in fact regrettable to her. /Her/ war is an endless round of challenges to be overcome.

Another flicker of uncertainty as the sheer \*foreignness\* of this threatens to break their unity. Blast Off is the total opposite. He is made for precision from afar: a sniper's bullet sent home to its mark from the safety of space or air or somewhere far away from physical contact. He's made for speed, agility, and distance. The kind of up close and personal contact she relishes means defeat and breakage for him. But her sheer exuberation pulls him in again, one Combatronian to another, and suddenly it is HE who is wrestling with an opponent, feeling his own raw strength as he heaves him to the ground. Then he \*laughs\* and raises his hands skywards in victory.

Wait... that's not right, is it? His mind pulls back again, and suddenly he is both sniper AND gun. He/she reaches, releases the safety, loads a round, feels that weight inside... it's almost like carrying cargo, but this cargo is far more explosive. Then he reaches towards the trigger, finger tracing along her/his edges. He takes aim, and feels the sense of professional pride he always does. He is the BEST at this. No matter who you are, no matter WHERE you are... you cannot hide from his mastery of space, distance and gravity itself. He feels his ventliation systems slow, cycling softly in perfect measured rythym before he \*oh so gingerly\* taps that trigger- and release.

It sends shivers throughout his systems, and he's suddenly spinning out of control. It's like being back in space with no gravity, but far more terrifying. The spinning increases, and threatens to engulf Starchamber as well, given their mental link. There are stars around, becoming streaks of white and yellow, and a sense of neausea. Blast Off reaches out for something to hold, but suddenly he has no hands. In fact, he has nothing. He is only a mind, trapped in a white out cell in Garrus-1, knowing that he is \*utterly\* alone. Starchamber may feel this, too.... a sense of having no body at all. Phantom memories telling her she OUGHT to be able to feel, to see, to touch... yet there is nothing there. A sense of being trapped inside nothingness itself, without any way to do anything. Any way to fight. No way to even \*scream\*.

The memories trigger a reverse sensation in Starchamber. The white and nausea and disconnect from the physical becomes a blinding white cloud in the distance. A nucleon bomb going off. The mushroom cloud is there. The white is there. The rumbling is so loud and then suddenly silent as audio sensors shatter. The light is so bright that optics go offline. There is heat and then being violently pulled inwards, out of control, and then heat, radiation and disorientation from being thrown back out.

Trapped.

Blackness and pressure, no sound, no light, only the feel of your own spark's pulse. Buried alive... forever. What seems like forever. Internal chronometers are broken.

Yet, in the dark, a soft voice begins to hum and sing, as Starchamber battles the dark and loneliness by turning inside herself. Her imagination takes over, and within herself, she creates a mental paradise, a world of her own imagination, separating small parts of her processes off into simulated life. There, trapped in what should be hell, Starchamber pulls Blast Off with her into a garden of eden where she is God.

Again a shared experience, a shared sensation draws him out of his own Hell and towards her... Heaven? He can feel the pressure, the dark, and it triggers a sudden claustrophobia. No... trapped... walls closing in.... He jerks back, and for awhile his consciousness circles hers like a planet around the sun... afraid to get any closer. Afraid of the burn. Afraid of collapse.

But the expected destruction fails to come to pass, and slowly his orbit constricts, the circle narrowing until he finally reaches perihelion. His spark tumbles into her garden, sending a shockwave upon impact and sending him to his knees. Looking up in a daze, he searches for her as he lifts himself back to his "feet". Then he orbits that garden. He can feel now, but he can't seem to see. But maybe it's because he is afraid to. The shuttleformer gropes around, seeing only the purple winestain of recent boobytraps before his optics.

Starchamber reaches out to Blast Off and bends down, taking his hands. ~\* Shhh. It's all right. This is how I survive the emptiness. Sometimes... when you want peace, you have to create it inside yourself. \*~ She sits down and guides him towards her lap, and lets her inner light bathe him in warmth as she stimulates his sensors with serenity and clarity. ~\* When your senses are confusing, overwhelming, turn inward, and find your center. \*~

Before he can think to deny it, or stay quiet, before he can pretend that he doesn't mind it at all.... he blurts out, "But I don't \*want\* the emptiness!" He steps back, head shaking and protesting, but Starchamber takes his hands. He stiffens at the touch, then allows her to guide him in closer. This time he clutches to her as her light warms him, his ventilation systems cycling rapidly then slowing into a more steady rythym. He... he knows this. He knows calm. He DID. His whole "aloof demeanor" didn't come out of thin air, after all. He's a sniper.... he knows how to keep a cool head.

But lately it's been so \*difficult\*. The whiteout chamber showed him just how little control he really had over what happened to him, and how merciless fate could sometimes be. Everything since he has woken up since then in this new body has only accentuated that fact. He \*had\* imagination and even joy once, but they seem drowned among troubles now. His own imagination has been twisted into denial.... it's a form of imagination, if you look at it like that... just not a healthy one. But no... no, he denies that even now. It's perfectly fine. He's dealt QUITE WELL with his problems. He has nothing to be ashamed of, or worried about. Right?

~\* It's not emptiness. It's patience. It's inner strength to defeat the challenges ahead of you. \*~

Star embraces and holds Blast Off, stroking his back and wings and fins gently, curling over him protectively. ~\* My comrade, much has happened to you. I wish I could take it all away, make it better, but that would not help you. You must rise to your feet, and try to stand again. You must dig down and find that inner strength, as I sense you have. I will encourage you, but there are things that must be done on one's own. \*~

Blast Off feels almost crushed for a moment, his "voice" weary. "It's... it's patience, yes... but I've already \*been\* so patient. I've... I've spent half my /existence/ being patient...." He's \*tired\* of patience. When does he get to the end of the still night, and see the dawn? Despite this... he knows patience has its rewards. Patience is still something he must... MUST still sow in the garden of his own mind. Starchamber's embrace sends healing energy through the shuttleformer, and he TRIES to connect to that patience \*yet again\* and simply BE and let it flow through him. But the energy hits a block... something like a firewall inside that pulsates and sends a backlash that knocks Blast Off back- and might knock Starchamber down, too.

The firewall grows, morphs, pixelates as figures emerge from within the shuttleformer's psyche. There's suddenly two large, leering Enforcers standing there in front of them. Bigger than even Starchamber, they grab at her and Blast Off, trying to pin them to the ground. Blast Off fights them, but to no avail. He's weak and unarmed and defenseless. His weapon has been taken away, and he can't match their raw angry power. They pin him, and perhaps her too, to the ground. And suddenly there's Feint- also much larger than life. Her features are frozen in a horrified scream as her own life's energon gushes from her mouth as well as the sudden splitting cut savagely ripped down her body by the mocking Enforcers. Her face turns ash gray and lifeless, then the Guards start slamming it into Blast Off's face repeatedly- and through the link probably Starchamber's too.

The jeering and ugly with malice faces start to swirl together in another spinning chaotic mess that threatens to swallow the both of them up with no remorse.

No, no, do not want, make it stop... /please go away/ leave me alone STOP STOP Leave me /ALONE I want to be ALONE/ no I do not /YES I do... ALONE STAY AWAY Keep your distance/ BACK OFF/ NO yes NO yes NO!

Virtually speaking, Starchamber violently THRUSTS AWAY such terrible memories, out of her own head, out of their shared consciousness, away from Blast Off, to some dark corner of his mind. She fullfills the purpose of the Soldier - to protect others from violence and dangers beyond what they can handle. She mentally equips Blast Off with the ability to fight, by stirring up and sharing her courage, her determination, her strength. The sun inside her seems to grow greater and stronger, shedding light over those dark memories, forcing them to evaporate away. This secondary processing power and outside perspective, trying to help Blast Off, create a wedge between altered perception and /actual/ perception. Like the ghosting of a badly aligned video signal, the reality that Blast Off's sensors recorded is -there-, but muddled by Feint's outlier machinations. Feint's forced hallucations become transparent - with her standing calmly outside a normal cell while the horror occurs. The edges are frayed and separating. If Blast Off wants to peel away the layer of sensor deception over reality, like peeling away a plastic film, he'll be able to.

Starchamber pushes aside all the flailing and indecision to get to the loneliness, and fill it with passionate yet tender possession. No more games, no more waffling. Now she goes for ecstacy.

Blast Off thrashes around in the shadows of his mind, swallowed- consumed. There's no escape, only horror. It's just another trap, another white-out cell he can never leave, never break free from. A new nightmare he can never awake from, a feedback loop that will play again and again for millenia. He tries to brace for it, tries to find the energy and willpower to fight against it... but he's alone. He's always alone, and there's no one to help him. He must face this by himself, as he always does, and he will fail, as he always has.

And then there is light. His thrashing and struggling ceases, until he has to bring a hand up to his face to shield his optics from the radiance. Something intercedes, and the nightmare becomes unfocused... foggy. There's an afterimage there, but something else clarifies in its wake. A scene of calm deception. Feint IS standing there... she's not dead, nor is anyone slamming a dead body against his. Slowly, Blast Off feels himself waking just a little from the nightmare, almost blinded by the light of the new day. The light coming from Starchamber. He staggers to his feet, arms still shielding himself from the radiance. It's like a star- hot and bright and dangerous- and yet so, so beautiful and a source of great comfort from the sheer fact that it even exists in the void of the night.

Arms still raised, Blast Off moves uncertainly towards the center, encouraged by the warmth and welcoming passion he senses there. The nightmare clutches at his sides like tentacles, trying to pull him back into the dark, but he fights it as he seeks the day. Seeks her. Seeks ... a kindred spark.

Starchamber mentally holds onto Blast Off, loving him, encouraging him, pleasing him. She meters the sunlight, enough to warm him and drive out the shadows, but not enough to burn him up on the heat. ~\* Oh kinmech, I adore you. I you give me a reason to fight, even if it is against the demons in your own mind. \*~ Soft was a whisper, breathed like a contented sigh, Starchamber continues to embrace Blast Off, support him, warm him, and lend him what he needs so that he can stabilize himself inside and out.

And indeed, Blast Off has many demons. Made all the stronger by long periods of loneliness and isolation, both in space, time, and outside of both in Garrus-1. But while Starchamber's light does not eradicate those demons, it does weaken them, and they scurry and scuttle away like turbo-roaches when someone flips on the lightswitch. Which leaves the shuttleformer free to soak up more of the light's strength and energy, and use it to armor and fortify his own. ~\* I... still don't know why you do. I mean... well, maybe I do, I AM a Combaticon. I am a spacecraft. We are the BEST. We are made of star-stuff. We... survive and thrive when no one else would. When the Universe itelf is out to get us.\*~

He moves in closer to the light, and finds a light of his own. His own violet light- a little dimmer than hers, but it adds a dash of complimentary color to the mix of white and yellow- reaches out to swirl and pulsate together. ~\* I... I AM strong. Stronger than any of these... these \*fools\* who would seek to tear me down from the sky- from the stars- where I belong...\* His violet light grows /stronger/, mixing with hers as colors blend to one blinding hot hue of white light.

~\* Fly with me then, just for a little while. \*~ She's beginning to synch up to Blast Off as the natural consequence of their connection. She recalls a more recent memory of the two of them slipping past Orbital Defense on the way to Garrus-1.

Blast Off doesn't resist this time, quite willingly doing just that. Reliving that mission, where he got to return to his beloved space and accomplished their mission together with speed, skill and effeciency. Like a proper Combaticon military team. He soars with her, watching as she downs enemies, and feeling the thrill of success. But he is linked to her, and as he draws close he looks further in, wondering if she has any demons SHE needs excised. His own violet lights flickers along the edges of hers, seeking shadows.

If there is anything that could be considered a dark side, an empty space or a demon, it is the loss of her kindred. In her memories are the final freedom from the mass of bodies and rubble she'd been buried in, waking up to a world silent, empty, dead. The bitterness of believing that she was last of her kind, the grief of all the beauty and glory of her home being reduced to ash and rust. Wandering like an orphaned child, calling out for others, hungry and surviving on derelict corpses, fumbling to make enough repairs to leave the planet while effective deaf and blind - relying on spacecraft field sensors to feel around for others and communicate in text.

Millions of years passing, working for species not her own, hunting and killing things that were no challenge - unsatisfying and revolting, but necessary to live. Piracy. Aligning herself with Space Gangsters who would just as soon break her for parts as work with her. Continuing to call out for her own kind over millions of years, out into the void, with no echo of response.

But all of that gloom was broken by the dawn of returning to the homeworld, where there, and there alone -- Blast Off. He may not have realized it until this moment, but Blast Off and his combaticon brethren here were the first rays of light over a long, empty, cold night of extinction.

Blast Off walks with Starchamber along the scorched ashes of their homeworld and he feels her pain, feels her anguish. He spends time with her just scraping by an existence a proud space alt like her should never had had to go through. And he works with her as a mercenary, rubbing elbows with the vulgar, uncouth, unwashed masses of the Galaxy. And then there is that loneliness. He knows it, he feels it with her, he understands. He sends out his own energy without even thinking- joining hers and seeking to wash away her own night and bring the day. To share the strength of his own starlight spark with hers in a glorious firey nebula of Combatronian pride and passion, and banish that cold night of extinction forever.

His light shines with hers and he feels comforted by it. It's a healing light, and he lets it permeate his systems. He grows stronger with it. As their lights shines in the darkness it forms along the edges, shadows solidifying to make one last attempt to snatch back their prey. A hulking figure suddenly looms above the both of them, claws and tentacles reaching out to consume them again- but Blast Off knows what he needs to do. He reaches out, too- but he reaches for Starchamber- in rifle mode.

Always vigilant. Always faithful. Always a team. Always an individual. Always ready to fight. That is what it means to be both Combatronian and Barbarian. To be forged by war, by the Prime of Entropy. To be the necessary stop-gap against the all-consuming, all-enveloping, will-destroying influence of too much Order. Starchamber is there in Blast Off's hands, both as support and being supported. There is an interchanging and blending of roles that helps each explore themselves as well as the other. She charges up, and waits for Blast Off to make the killshot.

They are one, then, as Blast Off reaches for Starchamber and finds she fits perfectly in his hands. And as one, he swings her in rifle mode up towards his target. In one smooth motion he's flipped off the safety, nestled her expertly into his arms and shoulder, and already has his optic to the scope as he lines up his sights. The menacing shape looms and steps forward just as he taps her trigger, releasing their combined passion, energy and commitment as a singular beam of starlight into the heart of the monster. It stops, raises its arms- then shafts of moonlight cut its shape from within. Slowly, more shafts of light appear until suddenly the figure bursts into a billion shooting stars, rocketing off in every direction of their shared mindpsace. In its wake is a path of stars, a band of galaxies stretching quietly and peacefully as far as the optic can see.

Blast Off is swept up in the reaction as well, light emanating from his rigid form: from his fingertips and face... until the figure evaporates completely and Blast Off collapses to his knees. But not in defeat- in relief. His demons aren't dead- but today they have been vanquished.

* click!\* The connection naturally severs after the time limit has been reached. They can only stay together for so long before they might begin to overwrite each other. Starchamber is content to nuzzle Blast Off again with her faceplate, satisfied that, while the war is not over yet, the battle has been won, and the sniper has a weapon at his disposal.

Blast Off finds himself disconnecting, though Starchamber may catch a few snatches of data from recent memories: the ghost of Shiftlock flickering along the edges of his memory, traces of a Seeker femme, Swift Blade, and images of a sword, and though Blast Off tries to conceal it she might pick up another shadow... one with a singular optic and snapping claws: Whirl. It's all background data now, though, and pixelates and fades as their connection dies.

Blast Off finds himself back on the rooftop with Starchamber. This time, it's not just her holding him close. This time he is reaching out, and his own arms are wrapped around her form.... and without a trace of his former fear. The sniper's engines rumble quietly, comfortingly, as he shares space with the femme \*willingly\*, in no hurry to push away. He brings a hand to her faceplate and looks her directly in the face, then nestles his face next to hers. As one.