Tarn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkwhisperer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robothell2015-04-01 08:34 pm
sparkwhisperer) wrote in robothell2015-04-01 08:34 pm
So Tarn walks into a Bar...
Who: Tarn and You
Where: the NEW Maccadams Old Oil House
When: right now
What: Tarn tries to make some new friends
Warnings: None :0
It has been weeks since Tarn’s fight with Megatron and he has kept himself as scarce as possible, nursing his wounds, and even more recently, his broken pride. Spending his days mostly alone has begun to wear heavily upon him, too ashamed by his recent fall from the Decepticons to face most of the mechs in the base.
The bare patch on his chassis still jars him when he glances down at it.
Still, he can’t help but think about what Sixshot told him. He can’t hide forever, and the longer he waits the more the Autobots will think that they have won. A change of tactics does seem to be in order.
Tarn has wandered from the base still wearing his scars from the battle and hobbled by a slight limp; but otherwise at nearly full strength. Heading deep into the city, the DJD Commander begins his search for any flicker of civilization in the vast, crumbling, nearly desolate city. He wants to be seen. To let it be known that he is done hiding and won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. They will be forced to face him whether they want to or not.
Before long he stumbles upon a small establishment, clearly Autobot owned. Maccadams, it seems, has made it to even this Cybertron. He isn’t surprised; though as he approaches the door he does note a small sign clearly stating ‘No Tarns’ in bold lettering. A Deep booming guffaw rips from him before he quickly tamps it down, muffling his chuckling by clearing his throat. Tarn straightens his back, lifting his head and purposefully ignores the sign. The former Decepticon pushes the door open and steps confidently into the dim lighting of the bar.
This can only go well.
Where: the NEW Maccadams Old Oil House
When: right now
What: Tarn tries to make some new friends
Warnings: None :0
It has been weeks since Tarn’s fight with Megatron and he has kept himself as scarce as possible, nursing his wounds, and even more recently, his broken pride. Spending his days mostly alone has begun to wear heavily upon him, too ashamed by his recent fall from the Decepticons to face most of the mechs in the base.
The bare patch on his chassis still jars him when he glances down at it.
Still, he can’t help but think about what Sixshot told him. He can’t hide forever, and the longer he waits the more the Autobots will think that they have won. A change of tactics does seem to be in order.
Tarn has wandered from the base still wearing his scars from the battle and hobbled by a slight limp; but otherwise at nearly full strength. Heading deep into the city, the DJD Commander begins his search for any flicker of civilization in the vast, crumbling, nearly desolate city. He wants to be seen. To let it be known that he is done hiding and won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. They will be forced to face him whether they want to or not.
Before long he stumbles upon a small establishment, clearly Autobot owned. Maccadams, it seems, has made it to even this Cybertron. He isn’t surprised; though as he approaches the door he does note a small sign clearly stating ‘No Tarns’ in bold lettering. A Deep booming guffaw rips from him before he quickly tamps it down, muffling his chuckling by clearing his throat. Tarn straightens his back, lifting his head and purposefully ignores the sign. The former Decepticon pushes the door open and steps confidently into the dim lighting of the bar.
This can only go well.
no subject
Tarn's blatant disrespect aggravated First Aid. His plating rattles, his remaining hand closing into a fist, and he pushes his seat out from the table he was sitting at. He's not even scared despite the knowledge he might die. Briefly, he thinks of Sixshot, his admission of association with the leader of the DJD and how betrayed he felt. It was a silly feeling at the time. They're both killers and he's just an Autobot nobody. He doubted Sixshot would miss him.
"You want a drink?" he asks, picking up his glass. He rounds abount the table, walking straight up to the leader of the DJD. "You can have mine."
He lifts it up towards him, then tilts his wrist, pouring the slightly viscous fluid down the larger mech's stomach plating.
no subject
In any other situation, First Aid would be reduced to a smudge on the ground before he even knew what hit him. Even now Tarn can feel the fires of anger building inside of him. But now, when he's trying to earn his way back into Megatron's good graces, there is nothing he can do but sigh and give a disappointed shake of his head.
"My, that was rude; who taught you manners?" He stares at First Aid, pointedly not approaching him or giving into his baiting.
no subject
"Longtime exposure to your handiwork would erode anyone's manners."
Ten years on Messatine meant that he made part of his living off the mess that the DJD made of their miners and patrols. There's a niggling in the back of First Aid's mind that Tarn may be Agent 113, but the louder part of his rage at him decided that it didn't matter even if he was. Tarn's appetite for t-cogs still drove Pharma insane. If Pharma hadn't lost his mind, so many would still be alive. Ambulon would still be alive.
And then, there was what his teammates did to Trailcutter after they had helped them. A horrible mistake.
"I have you at a disadvantage. You don't know me, but I certainly know you."
no subject
"Well, now my interest is piqued. You really must tell me all about it."
He spins the nurse easily, marching him over to the bar. There raw power behind his grip, and despite his tolerant words, there is still an edge of rage and the threat of danger.
"In the mean time let's get you another drink. And don't drop it this time; I don't have time for clumsiness. Or insolence."
no subject
Too late now to leave quietly. First Aid looks over his shoulder at the tank, feeling slightly more helpless than usual without his other arm.
"You're hurting me. Not so tight," he says loud enough for the other occupants of the bar to hear, but he clambers up into the bar seat as directed when he gets to it, his single hand curled into a fist on the bartop.
"Are you making your current t-cog last?" His voice is icy, but he's not sure what else to say to the mech.
The bar itself was simple. Without an active currency exchange here, it made goods and services exchange... interesting. It wasn't the first time First Aid has worked without pay. Probably the first he's seen a bar operate without currency. He'd get his own drink, but with Tarn hovering over his shoulder, he wasn't sure the mech would release him to do that.
no subject
"Why, yes it is, how kind of you to ask." He replies with a sort of saccharine pleasantness that just reeked of falseness.
"Now," He purrs, sliding onto the stool next to First Aid, "Why don't you go ahead and fill me in on what sleights I may have committed against your person. Clearly you have some sort of grudge. It's really not healthy to let these things stew."
Of course there could be a myriad of reasons to hate him since he arrived here, alone. And yet, he has a very specific inkling; though he would prefer to hear it from First Aid himself.
no subject
No. He is not having a friendly chat over drinks with Tarn of the DJD.
"Why? So you can practice your villainous laugh?" If First Aid's tone were any dryer, it would be a desert.
His hand clutches around the glass, but he doesn't drink it. He'd like to take his datapad and go now, but he didn't feel safe at all turning his back on Tarn. What a rightful mess he's gotten into.
"Have you ever seen a plague, Tarn? We spend so much time killing each other with fusion cannons, bullets, and bombs, we often forget that we're still vulnerable to disease."
He reaches over the bar and plucks a straw from behind it, settling it in the glass, but otherwise leaves it.
"You can get sick. Fluid can build up in the brain. You can development a spark murmur. Rust. Scraplets. Cybercrosis. Have you ever considered one of your victims could infect you through just touching their blood?"
no subject
“Yes it's true. It’s a filthy sort of business. Very dangerous. Fortunately, on the Peaceful Tyranny, we have very strict health and safety procedures. After every hunt we receive a thorough screening just to be safe. Preventive measures are always taken very seriously. “
Of course, the mention of plague tips him off. Now, where might an Autobot medic, familiar with plague and apparently the DJD’s work know him from?
“Pharma should really have done a better job cultivating manners in his staff. Although, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. He never did have a very firm grasp on etiquette.”
no subject
Tarn's laugh makes First Aid feel like he has rust mites crawling around under his plating. He suppresses a shudder, his visor glued on the mech's mask, his hand so tight around the glass his joints ache.
"By the time you were done with Pharma, he didn't have much of a grasp on sanity let alone manners."
He vents softly, allowing his frame to relax from the stiffness in his limbs. There's still anger shaking in him, making him almost rattle.
"He killed Ambulon. He aided in trying to kill every cold constructed mech. You drove Pharma insane."
no subject
"So I've heard. His disappearance was rather unfortunate; we did have a rather solid arrangement."
However, to Tarns surprise, First Aid did have something extremely interesting to say, after all.
"He killed Ambulon?" He stares at that angrily glowing blue visor for a few moments, completely dumfounded, before leaning back on his stool and letting out a loud crow of laughter. How ironic. After all the bargaining and tiptoeing that Pharma did to keep Tarn's division away from his little treasonous employee, he just decides to kill him himself?
"Why, maybe I should offer him a job if he's so keen on helping us maintain The List."
no subject
"There's no List here," he says quietly, his optics cast down at his drink. "And if you return you won't find him. He's dead. I killed him."
His hand leaves his drink, dropping to his lap.
"I don't feel like drinking any more. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to writing."
no subject
Such a bold little medic. Willing to give Tarn so much attiude; he is not at all surprised that he worked under Pharma.
"Perhaps there is no list here, its true." Tarn leans forward toward First Aid, lowering his voice every so slightly, "But, it does tell me what he is capable of, and certainly where his loyalities lie. If not back there, then certainly here."
no subject
He can feel the warmth of Tarn's vents against his plates as he leans forward and he fights the urge to recoil. His spark starts to ache as he speaks, pulsing slightly irregular, and First Aid's visor widens slightly. It wasn't that he feared death; it's the pain that's startling.
"You can keep him. He certainly deserves you," he spits bitterly, his hand closing around his drink again.
First Aid's mask opens so he can drink and he takes a pull from it, looking at Tarn's face. He hoped he was satisfied.
"He might mistake a chainsaw for a scalpel though."
no subject
"He has his uses, that's for certain.” Tarn smirks behind his mask as First Aid begins to sip at his drink. Reaching over the bar top , he begins to fix his own hearty helping of engex.
“He certainly didn’t find it necessary to break out the chainsaw when he spent hours of his time preforming repairs on me just last month. Perhaps its just…well…you.” Tarn nods at the residual stump of First Aid’s arm.