Log: Onslaught and Blast Off
Blast Off: *The shuttle is, for lack of a better word, sulking in his room - or the room he was occupying at least, and had hacked the code to, so one guesses it's his, now. He's too drunk to go anywhere without stumbling or using walls for support, which is probably why he's slumped over the table, his head right next to his board game, half in play. Fragging ugly Onslaught and his discipline, it's not like he cared when the shuttle wanted him to, bless him with a trip to the Pits hottest smelting pools. He grimaces.*
Onslaught: *After a fair amount of searching, Onslaught locates the largest room in the place. Vortex is in tow, looking oddly resistant. Onslaught leads him to the door and glares at him expectantly. Vortex steps forward and knocks his personal knock against the door*
Blast Off: *Mutters a curse when some slagger knocks on the door, cursing again when he recognizes the knocking for Vortex'. That kink-'copter wouldn't go away without driving him insane with tap-tap-tap on the door first, not worth it. He straightens and gets up, staggering to the door and hitting the keypad harshly with his fist - not really in the mood for social visits right now, no.*
Onslaught: *Onslaught nods to Vortex in brief affirmation and gestures for the helicopter to leave--which he does, quickly. Allowing himself the briefest of grim smiles, he stands expectantly before the door.*
Blast Off: *His expression turns from what you want? to you fragger in astroseconds when the door opens and reveals someone much different from Vortex. The shuttle glares at his commander, swaying back to punch the keypad again. Leave him alone, groundpounder.*
Onslaught: *Onslaught takes advantage of his opening and pushes himself over the threshold to stopper the door, pressing one hand against the frame as well* Blast Off! Where's your hospitality?
Blast Off: Space. *Doesn't give Onslaught a much friendlier look as he very effectively traps Blast Off inside his room (hate Earth so much), even his engine is giving off little, sullen thrums.*
Onslaught: *steps forward, his bulky, if smaller, frame blocking the entrance*
Blast Off: *Takes a step back automatically, damn his unconscious mind, knowing that Onslaught knows his every weakness and strenght inside out, heck, probably even better than the shuttle himself. Blast Off growls.* What you want?
Onslaught: *Onslaught enters the room and gives the shuttle a shove in the chest, noting the slight but hard to miss signs of excess energon consumption coming from Blast Off*
Blast Off: *Drunkenly unsteady as he is, that shove is enough to have him stumbling backwards a few steps, yelling in annoyance. That was uncalled for.*
Onslaught: Were you drunk when you made those comments, you little-winged spaceship? *he turns and, with a pound of his fist on the keypad, shuts the door*
Blast Off: What if I was, you fragger? *They aren't small, they're practical. Not that Onslaught knew anything about wings at all, really. He glares at him as the other Combaticon closes the door. He refuses to acknowledge the slight unease that's starting to mingle with his overenergized mind.*
Onslaught: True--what does it matter? You've made your contempt abundantly clear while sober. *continues to progress toward him as if he were an angry tank* I suppose being lenient in that regard would be pointless, wouldn't it?
Blast Off: *Manages, with some effort, to hold his ground as Onslaught approaches.* Just as pointless as your leadership, I imagine.
Onslaught: *It's easier to hold the ground when you're on it--let me help you!* Hmph. *Onslaught strikes the shuttle in the chest, rigth near his Decepticon symbol*
Blast Off: *Another yell, more sharply this time around, fumbling his steps and slamming into the wall in a downturn, barely managing to stay up by leaning against it. Thatfucking hurt, you fragger!* What the frag!
Onslaught: *What a disappointing place for a wall. Onslaught comes up behind him and presses the other's head against* I'm sorry, Blast Off. *No, not really.*
Blast Off: *Winces with a grunt, engine noises changing in tune. Fragger. He strikes back with his arm, too weak to really do any damage but it's the thought that counts, or so they say.*
Onslaught: *Onslaught's armor holds up against what amounts to little more than a brief flash of pain, but he adds even more pressure to Blast Off's helm* Don't you dare strike me!
Blast Off: *Opens his mouth behind his facemask in pain, another equally pained sound coming from him. Bracing his hands against the wall, he pushes away from it, or tries to; a foot kicking back almost on its own accord.* Frag you!
Onslaught: *avoids the kick* And you will cease using such language towards me.
Blast Off: Maybe if you let me go I'd consider it. *Primus, this was a very uncomfortable position to be in, and he was not drunk enough to not be unsettled by it - and it shows, ever so slightly, in his thrums.*
Onslaught: You'll do more than consider anything I tell you. *fingers begin to dig into his helm*
Blast Off: *Foot swings backwards again, but the shuttle holds back the noise about to slip out of him, it hurts.* ...frag you, Onslaught.
Onslaught: *shoves him to the ground as the foot connects below his knee, eliciting a slightly greater sting of pain*
Blast Off: *Doesn't have any other choice than to drop onto his knees with a choked sound, distress making its presence known in his head. Frag.* Let go!
Onslaught: No. *simple statement* Not now, not ever.
Blast Off: *Can't move. Blast Off isn't entirely certain what's worse; the increasingly distressing hold Onslaught has on him or the fact that Onslaught knows how much this is affecting him.* Let go.
Onslaught: I don't take orders from you, little wings. It's other way around.
Blast Off: Why should I? *This forced crouch made his joints ache with the effort he's putting into getting up again, thrums louder and more skittish than he would like.*
Onslaught: Because I was created to give you orders, and you were created to follow them. --Or, alternately, because I will beat you into the floor until you obey.
Blast Off: *Primus, but he was sobering up too quickly.*
Blast Off: You can't reach me in space. *Maybe not fast enough.*
Onslaught: There are many fliers on this base who would undoubtedly be happy to reach you for me and bring you back. Assuming you managed to get there at all. *certain threatening tone at that*
Blast Off: I'd find a way.
Onslaught: *removes his gun quietly, exerting extra force on Blast Off with his other hand* --so would I.
Blast Off: *Grunts somewhat weakly, getting pressed harder into that damn crouch.* I don't see anyone besides Vortex doing what you say. What you do, bang him good? *Sneers.*
Onslaught: No, no, Blast Off. *aims the weapon at its intended target, careful to not alert the shuttle of its presence.* I'm going to "bang" you.
Blast Off: *Is just distant enough to hear that slight intonation of 'bang,' grimacing in disgust at the idea of interfacing with Onslaught. Double distress.* Go bang Swindle, I hear he likes it. *Growls, putting a burst of effort into getting up and away, but between the wall and the mech it's difficult, to say the least.*
Onslaught: *takes careful aim, not even bothering to acknowledge the comment, even to himself. He knows where he stands on interfacing with his team, and he's above petty insinuations about his preferences...still, it will be nice to give Blast Off this surprise. He fires.*
Onslaught: *--into Blast Off's right foot.*
Blast Off: *The shot sends him catapulting into agony, and he doesn't bother - can't - hold back the scream of raw pain, his whole body jerking violently. Warnings popping up stays unseen, the shuttle himself thunking against the wall as his hands immediately go down to hold his now-fucked up leg, every single output making it beyond any doubt that this fucking hurts.*
Onslaught: Bang.
Blast Off: *Offers another scream, putting all of his anguish - both from the damage and from the stay on Earth - into it. He spits out, stained by the intense feelings.* Fragger.
Onslaught: *Can't--can't--suppress a slight chortle* Does it hurt, Blast Off?
Blast Off: *Hates being reduced to a slumped mech made of fucking ow, but more than that he hates Onslaught for doing it; he knew full well just how many sensors he had in those seams. But the most, he hates that chuckle.* ..nnghh--! Yes.
Onslaught: It hurts me more than it hurts you. *Not really. : D*
Blast Off: *Very funny. Only not.* ...that's funny. *Strained voice, at least he's gained enough wit to dull his pain-receptors from the seam, lessening the agony to a mere smelting pool of pain.*
Onslaught: I trust you'll be extending your stay? *puts away gun*
Blast Off: Like I have a choice.
Onslaught: Now you're starting to get it.
Blast Off: *Groans, starting to curl up on himself. Primus be fragged, his foot, his fucking wing.* Funny.
Onslaught: Not really. *heads for the door* If the pain becomes too unbearable you can come to me for some relief. But you are forbidden from visiting any medics. They'll be told to deny you treatment for that wing.
Blast Off: *Moves now that he's capable of it, a garbled scream from his vocalizer when his shot foot scrapes across the floor. He freezes, lying taut till the wrecking of his sensory grid ceases.* What about mechs coming here. *Hoarse, almost whispered.*
Onslaught: Figure it out yourself. As I said, if you need treatment, I am here. If you insist on enduring the pain, perhaps one of your brothers will take pity on you.
Blast Off: I don't need your help. *ground out*
Onslaught: Very well. *exits*
Blast Off: *Slumps down, not bothering to keep back all the sounds he wants to make anymore. He digs fingers into the floor, or at least does a brave attempt at it, optics offlining as he tries to focus on something other than nearly all-consuming and brutal pain.*
Onslaught: *goes back to his own room. That went better than expected.*
Blast Off: *Doesn't bother to stand up - it just seems a task too impossible right now. Fucking dirtkissers and their hate for wings.*