[Actionspam] Stranger in a Strange...Time?
[ooc: wheee, first post! (hope I'm Doing It Right. >.<) This is open to anyone who wants to deal with a grumpy bounty hunter, voice, video or action. He hasn't accessed the Network yet, but feel free to ping him. Just don't expect any cordiality. XD Oh, and I need to afk for a few hours, but I'll back on tonight and most nights this week to tag. After next week, when school starts up again, I won't be on as much, but I'll still hop on a few nights a week to move along any plots that may start up. I have a feeling it'll be tough to stay away. ^^]
[A mech, well acquainted with alien tech and personal modifications, knows a tracking device when he sees one, and Lockdown is not one bit happy to be saddled with one. However, the displaced bounty hunter also knows when he is a stranger in a strange place and sometimes one just has to keep their head down and follow orders until they get a feel for their surroundings. It may be Cybertron, but it's one that he has never known.
Standing in endless lines and plowing through drudging paperwork is just as dull as Lockdown remembers from his early stellars. It has been eons since he had dealt with such tedious formalities. Traveling under the radar and doing business under the table had always spared him the processor ache of such commoner tasks. There are no paper trails in bounty hunting.
Once it's FINALLY all said and done, exiting that accursed government office is almost enough to lift his mood.
Almost.
No mech should be separated from his ship for extended periods of time, especially not in unfamiliar territory. That's like some kind of blasphemy to a pilot's code. Lockdown would be thrilled to explore this peculiar instance of Cybertron if he knew the Death's Head was parked close by, cloaked and off the beaten path, reliably awaiting his return and granting a means of escape if he got in over his head (an old habit he can't seem to kick). But now, the mechanical mercenary is on his own, completely left to his own devices. He takes some comfort in knowing it could be much worse. It would really suck aft if he was ordinary, and not a piecemeal masterpiece of "acquired" trophies. He still has his mods, thank fraggin' Primus. The ones that were attached--his favorites, like smoke bombs, sleep nets, and his prided chainsaw. He also had his trusty Space Poncho, which once again is helping him blend (with a rustic and badass style) into shadows and alleyways.
He lurks his way deeper into the city, instinctively seeking a more suitable setting out of the Utopian facade of Zone 1. The deeper he goes, the less tense he becomes. Passing by the Bounty Reclamation Office of Zone 3 gives him a small sense of belonging, but he refrains from going inside. Still too official.
He continues on, drawn to Zones 5 & 6, completely intrigued by the chop-shop named after his favorite dirty dealer. He has to wonder if this world really has three Swindles, and whether that was a good thing or the biggest scam in Cybertronian history waiting to happen. Resisting the urge to be sucked into the Bargain of Your Functioning, he pushes deeper, reaching Zone 6, finally happening upon a place where he might find shady characters kindred sparks who could enlighten him to what the frag this Cybertronian Cosmopolis was all about.]
Viva la Greed. Like the sound a'that.
[He enters quietly, hugging a shadowy wall as he stalks deeper inside. He spots a dark booth, the ideal vantage point for observing without being overly observed. The bar is tempting but he holds off on getting a drink. He wants to case the joint first, check out the crowd, hopefully spot a familiar face, or at least one he can bully some info out of.
He slides into the booth, still draped in his poncho, hiding his faceless insignia but not his tattooed face. Most rogue-types opt for a cloak with a hood, but not Lockdown. Why put all that effort into fine ink if you're just gonna hide it?]
[A mech, well acquainted with alien tech and personal modifications, knows a tracking device when he sees one, and Lockdown is not one bit happy to be saddled with one. However, the displaced bounty hunter also knows when he is a stranger in a strange place and sometimes one just has to keep their head down and follow orders until they get a feel for their surroundings. It may be Cybertron, but it's one that he has never known.
Standing in endless lines and plowing through drudging paperwork is just as dull as Lockdown remembers from his early stellars. It has been eons since he had dealt with such tedious formalities. Traveling under the radar and doing business under the table had always spared him the processor ache of such commoner tasks. There are no paper trails in bounty hunting.
Once it's FINALLY all said and done, exiting that accursed government office is almost enough to lift his mood.
Almost.
No mech should be separated from his ship for extended periods of time, especially not in unfamiliar territory. That's like some kind of blasphemy to a pilot's code. Lockdown would be thrilled to explore this peculiar instance of Cybertron if he knew the Death's Head was parked close by, cloaked and off the beaten path, reliably awaiting his return and granting a means of escape if he got in over his head (an old habit he can't seem to kick). But now, the mechanical mercenary is on his own, completely left to his own devices. He takes some comfort in knowing it could be much worse. It would really suck aft if he was ordinary, and not a piecemeal masterpiece of "acquired" trophies. He still has his mods, thank fraggin' Primus. The ones that were attached--his favorites, like smoke bombs, sleep nets, and his prided chainsaw. He also had his trusty Space Poncho, which once again is helping him blend (with a rustic and badass style) into shadows and alleyways.
He lurks his way deeper into the city, instinctively seeking a more suitable setting out of the Utopian facade of Zone 1. The deeper he goes, the less tense he becomes. Passing by the Bounty Reclamation Office of Zone 3 gives him a small sense of belonging, but he refrains from going inside. Still too official.
He continues on, drawn to Zones 5 & 6, completely intrigued by the chop-shop named after his favorite dirty dealer. He has to wonder if this world really has three Swindles, and whether that was a good thing or the biggest scam in Cybertronian history waiting to happen. Resisting the urge to be sucked into the Bargain of Your Functioning, he pushes deeper, reaching Zone 6, finally happening upon a place where he might find shady characters kindred sparks who could enlighten him to what the frag this Cybertronian Cosmopolis was all about.]
Viva la Greed. Like the sound a'that.
[He enters quietly, hugging a shadowy wall as he stalks deeper inside. He spots a dark booth, the ideal vantage point for observing without being overly observed. The bar is tempting but he holds off on getting a drink. He wants to case the joint first, check out the crowd, hopefully spot a familiar face, or at least one he can bully some info out of.
He slides into the booth, still draped in his poncho, hiding his faceless insignia but not his tattooed face. Most rogue-types opt for a cloak with a hood, but not Lockdown. Why put all that effort into fine ink if you're just gonna hide it?]