robothell | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who: Tarn and Galvatron, Tarn and Spinister
Where: in and around the Decepticon Base
When: the morning after prom
What: Tarn is hungover and meets Galvatron/ Spinister and Tarn have a heart to heart
Warnings: none as of yet

Galvatron

Hangovers. Something that Tarn is familiar with, in concept, but not necessarily in experience. He would have preferred to keep it that way, to be honest. Unfortunately one can not simply undo the massive amounts of engex that he consumed over the course of the previous night. Now he must pay for his mistake.

At least the world had stopped spinning, that is a definite improvement. However, daylight still felt like it was melting his processor, and mild nausea still roiled in his tanks.

Tarn finds it important to celebrate the small victories.

As he heads back to the Decepticon base from his meeting with Sixshot, he finds that his footfalls are agitating his headache. Too wrapped up in trying to cultivate as quiet a journey as possible he barely notices that someone is in his way until it is too late.

Bumping shoulders, Tarn turns to look at the mech in his way.

“Apologies, I was distracted.”

His voice is strained and far softer than his usual deep timber.

Spinister:

He hasn’t been avoiding Spinister. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that they haven’t really spoken since Megatron came to pay the base a visit, over a month ago.

It isn’t as if Tarn hasn’t done anything to warrant the scientist’s displeasure, because he is aware that he has done plenty including denting the walls of his brand new shower…

Regardless Tarn figures now is as good of a a time as ever to talk things out as he limps his way into Spinister’s lab with his dented pelvic plating.

He has attempted to ask Pharma about seeing to it, but the Autobot had immediately pinned him with a poisonous glare. It seems to him that the helicopter might be his only option.

“Spinister. Do you have a moment."

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Spinister sloooowly sticks his head out from around a door frame. You thought that look Pharma gave you was poisonous? Well this look is nothing but poisonous daggers.

Fortunately for the DJD commander, his only willing medic and teammate decides to give him the time of the day.

"Mmmmaybe."

Tarn shifts, ever so slightly under Spinister's glare, but otherwise remains steadfast.

"I-" He clears a bit of static from his throat, wincing slightly as it briefly increases the intensity of his headache. "I need a dent hammered out."

He pauses for a long moment,before lifting his chin with an air of confidence.

"Also, I would like to have a discussion about some past events that may have occurred."

"It's the dent on your crotch isn't it?" Spinister asks, staring pointedly at said plating, voice dry as the rust plains.

Then, sighing the most long suffering of sighs, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Well, to the medroom with you."

Without waiting for an answer, the heli turns and heads down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, "If it's about the shower, I'm still not forgiving you for that!"

Tarn has the decency to at least look embarrassed as he follows Spinister down the hallway. As if this couldn’t be more awkward.

“Uh, yes, that too. I’m afraid that I don’t quite know how to make that up to you.” He gingerly slides himself up onto the scientist’s exam table, pointedly not making eye contact. Instead he looks down at his own dented valve cover and winces as he touches the edge of the dent.

"Hah!" That? That's the sound of disbelief. "Hahah!" And there's a couple more for a good measure as Spinister gathers the tools needed to pop out some dents.

"You're actually gonna make it up to me?" he snorts, swatting Tarn's hand away from the valve cover so that he could start working on it.

"I said I would didn't I?" Tarn snaps slightly, overcome by embarrassment. He clears his throat again, rubbing at the back of his neck. He softens a bit, shoulders slumping from their previous rigid position.

This isn't how he wanted this to go. He doesn't want a fight with Spinister.

"Just...name it. What ever you need. I'm being sincere."

"Alright then." There's no softness in Spinister's tone, and he stops working for a moment to look up at Tarn, optics narrowed in challenge.

"Take my team off The List."

Tarn stares down at Spinister. His optic dim ever so slightly as he sighs.

"I will take you off of The List. I'm afraid your teammates are out of my hands."

It is the most diplomatic way to say that they had done nothing to earn it. They were, in the scheme of things, useless to him. Does it seem callous of him to think so? Perhaps. But a bleeding heart is not something Tarn has been known to be.

The challenging glare turns into a decidedly unimpressed look.

"Then you're never gonna make it up to me," he says with a shrug, and goes back to work, gluing a flat-top piece of bolt head down onto the dented plating.

"Let's make a deal instead," Spinister continues, screwing a tool handle onto the other end of the bolt. "I keep fixing you up whenever you get into your dumb fights and I get to have my teammates alive, free and unhurt if they ever show up here."

Tarn scoffs slightly. He shouldn't even consider it. This sort of bribery should not be tolerated.

Still, loathe as he is to admit it, Spinister has proven himself to be extremely useful. Perhaps, just this once, he can bend the rules a bit.

"If they ever turn up they will be given one chance to shape up. If they squander that chance, however, I can make no promises as to what their fate may hold."

Tarn gives Spinister the most level, no-nonsense look he can manage behind his mask. It might be intimidating if not for the fact that Spinister was popping a goddamn dent out of his pelvic armor.

"Okay, sweet, I don't need to tell every new arrival here that you got punched in the crotch by the tiny, drunken, Autobot medic then."

And, of course, right on cue, Spinister yanks the handle back and the dent is pulled out with a loud POP.

Tarn's frame jerks ever so slightly as Spinister yanks the dent out. He glares slightly at the threat, crossing his arms.

"Yes, you most definately don't need to be telling them such things. In fact, my suggestion is that you forget about it entirely yourself."

The incident with First Aid is going to haunt him; he's sure of it.

"Blackmaaaiiiil," Spinister stage whispers, wiggling his fingers in next to his face. Then he goes back to work, unscrewing the handle and pulling the bolt off with another loud POP.

He sighs, prodding gently at his pelvic plating. The only evidence remaining being a tiny scuff that, honestly, is barely noticeable.

"Fine. Have it your way. Just remember that it is unwise to cross me, Spinister. We may have somewhat of a rapport here and now, but I wont hesitate to change our deal if I find that you are taking advantage of my clemency."

"None of my teammates ever told me dumb lies that got me accidentally shooting Megatron in the face."

Bitter? A little bit.

"Also, it's not really a 'rapport', it's you doing monumentally dumb things and then me making you not dead."

Tarn looks thoroughly insulted.

"Excuse me, but if I recall, you have only brought me back from the brink of death once. Everything else has been relatively minor."

He thinks about ignoring the comment about Megatron. Instead his optics flick away as he stands from the table.

"You have my apologies about the incident with Megatron. I should have mentioned that there were two. And at the time I was...unaware of his work at the Autobot clinic."

Spinister fluffs up his armor plates in a somewhat ridiculous display of displeasure- and for a brief moment, he looked like he was going to give Tarn a piece of his his mind and more.

He deflates after that though and just sullenly glares at the leader of the DJD.

"Whatever," he mutters and gathers up his tools, shoving them into a box.

Galvatron stood, arms crossed, watching the Decepticon base from afar. He'd been at the party as well, though he was much better at handling his engex than some of the other party goers. He's been to better ones, but he'd adopted his long time ritual of post-drinking contemplation anyway. His disappointment had begun to warp into some strange mix of disgust and second hand embarrassment as he thought about the Autobots here and the sorry state of the Decepticon warriors; a deep scowl had already begun to spread over his face even before Tarn bumps into him.

"Are you blind too?" he snaps, turning towards the mech.

His optics swipe over the armored form, the purple, the mask, and he barks a laugh sharply at the sight of Tarn.

"What is this supposed to be?" He makes a gesture to the mask.

Tarn stares for a long moment as Galvatron laughs at him, His own irritation beginning to bloom in his spark. Ridicule is really the last thing he wants to hear right now. Especially after last night, and especially when that sharp laugh cuts straight into his aching processor like a laser scalpel.

"I beg your pardon." He spits, hand clenching into a fist at his side. "It's a mask." Who does he think he is? Disrespect of this nature will not be tolerated. He has an image maintain.

"And who might you be? A mech so brazen as to insult me to my face."

"It's a disgrace," Galvatron sneers back.

Really, it was embarrassing. Looking upon that mask made him want to tear it from the mech's face. This is why the Decepticons were weak. They were filled with sycophants and psychopaths.

"I am Galvatron of the Darklands, uniter of the Thirteen Tribes, conquerer of Cybertron, and leader of the Decepticons. You'll address me with respect or you will be taught it by my fist."

A disgrace? Tarn growls lowly at the comment, fist clenching even tighter. How dare he say such a thing? After all Tarn has done for the cause. After all he has sacrificed.

Galvatron knows nothing.

Narrowing his eyes behind his mask, Tarn regards Galvatron with bitter suspicion. Leader of the Deceptions? Surely that can’t be. Someone would have notified him by now.

He decides to test the waters a bit. “You have done nothing to earn my respect thus far; I see no reason to give it so frivolously. I find it hard to believe that any loyal Decepticon would follow your command."

Galvatron laughs again, but the noise isn't amused. He's irritated by Tarn's insolence. In the Golden Age, no mech would dare speak to him that way. This generation had no concept of respect, not even for warriors. It's no wonder Cybertron had fallen apart in his absence.

"Nothing at all? Then I suppose you like kneeling to Primes. There's one here to offer your kisses to if you love them so much."

He sneers at the mask, turning. "Soundwave had mentioned your team to me. The Decepticon Justice Division, isn't it? A unit created by that failed revolutionary to take out the rubbish for him."

He spits the words. He had no love for Megatron.

"Being a warrior used to mean something. In my time, those who believed in their cause would have died for it. Instead Megatron built an army of traitorous cowards."

“That’s enough!” Tarn growls, taking a threatening step forward. His voice flares, striking viciously at Galvatron’s spark.

He’s lost his temper because this newcomer is right. The Cause is in desperately poor shape with people jumping ship left and right. He’s right and Tarn doesn’t want to admit it.

“I will do what is needed for the cause that i still believe in. Megatron may have failed us, But it is still worth fighting for, and i will not hear you slander it in such a way.”

He stare’s levelly into Galvatron’s eyes, optics blazing with fury.

“I will do whatever I must to keep it moving smoothly. Even it involves getting my hands dirty."

Galvatron has felt the cold fire of unlife through his spark, the burning of the Heart of Darkness, death itself, and rebirth. To feel the thrash of his spark in his chest again, electric with the surge of pain, startles him into making noise and clutching at his chestplates. And that delights him.

"And what sort of pit spawn are you?" he asks in jest, his expression a mixture of excitement and a snarl.

It's the voice, he realizes. There's something with his voice and how it resonates with his spark. A cheap trick. Galvatron snaps his audio receptors off, the ache ebbing away moments later.

"Your spirit intrigues me. Show me more."

Galvatron is twice Tarn's age, but he's experienced. With the closure of distance between them he takes advantage of it and shoves his shoulder forward into Tarn's chest to knock him back.

"Pit spawn?"

Now that's just insulting.

"How dare you--"

Suddenly, Tarn is nearly knocked from his feet as Galvatron charges into him. He manages to just barely catch himself from falling over, hooking his fingers into his silver collar assembly in an attempt to pull him off balance. Simultaneously, he manages to bring up one of his knees to smash into the interlocking plates on Galvatrons stomach.

Most of Galvatron's frame is heavily armored and protected, though the plates at his stomach were one of his more sensitive areas, even if nothing was especially vital there. The heavy knee slamming into it makes him grunt with pain, his shoulder still shoving into Tarn's chest, and be bends over further.

He's a seasoned war hero, used to gritting his way through pain, and as he curls in on himself he curls a leg under Tarn's thigh, aiming to lift it up. A little bit more shove and well-- if Tarn wanted him to go down, he was bringing him down with him.

And boy did he go down. g

With his legs out from under him , Tarn's top heavy frame plummets to the ground. He lands hard on his back with a grunt , immediately scrambling to gain the upper hand. However, his position beneath Galvatron did little to help his situation.

Still, he kicks and shoves at the heavy warrior's frame trying to get in a position to land a solid punch. His fist connects one or twice with that infuriating purple helm. Like hell is he going to let this fragger see him as weak. He'll fight tooth and nail until the end.

Tarn's efforts aren't in vain at least. The punch lands squarely on Galvatron's mouth, snapping his head back, but as the hot energon gushes from the split lip he laughs wildly. This is wonderful! He's been searching for this kind of fire. Too much peace made him bored and restless. Galvatron's hand closes around Tarn's neck and squeezes, the blood dripping down onto the mask.

"Feisty! Not all of your age have the bearings to make me bleed."

There is one caveat to this being a fair fight though; Tarn was unarmed save for his own weight and fists, and Galvatron decides to give the mech a very blatant reminder of that by pressing the barrel of his fusion cannon against the struggling mech's head.

"It would be a shame to kill you."

Tarn grits his teeth behind his mask as Galvatron's hand tightens around his throat. He barely even feels the bump of the fusion cannon against his helm, but it's enough to stop him from struggling further. He's tense as he anticipates further assault.

"What do you want from me?" He manages to grind out, glaring up at the warlord.

That gets another chuckle out of Galvatron, but he doesn't ease up. His frame tenses more, never trusting, never giving an inch. Only a fool would back off now, when the taste of victory has just barely touched his tongue.

"Just for you to listen to what I have to say. You anger easily because you know I speak truth."

He pushes the cannon against Tarn's chin, tilting his head up.

"What's your name, warrior?

He grunts a bit when Galvatron doesn't let up on his throat. Honestly, he's not sure if he truly expected that to help at all. Galvatron is far to experienced to fall for something so simple. Slowly, becomes more willing to hear him out.

"Tarn." His voice is thin from the pressure being applied to his vocalizer.

"Speak then; I don't have all day for you to find your point"

"...You named yourself for a city."

Galvatron doesn't get the significance since he tunes out Soundwave when he tries to talk Decepticon history and he missed that. Even if he knew he'd probably still find it extremely stupid.

"I think you do, actually." Changing the subject will help keep him from laughing at the mech some more.

He eases up finally, releasing Tarn's neck and lifting his weight off him, then offers his hand to the mech as he gets on his knees.

"Find no shame in sitting in the dust with me. It's the dust we were born from." He gives him a critical look, then reached for his energon reserves. "You also look like you need something for the hangover."

Tarn slowly reaches up to rub at his sore neck, regarding Galvatron skeptically. After a few moments he accepts the offered hand, pulling himself into a sitting position.

He tries not to look shocked by the sudden change in tone. Instead , he simply clears his throats and straightens his posture; trying not to look as pathetic as he feels for being called out on his hangover.

Looks like he better settle in for a bit of a speech.

"It would be appreciated."

That smirk on Galvatron's face wasn't going anywhere, even if it made his split lip bleed more. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and then licks the smear of energon off his fingers. Once finished he reaches into his subspace and offers the cube to Tarn.

"I had my first hangover before your spark was even a possibility in Vector Sigma's design. This will make you feel better, but it tastes awful."

He turns his attention to the sight of the Decepticon home in the distance. So dismal and empty. He then looks back at the mech, optics flicking over the absence of a badge.

"What does being a Decepticon mean to you?"

Tarn takes a drinking straw out of his subspace, delicately sliding it into the opening in his mask.

He grimaces the minute the energon hits his tongue, but swallows without complaint. Immediately, he turns his attention to Galvatron, struck by the audacity of his question. Tarn doesn't miss the warriors gaze on the criminally bare patch of his chassis where his badge once stood. His fingers come up to touch it, shielding it slightly from the critical gaze

“What does it mean to me? I’ve dedicated everything to the Decepticon cause, including my own identity. My entire purpose is to keep it running smoothly , eliminating traitors and useless cowards; weeding the weak willed from the strong. The cause is my very life.”

Galvatron can see your mouth there, Tarn. Don't think he's not judging you for the straw as well instead of using your Primus given lips to drink that. His optics narrow and he gives Tarn a smack on the back of the head for the answer. Idiot.

"That's what you do and the crutch you lean on, not what it means to you. What are the Decepticons, in your own words?"

Tarn jerks at the smack , glaring up at Galvatron with a growl.

“The Decepticons are the faction willing to fight for the right blaze their own path. Crushing the functionalist regime beneath them and tearing down a corrupt senate. That is the past. The groundwork for what is to come. Today the Decepticon cause is a struggle to obtain the pinnacle of Cybertronianian happiness by whatever means necessary; even if it means the elimination of those who stand in its way. "

Galvatron has had worse than dirty looks from a hungover zealot. He takes it mildly, then makes a thoughtful sound.

"Naming your founding actions as your greatest achievements is saddening. I'm told your 'groundwork' happened four million years ago."

Leave it to Galvatron to piss all over what Tarn just said with pride. That aside, he wasn't entirely impressed.

"Soundwave told me the Decepticon goal was freedom from oppression and peace. He hopes to achieve that by working with these 'humans'. What is your vision of what the pinnacle of Cybertronian happiness is?"

His vision? Tarn pauses, unsure of how to respond. He’s been following Megatron’s lead for so long that he isn’t sure that he truly has a vision of his own.

Is he being interviewed?

“ Of course, freedom from oppression is the ideal. But, if we’re discussing this truthfully, I don’t foresee this being feasible through an alliance with these humans. Organics often do not have our best interest at heart. Whether its the Black Block Consortia, the Galactic Council, or even Humans. They always have ulterior motive. They want us destroyed and humbled; weak to their rule. War is the only way for now."

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