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Post by Emirate Xaaron on May 11, 2008 21:44:42 GMT -5
A spotlight hits Emirate Xaaron, and he looks over at the others in the spotlight curiously. Then, he brings up his fingers and snaps them, what's doing on more or less dawning on him. He wanders over to Swerve's side and holds out and arm. Swerve's probably going to punch him him or shove him or something, but he really had to offer the chance to walk up together. Springer wouldn't have minded. Impactor wouldn't have minded. Optimus Prime ... yeah, okay, so people in his home reality humoured him.
Emirate Xaaron murmurs, "What a shame you rid yourself of your vestment. We would have matched." A little more loudly, he adds, "I do believe we are receiving an award for that little chat we had those months back. Peculiar, isn't it?"
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Post by Swerve on May 11, 2008 23:22:09 GMT -5
Swerve turns at Xaaron's approach, and at the Emirate's words, his scowl both grows impossibly angrier and slightly confused.
"You'd have to beat me in a race t' make me wear that," he hisses, pointing vehemently at the pile of gold satin and layers of scalloped white cotton and lace crumpled on the floor at his feet. Whatever it used to be. All he's really aware of as far as it goes is that it was uncomfortable, hard to move in, and looked stupid and he wasn't the one who put it on him. "And whose blasted brilliant idea was this smelt-slag anyway? You can't be this far off your axles."
Treasure this moment, Emirate Xaaron. Even if Swerve does refuse the arm being offered him in part because his pipes are good and hot by this point and he isn't making the connection that maybe a mech who can walk off a punch from him that breaks his hand won't be bothered by a little searing heat.
"Peculiar's one way t' put it," he adds. Awards are for winning, not talking.
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Post by Mirage on May 11, 2008 23:42:58 GMT -5
Mirage doesn't bask in the spotlight that falls on him, instead moving nonchalantly toward the stairs and Punch. To look at him, you'd think Mirage was used to this kind of thing.
Once he reaches Punch, Mirage merely smiles and inclines his head in greeting, then turns to check on the progress of Swerve and Emirate Xaaron.
While they wait, Mirage murmurs to Punch, "How odd to be recognized for something few are supposed to be aware of. Perhaps we really are just pawns in a game after all?"
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Gizmo
Rookie
Blue and Nerdy
Posts: 147
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Post by Gizmo on May 12, 2008 0:11:33 GMT -5
"A thread?" Gizmo repeats, cocking his head at Sideburn. "Well, a thread could be a thin piece of material used to make cloth, like this..." He pinches the tartan of his kilt as an example. "Or if we're talking Internet talk, a thread could be part of a message board, usually focused on one topic. Or if we're talking science-fiction, Thread is a space-borne organism in the 'Dragonriders of Pern' books that falls onto planets and devours everything organic it touches. Um... hope any of that helped somehow."
Most likely it only confused the Car Brother further, but whatever...
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Bluestreak
Rookie
Silence is golden, but the motormouth is silver...
Posts: 213
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Post by Bluestreak on May 12, 2008 0:40:51 GMT -5
Bluestreak applauds, grinning widely. "Hey, congratulations everyone! Awesome for getting the... um, best threads award." He has no idea what that entails, but it must be something pretty good.
Well, since it looks like they're going to be here awhile, he decides to get a drink while they're waiting. It's tricky business getting to the bar -- the long-sleeved, blue-sequined, off-the-shoulder evening gown he's wearing has a long but unfortunately snug-fitting skirt, meaning he has to shuffle along to avoid tearing something. The knee-high slit on one side helps matters a bit, at least.
"Hey Bartender, what do we --" he begins, then realizes there's a Decepticon manning the drinks... and a lunatic Constructicon in the vicinity. "Um... never mind..."
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Counterpunch
Minor
The Overlord, His Peerless Highness, Arch Duke Counterpunch. The Salient Vanquisher of His Own Mind
What're you looking at?
Posts: 419
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Post by Counterpunch on May 12, 2008 7:17:20 GMT -5
Punch inclines his head towards Mirage to greet him as he approaches. Then he looks upward towards the source of the lights.
"Yeah, agreed. But the soooner we get this over with, the sooner we get that spotlight off us."
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Post by Emirate Xaaron on May 12, 2008 11:19:38 GMT -5
Apparently, Swerve and Emirate Xaaron win at talking.
Emirate Xaaron replies, with good-natured amused, "I may just have to do that."
But be aware, he plays by his own rules, no matter the game.
He shakes his head and shrugs. "I have no idea what's going on here, beyond what the Junkions said. Come on, the quicker we get up there, the quicker you can return to sulking in the audience."
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Wedge
Minor
NOT a reckless teen-bot
Posts: 413
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Post by Wedge on May 12, 2008 15:47:03 GMT -5
"Alright! Go Bots!" cheers Wedge as the spotlights shine on the winners.
He's finished puzzling over the overalls, and the thick gloves, and boots, and then finally that hard hat perched precariously on his head. He's also put off the confusion at this strange hall and ceremony going on. If there's a party, Wedge isn't going to be complaining---granted, he hasn't really registered the presence of Decepticons yet. All he knows is that, hey, he's sitting at a table with Sideburn and Gizmo. They're both wearing equally weird things and just as confused as he is. It's all good.
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Post by Swerve on May 12, 2008 21:05:33 GMT -5
"Like you could ever beat me," snorts Swerve as he steps away from his seat, kicking bits of gold satin from his feet, and starts toward the stage. Any speed he puts on is more for getting up there and getting back with the least amount of fuss and time involved.
It's really fragging weird to be getting any sort of award for something that isn't racing.
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Post by Lynn Deanna Payne on May 12, 2008 21:12:34 GMT -5
Bambi, in her prim Victorian exploress outfit, complete with parasol, stalks over to just behind Grimlock, giving the impression of a savage hunter, despite the outfit. She pauses behind him and then reaches up to tap him with the parasol and corrects, "That not computer. That piano! It make music."
She does not seem to consider the possible repercussions if she startles Grimlock.
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Counterpunch
Minor
The Overlord, His Peerless Highness, Arch Duke Counterpunch. The Salient Vanquisher of His Own Mind
What're you looking at?
Posts: 419
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Post by Counterpunch on May 12, 2008 21:58:26 GMT -5
Punch nods to the others as they arrive, and even offers them a warm smile. Whoever this strange Autobot is, he certainly is fairly personable. Then he smiles at Mirage and crooks out his arm.
"I suppose, since we won this together, we should accept it together."
Whether Mirage takes his arm or whether he doesn't, he then climbs the stairs onto the stage in order to accept the award.
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Post by Mirage on May 12, 2008 23:28:09 GMT -5
Mirage takes the offered arm, and says, "Of course, that is the way these things are done, is it not?"
Once they are on the stage, the pair heads toward Perceptor. Mirage adopts a casual stance when they reach center, slipping his arm out of Punch's. Almost unconsciously, that arm moves to try and rest around Punch's waist.
"So, Perceptor, we're here. What happens next in this little play?"
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Eye-fire
Major
In two minds about everything
Posts: 597
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Post by Eye-fire on May 13, 2008 1:46:52 GMT -5
"You all get dumped in a smelting pit?" Eye-Fire asks as he gets up from his seat and heads towards the bar to refill his drink without directly looking at any of the award winners. Yes, he's noticed the other Autobots here and will take any repercussions for his question like the inter dimensional punching bag he seems to be.
In other words, he's retreating to the bar so that he can hide behind Long Range. What else are artillery mechs for?
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on May 13, 2008 2:33:15 GMT -5
"Ah, stuff it down yer barrel and suck backblast, ya sorry sack o' spare parts!" jeers Rattrap at the retreating gun-former.
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Post by Long Range on May 13, 2008 3:50:54 GMT -5
Long Range has managed to, somehow, get hold of a magic marker that fits his hand and a piece of metal large enough to write on. It'd be slightly less suspect where the metal came from if everyone could see behind the bar and see that one of the cabinets was missing its white door.
When he's done, he stands it up on the bar counter and uses a few glasses to keep it from tipping over. It reads "The barkeep is your friend, or at least willing to be neutral. He won't poison or spike your drink if you don't try to shoot his head in."
After admiring his handiwork for a few seconds, he stands back again, crossing his arms over his chest.
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