Kup Interviews: Xaaron, Swerve, Nightbeat, Wedge

[Kup]

Nope, there's no way Kup's any kind of racer. Not that that bothers him.

He transforms when he finally closes the distance, shrugging once he reaches robot mode. "What're you complaining about? You didn't seem so eager for this." He looks at Swerve, a thoughtful expression on his face, then considers the area. Boy's going to need a demonstration of what he's dealing with, Kup's just betting, but he'd like to keep the whole wailing on his own team to a minimum, if possible. That's just not how Autobots do things.

Casually and without comment, as though it were the sort of thing he does every day, he steps off the metal road they're on and crouches next to it. Then he reaches out, grasps the edges, and begins to tear it, rending the metal with a shriek that he pays no attention to. He doesn't tear it very far in: a section perhaps a little wider than his robot mode. Once he's torn that far into the road, he pulls one of his newly made edges and peals it back until he's got a curl of metal that's a bit longer than he is. He holds the losoe end up with his left hand and slams it hard with his fist right around the middle, giving the metal a fairly sharp bend. Then he slams it again, a little further up, while still holding the other end with his hand.

The whole thing now resembles a very, very rough chair sticking out of the road.

Kup wriggles the top of it before letting go, making sure it'll support his weight. It won't stand up to his strength, of course, but he already knew that. With that display complete, he pulls his "stylus" and the plate of metal he'd been writing on out of subspace, turns, and lounges back into his new chair. He nods to Swerve. "All right. I think we're about ready to get started."

[Swerve]

"I still ain't exactly thrilled," Swerve counters with a bit of an understatement, "but just waiting for you to get from there t' here, I could've run again." Maybe twice if he pushed it, but he doesn't bother saying that. The sooner he can get the old crank to leave, the better.

Then Kup… starts tearing up the road. Literally. Swerve's jaw would be somewhere near the ground right about now, were he in robot mode, but perhaps not for the reasons Kup wants. The value of the demonstration is completely swept under by a swell of indignant outrage. The actual amount of damage is irrelevant. He just deliberately trashed the road!

"Y– You– shoulder-huggin', rear-steerin'–" Swerve unfolds to robot mode somewhere in the middle of his ranting, and even he isn't sure if he looks more infuriated or horrified. "–Smeltin' cracked block smoke-spewer! What's fraggin' wrong with you?" He gestures to the road, to Kup's modification to it. He's at a loss for words, even the ones that trip swear filters, for a moment. You don't just do that to a road! Even a stupid metal road!

Swerve paces away a few meters, muttering in what might have been pure Cybertronian several million years ago, but is now marred by a thick dialect peppered liberally with jargon and slang that, if Kup can make it out at all, has no immediate context. It's also rife with words that don't need repeating around little receptors, regardless of actual language. Swerve's front wheels spin with his anger as he turns back and advances on Kup, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

He'd love to deck the old Autobot. He'd love nothing more right about now, in fact; that Kup can casually demolish the terrain and could easily do just as much damage to him, if he wanted, is forgotten. But just up and popping the oldtimer out of nowhere seems like a cheap shot. Cheap shots are, well, pretty fragging cheap. He knocks that stupid piece of metal out of Kup's hands instead¹.

"Now we're 'bout ready t' get started," he growls.

---

¹ - Done with permission of Kup's player.

[Kup]

Now that's an interesting reaction. Swerves runs around with a chip on his shoulder the size of Cybertron's moon¹, refuses to show the slightest hint of respect for anyone around him... but mess up a chunk of metal laying on the ground, and he goes into a frothing fit.

He's going to have to get over it.

Kup's outward appearance remains casual at Swerve's angry approach, even as internally, he tenses. He's not really afraid of this kid, but he is afraid he might have to take him out. When Swerve, instead, knocks his "notepad" from his hand he just snorts. Then he stands up so as not to be forced to look up at the racer - boy, does this alpha male game get old, but sometimes it's got to be played through - and instead looks down at Swerve.

"Look, lad, whether you like it or not, we're out here and we're depending on each other. Now, I don't konw about you, but if I'm going into battle with someone, I want to know who's got my back. So I'm having a series of talks to get an idea where everyone's abilities lie... what they know, where they need to improve, how much combat experience they got, what they know outside a battlefield. To make it fair, I'm willing to answer any questions you got about me as well." He pauses, considering. "First, even, if that's what it takes. But this'll go a lot easier on both of us if you'd just calm yourself down. Y'got it?"

---

¹ AKA, Unicron's head.

[Swerve]

It isn't just a chunk of metal on the ground, it's a road! Right now, it's the road! But obviously, someone like Kup just wouldn't get it. (It's possible no-one else would get it, either.)

So he's taller. So what. Swerve's glower doesn't so much as flicker even when he has to aim it up to keep his gaze locked on the oldtimer. Bigger, stronger mechs always do the 'loom over little Swerve' thing. He's used to it.

What he isn't used to is the mostly reasonable tone of voice counterbalancing the act. There's supposed to be shouting and insults and fists flying at faceplates, not… an explanation. He briefly locks up while he tries to process the incongruity of the situation. That it gets through at all with his systems heating up is a feat in and of itself.

"…Whatever," Swerve mutters. Although he's tense and on edge, anger is gradually exchanged for a wary suspicion. Asking 'why me' would be pointless; Kup explained the 'why'. Sort of. Swerve couldn't think of anything to ask that didn't pertain to the oldtimer's imperative need for a seat. Couldn't just stand? Tired out from the drive here? Something wrong with sitting on the ground? They're all stupid questions, not worth the bother. "So?" barks the racer, refusing to back down. "You wanna ask, get askin'. I'll answer."

[Kup]

Kup did not cross his arms. That tended to be a defensive move, and would indicate that he's bothered by Swerve's refusal to back out of his personal space. Instead, he just put his right hand on his hip and shifted his weight to his left, and began by summarizing what he did know.

"Now, really, all I've been able to figure so far from you is, of all the folks here, you're the only one never to have called a Cybertron home. That language you were just swearin' in, though, sounds an awful lot like it coulda been some sort of Cybertronian derivative. You're a racer of some sort," Kup wasn't there for the 'oilsport' bit, "you're competent at repairs and don't blanch at using non-standard parts sources. That, by the way? Something we really need right now, and look to be continuing to need in the future. Gotta admit, I'm a little surprised at how many of my own folks have had the chance to develop that kinda squeamishness." Spoiled. "I was pretty preoccupied during the battle, but you seemed to carry yourself all right. Once you got around to admitting you couldn't go it alone, that is. You also got an attitude the size of Bleak Desert on Milanos IV." The last statement isn't said in any more of an accusatory tone than the rest; Kup is still just listing what he's gathered.

"So, to get started, what's your actual combat experience, lad? You ever been part of a large scale battle before, or you mostly just used to handling yourself in street fights or bars or whatnot? If you don't mind my saying, you don't give the impression of someone that's used to working with a team."

[Swerve]

"Velocitron," Swerve starts abruptly. "I'm from Velocitron." He isn't quite sure how to explain that Cybertron is far, far more of a word here than it ever had been back home. If there weren't so many Autobots here babbling on about it, he'd say they all had to be hallucinating. He's still not entirely sure. "…And the only one who's ever heard of it," he adds. If he sounds even slightly bitter about that, he'll say it was a trick of the receptors. He has no idea what to make of Kup saying his rambling and muttering had Cybertronian roots. The rest of the list Kup's managed to compile about him makes him wonder just how much attention the oldtimer's actually been paying; what is he, Brakedown?

The reminder of the fight against Dead End nets a dark scowl, not for Kup, but for the memory of that crushing embarrassment. Swerve has been trying to tune up his systems because of that, actually, trying to tweak out more power. Milanos IV doesn't ring any bells, so Kup's comparison sails right on overhead. Swerve already knows he has an attitude.

Okay, finally, actual questions.

"Quit calling me that, first of all," he says sourly before mustering any answers. "I got a name and I know you know it and I ain't any 'lad'." He wouldn't take that scrap from Brakedown, and he actually sort of respects that old codger. "I run in the oilsport races– …Well. Ran in 'em back home, in the underground, anyway. Plenty of fights there, whenever, on and off the track. No big pile-up frag-fests like that, though." Swerve gestures loosely northward, in the vague direction of the mesa.

That whole thing had been one big slagging mess. Even the worst race Swerve was ever in wasn't that bad. Of course, the worst race Swerve was ever in didn't have fliers or Omega Supreme, either.

"…And no, I don't do teams," he adds, frowning. "Teams don't happen in the underground." Well, maybe they did if a mech was lucky enough to find someone trustworthy, or gullible enough to think someone was trustworthy. Swerve was neither.

[Kup]

Kup is, at times, rightfully described as cranky. The years have taught him patience, but even he's got his limits. He manages to keep his cool now, but irritation shows itself in the drawing of his brows and narrowing of his optics. "Y'know, funnily enough, I got a name that ain't 'oldtimer.' I'll see about learning to call you 'Swerve' when you learned to call me 'Kup.' I gotta admit, you got a lot of ball-bearings to be demanding respect that you ain't earned and ain't willing to give, but that by itself ain't enough to actually get it. Got it?"

Kup can guess what "oilsport" implies, but gives it little thought beyond wondering what the point is. If Kup wants someone trying to kill him while he's driving (and you know what? Sometimes he does), he goes to find the nearest battlefield. In his younger days, he'd stir one up himself, but these days he's willing to wait for one to happen on its own.

"Now. Teams may not happen in the underground, but they're happening here. They've already been happening, and you're already part of one. We don't know how long we'll be stuck together, so you might as well get used to it." And even been part of both the give and take of it... his willingness, no matter how reluctant, to help with the repairs is at least one redeeming factor so far.

"Now, before I go on, you got any other skills you're bringing to the table that you think might be useful?"

[Swerve]

Swerve blinks and grinds to a full-stop for a couple seconds. He really did just demand the oldtimer use his name. He really did. Did he really want to be on a name-to-name basis with anybody here? Already? Slag it all.

"Fine, forget it then," he snaps, infuriated with himself. He's slipping. One fight and some repair work and he's letting himself get cozy. "Call me whatever, I don't care." 'Lad' wasn't 'oilstain', at least.

A team. He's being wrangled onto a smelting team. Is he? Frag it, what happened? He can't really have just let himself start settling in like this.

"I fight, I race, sometimes I fix things," is Swerve's terse, ambiguous answer to Kup's last question before he stalks off to gather up his tools and take a moment to vent. What's the matter with him? Did he fry something during the battle and not notice? That has to be it. He'll have to check for anything burned-out the next chance he gets. "Primus frag me," he snarls at himself, stirring up dust and gravel with furious grabs at his scattered toolkit. "Primus frag me with a plasma bolt."

[Kup]

When Swerve finally backs off, giving Kup space, the first thing the elder does is slip the tip of one foot underneath the metal plate Swerve had knocked out of his hands earlier, then flip it into the air with the same foot, catching it with his empty hand. The move may be showy, but wasn't intended to show off. While Swerve grumbles to himself, Kup takes a few moments to make some scratches on his "notepad." Swerve didn't really tell him much new, but he does take note of the swearing to Primus, considering he had only just gotten a full explanation for who "Primus" was.

Also, and without mentioning it to Swerve, he makes a note about the road. Though it'll be pretty low priority, he does intend to see if maybe Long Haul or Wedge can find time to fix it. The original display had served been for a purpose, and while it didn't accomplish its intended goal, it still got some pretty interesting reactions. But now that it's done with, Kup wouldn't mind seeing things put back. They've certainly been tearing up the planet out of necessity enough as it is, and they don't even know what happened to the natives, or if they'll be back.

And unlike many of the others, Kup fully intends to try to find out. They've got an empty planet, and they've got an interdimensional... something. And everyone seems to be assuming that the empty planet is someone else's problem.

Keep turning your back on "someone else's problem" and eventually, it may well become your problem. Images of returning to an empty Cybertron have been flashing through Kup's mind for a while now.

Finally, Kup picks up again, speaking to Swerve's back when the other stops mumbling. "So you know how to fight, but not as part of a group. That's going to change. Otherwise, you run the risk of being more of a danger to us than the 'Cons." There's no room for argument in Kup's tone, although he's half-expecting to hear argument, anyway. "You're also going to have to share your personal frequency." The "now" is implied, but unsaid. Then, as a show of faith, Kup says, "Mine is," and then he gives it.

[Swerve]

Swerve couldn't care less what happened to the natives. They build weird roads, make laser-shooting flowers, drag him here, then don't have the decency to show their stupid slagging faces. He'd much rather just go home. And maybe throw a wrench at Kup. Change how he fights, indeed.

"Like to see you try," he mutters, viciously shoving said wrench into storage. Cheap shot. He looks up to protest this personal frequency scrap – it's irritating enough to get yakked at on broadband, why fork over a way for others to bother him directly? – but then the oldtimer has to go and give up his own frequency. Primus-fragging smelt-slagged sense of fairness. "…Whatever," Swerve says, just loud enough to be heard. After a tenth of a second to recall the slagging thing, he all but hurls his frequency at Kup, and not because the cranky codger wanted it now; Swerve would just as soon have not handed it over, but Kup had to go and be generous. Smoke-spewer.

Tools gathered and stowed, the racer stands and turns. He hasn't really managed to cool off much at all. He entirely blames Kup for being so slagging nosy.

"Happy now?"

[Kup]

It's Kup's job to be nosy!

Kup purses his lips rather hard as Swerve rather forcefully shares his personal frequency. This is mostly because he's struggling not to laugh, smirk, or snicker. Eventually, he decides it's a lost battle and his "clipboard" comes up high enough to cover the lower half of his face.

"Good," he finally says. "If you'd like to see me try, you can show up to training so you can watch." And if Kup has to get him out there by dragging him out and keep him there by having someone weld his feet to the ground, that's what he's going to do.

"Two more things before you go. First off, how do they choose leadership back on your world? Second, who would you say is in charge here?" Kup fully expects another outburst at the second question, but he's asking it anyway.

[Swerve]

"Training?" The look on Swerve's face couldn't be more stunned if Kup had just hit him with a shock stick. Training?! "I don't fragging need training! Are you blinking off your Primus-fragged axles?! Training, my backup exhaust manifold!" he exclaims with fists clenched, having built up from a growl to a roar, engine snarling along with his voice. Training! Like he's some half-shifted rookie!

Fragging ridiculous. He fights just slagging fine!

"Y'know what?" he demands rhetorically, having turned and paced away a length or two, then turned back. He points at Kup, stabbing his finger toward the elder for added emphasis. "You can take your backfired, tire-blowin' training and your cam-jammin' leadership and you can shove 'em both right up that clutch-slipped muffler o' yours!" That's it, he's done here. Kup already probably knows more than Swerve ever really wanted him to know and Swerve isn't interested in learning anything about Kup at this point.

With a few more snarls and mutters, some of which sound like 'slag-suckin' Autobots', 'fraggin' self-righteous sludge-chugger', 'had it with this smelt-slag', and 'scrap me and smelt me down for rivets', Swerve storms halfway back to the city on foot before he remembers to transform. Unless Kup happens to try and stop him first. Otherwise, it'll be up to a faster car to catch him after that.

[Kup]

Well, Kup could hit Swerve with a shock stick, if that's what it takes...

The elder does what he can to try to prevent Swerve's stormoff, shunting his "writing supplies" into subspace to chase after the racer while the other vehicle is still on foot. He knows that if Swerve gets transformed, there's no way he can keep up... although that just means he'll have to out-think the hot-headed Autobot instead, and Kup's pretty confident in his ability to do so.

If he's able to close the distance before Swerve transforms, he will attempt to grab the other by the right shoulder (or whatever closest part that Kup can reach) and spin him around before he says what he's about to say. If he fails to do this, he instead shouts at Swerve. In either case, his right index finger is pointed to emphasize his words.

"Now, you listen here, punk!" he roars. "Either you're going to training, or you're not going on the battlefield. No matter how well you can handle yourself in a fight, you never had to with these people, same as I ain't, and I ain't risking myself or anyone else here because you're too damned stubborn to learn to work with us, got it?!"

If Kup did manage to grab Swerve, he's fully prepared for a fight at this point. If not, he's just shouting after, but he's dead serious about every word.

[Swerve]

Swerve's transformation is only just starting to engage when a large, comparatively cool hand clamps down on his right front bumper (because, you see, pretty much the entire front end of his alt mode is mounted on his back) and wrenches him out of it, spinning him around. He tries viciously to yank himself free.

Some part of him knows it's a bad idea – a safety warning, a little impulse peeping somewhere under the shrill refrain of imminent overheat alerts – but that part is buried beneath mounting outrage. He's sick of Kup. He's sick of Kup trying to fragging tell him what to do. He's slagging sick of getting bossed around by nosy, smoke-spewing, trap-flapping oldtimers. And he's really smelting tired of this superiority complex these Autobots seem to have. He never claimed to be better, but this constant scrap feed like he's no better than a leaking dim-bulb Decepticon is just too Primus-fragging much. They aren't better than he is, he isn't better than they are. If it's enough that they include him in their little club just fragging because he wears the same emblem, it should be enough to slagging well leave him the smelt alone and stop blinking riding him about everything!

He's too angry and too hot under the hood to vocalise any of it. His processor is grinding for nought, alarms are sounding, and he's torqued all the wrong way. Whatever tells him it's a bad idea is completely smothered. Rational thinking is far, far behind him and Kup is in front of him and he's swinging a tonfa for the nearest green body part even before he realises the command went through.

[Kup]

Kup takes the hit from the tonfa, letting his armor and durable build handle the strike while he shifts, attempting to redirect the force of the blow even as one hand moves up to help things along, although Kup adds very little additional force on his own. The goal is to get Swerve onto the ground without damaging the other Autobot so that he can move to restrain the other after, provided the racer doesn't see reason. Scrap! While Kup had felt it important to establish that he, himself can hold his own and should be taken seriously - and, well, okay, maybe he did lose his own temper a little - he did not come out here to injure another Autobot, nor to bully his way to the top.

Whether Swerve takes the fall (in which case Kup will crouch and prepare to try to restrain the other) or not, Kup's next words are spoken in a soft, hopefully calming tone, although there is still a firmness and certainty to them. "C'mon la- Swerve. C'mon. You don't want to do this. Just calm down, and maybe we can hash this out reasonably. Calm down."