Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Feb 4, 2010 23:12:20 GMT -5
Day 4 Evening Open Thread, but see below
Somewhere on Pz-Zazz, a small being is hanging upside down in an alley, suspended by glowing blue webbing. Depending on its physiology, it may still be alive tomorrow. Tarantulas has its credit card.
Said credit card has reserved the back room at "Tiny's," a very exclusive club in one of the planet's more upscale districts. Owned and operated by a little green man in a white suit who everyone calls (you guessed it) Tiny, it has ceilings a mere 15 feet high, putting it out of reach for Pz-Zazz's larger residents.
Yesterday night, after arriving back at Ship battered but functional and very, very cranky, Tarantulas posted a message on the vessel's mainframe. //This is for everyone approximately Predacon-sized. We need to talk strategy. Meet me at <coordinates> tomorrow night.//
Now the spider waits, sitting in one of the chairs around a card table (it's covered in blue felt instead of green, because it's an alien card table) in Tiny's smoky back room. He glances at a computer display set into the table top, punches some buttons and swipes his stolen credit card, and then with a pneumatic woosh a glass full of a red liquid appears from a hole in the tabletop. He grabs it and takes a sip, then throws the glass against the wall in disgust, shattering it to pieces. "Alcohol and vegetable matter. Bloody Mah-ree my aft."
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on Feb 17, 2010 12:25:44 GMT -5
The trouble with picking a club that caters to the small folks is that small folks of all kinds tend to show up. Even snoopy little guys with a penchant for enjoying the company of barflies.
Rattrap isn't in the back room, however; he's out on the main floor, just taking in the atmosphere. He couldn't quite manage to do more than scrape the worst of the gunk out of his fur – so he smells slightly more like sulphur than refuse for once – but all his metal parts look shiny enough given the lighting in here. The guy who got him in the door has wandered off, but for a fellow with bright red skin, four arms, and a face only a mother could love, he wasn't so bad. Already drunk clean off his rear end, though, which might explain just why he thought Rattrap was his date after a little bit of (mostly) unintentional sweet-talking. Flattering to know he's still cute as a button, not that the xeno scene is exactly Rattrap's bag, so while his ticket in is busy propping up the bar, he takes a good look around.
At the gambling tables.
"Ehh… I'll get the paperwork done later," he says to himself with a leer. He's going to enjoy himself. At least until someone catches on that he's missing and he gets the inevitable 'get your skidplate back here' lecture.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Feb 19, 2010 20:01:45 GMT -5
Tarantulas taps a golden claw on the table-top and sighs. Blackarachnia would of course be fashionably late, if she showed up at all, if for no other reason that to show that she wasn't at his beck and call. Jetstorm he didn't know well enough to speculate. Hopefully there were others. If not, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
Either way, the spider thought to himself, there's no point to just sitting in the back room alone. Emerging, he notices a familiar figure near the gambling tables. "Great," he mutters, "the rat." A whole multiverse to choose from and he keeps running into Maximals from his home reality. Somewhere an omniscient being is laughing.
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on Feb 25, 2010 12:35:43 GMT -5
Rattrap being Rattrap, he gravitates toward the card games. A few of the games look familiar enough; pretty standard six card draw there, and those two tables to his right are some variant on double tens. Others, however, he'll need to watch a little longer before he dives in. One dealer – game's some weird mix of cards and dice – glances up at him, then to an empty seat, as he saunters over to observe. Rattrap shakes his head and takes a half-step back. The dealer shrugs it off.
And even as he's watching, Rattrap gets that crawling sensation on the back of his neck. Oh, the place is just packed with security cameras, but this feels different. Looking around with just his optics doesn't tell him anything. Nobody he can spot without being obvious about it seems to be doing more than occasionally glancing at him.
Intrigue? In a place like this? Oh, boy, Rattrap's gonna have more fun here than he thought. For a relative sense of the word.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Feb 25, 2010 20:36:48 GMT -5
Rattrap appears to be just watching the gambling, not an immediate threat. And still no sign of any of the other small 'Cons. Well, he's here, may as well screw with the rat's head. Tarantulas stalks across the room to a table with several free seats that also happens to be in Rattrap's field of vision and sits down, nodding to the dealer and tapping the felt in front of him.
"Deal me in."
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on Mar 3, 2010 13:00:13 GMT -5
"Deal me in."
Now, Rattrap may not recognise old Eight-eyes under all that shiny chrome, but he knows that voice. It's hard to forget that voice when you've heard it cackling while an eight-legged sicko tries to bite your face. Rattrap doesn't jump – it's unprofessional – but he does turn his head. Just a little. He doesn't see what he expects to see; is that high-gloss monstrosity really who it sounds like?
"Dis trend keeps up and I'm gonna start wonderin' if I just attract folks wit' more than four limbs," Rattrap mutters to himself, torn between burying his face in his palm or smirking.
Meanwhile, the dealer looks up from beneath her bangs and nods, slinging a couple of cards face-up to Tarantulas. One player eyes all the extra legs warily and leans away on his stool; another doesn't even seem to register the new player at the table.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Mar 3, 2010 19:24:06 GMT -5
Tarantulas scoops the cards up off the table with a nod to the dealer and fans them in his hand, optic band fixed directly on Rattrap. The Maximal, to his credit, doesn't react much. He offers the rat a slight nod, as if to say 'yes, I see you seeing me.' Noticing the discomfort of the other gambler, he shifts his shoulders slightly, flexing his upturned spider legs. The alien squirms uncomfortably and Tarantulas chuckles quietly.
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on Mar 9, 2010 0:38:51 GMT -5
While Tarantulas taunts the sap next to him, their other table mate ignores them both, rapping the knuckles of his free hand twice on the felt-covered tabletop. The dealer nods accordingly and slides him another couple of cards face-down, which he takes and mulls over silently, a dour expression on his face – as much an expression as Rattrap can make from the folds of pock-marked flesh, anyway.
Finally, pausing only long enough as he turns to change the emblem on his arm – keeping it at his side to make less of an impression – Rattrap lazily makes his way toward that table, taking many detours to investigate other interesting games while carefully monitoring the spider from the corners of his optics. It isn't that he's too surprised to see String-butt here since the place is made for the vertically challenged set, but that it's just plain weird to see the kooky arachnid playing coy. Doesn't smell right.
There'd better be some kinda decent payout. Rattrap hates being the bait.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Mar 9, 2010 17:32:48 GMT -5
Tarantulas continues watching Rattrap, signaling to the dealer for another couple of cards, which she slides him. As the spider picks up the cards and adds them to his fan, he kicks his leg out under the table, pushing out the chair across from himself.
The vermin is only flattering himself if he thinks he's the bait in some fiendish plot. He's just a snack to pass the time before the main course. Only metaphorically, of course (for the moment.) Tarantulas still owes the rat for the incident with Cheetor and the stasis web, after all.
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Jetstorm (BM)
Minor
Producer, Director, Actor, Writer, but not prop boy, Jetstorm, soon to be winner of some award.
Posts: 355
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Post by Jetstorm (BM) on Mar 10, 2010 1:44:23 GMT -5
Somebody has been fitting in well. Jetstorm floats along, wearing sleek black clothing, yes clothing that fits right in with the world that he's on. A dark fedora with a stripe of red that his small horns fit right through on the sides. A silk tie is settled on his chest and tucked under the front of the shirt. Shirt tails that should cover pants but obviously don't are just covering the back of his lower half, fluttering a bit in the motion of his flight. "Well well WELL what have we here? Ah, gambling, gambling, tossin' the money away. Have you gotten a good hand? Claw? What have you? It's how I got these lovely threads," Jetstorm pats a hand against his chest. He lowers his head a bit and raises one claw to push his fedora up a bit. "We meet again, Tarantulas," he says in a low tone, smirk in his optics. "Getting yourself into trouble again, I see." He drifts a bit closer to the spider's side and eyes the table before he takes a seat. "I'm in then," he says. Clothing: i42.tinypic.com/30m1f80.jpg Inspired by this. Not mine, I found it on the internet many a year a go.
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Rattrap
Major
Sarcasm as a Lifestyle
Posts: 695
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Post by Rattrap on Mar 11, 2010 14:29:20 GMT -5
The fiendish plot is his own; Rattrap, against his impeccable good judgement and sense, is sticking himself on the hook here, precious fluids and all. There's a reason Tarantulas is in the house and Rattrap knows it isn't the gaming. He just isn't sure what it is – business or… and he suppresses a shudder, but not the disgusted sneer at the thought… pleasure. At least the slot machine doesn't take offence to having faces pulled at it.
And the spider has a friend! Rattrap sighs to himself and slows his tour of the room. Give himself a little more time to re-think things. This is not the sort of threesome he'd have planned.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Mar 12, 2010 0:24:56 GMT -5
Tarantulas doesn't have friends. It comes with being psychotic. He does have allies, however, which is why he called this little meeting in the first place. He nods to the Vehicon general as he floats in and takes a seat, the dealer sliding two cards toward him. "Glad you could make it, Jetstorm." Broadcasting on the short-band he adds, //I take it you got my message? Do you know if anyone else is showing up? We need to talk tactics for how to combat the larger Autobots. We don't need a repeat of that debacle with Silverbolt. Incidentally, there's a Maximal named Rattrap here. Spy type, clever. Keep an optic peeled.// Out loud he just says "Nice threads."
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Mistwind
Major
Licensed flight addict, deepsea diving fan, mech-pilot rookie - Accepts food and play for services.
Posts: 531
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Post by Mistwind on Mar 12, 2010 11:13:42 GMT -5
A small Decepticon named Mistwind appears!
He's stopped at the door by one of the bar's bouncers, and can be seen spending a long time talking and pointing inside and motioning with the arms and shrugging. Eventually, the faded steelblue and sandybrown mech flashes what looks to be an ID-tag, on which the bouncer mumbles something and shakes his head again. The Decepticon responds swiftly, points again, passes remarks back and forth, and the features of the guard soften somewhat, though hardly noticeable.
About twenty minutes later since arrival, Mistwind delivers the final blow on his coercion with the gracefull presentation of an obscure little box, carefully sealed with a small metallic blue bird attached to the top. Now nodding understanding, the bouncer lets the 'courier' step inside the building.
Out of view, the 'package' disappears again. With a smirk, Mistwind looks about. He's glanced at, some of them curious and asking, some of them seemingly less innocent. But they are ignored; Mistwind spots Tarantulas and Jetstorm.
//[Shortband: Tarantulas] Tarantulas, this one is here for that meeting, let me know when it starts... I'll be looking around// He transmits. Indeed, he lets himself be absorbed into the crowd.
- Skippable-
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Jetstorm (BM)
Minor
Producer, Director, Actor, Writer, but not prop boy, Jetstorm, soon to be winner of some award.
Posts: 355
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Post by Jetstorm (BM) on Mar 12, 2010 23:02:15 GMT -5
//Not as far as I know,// Jetstorm leans back and taps a claw against the table. //Rattrap... Sounds familiar. Same name from something I know from back where I'm from as well as from logs here. I hate technogorganics.// He nods his head a bit down so the hat covers his optics better.
"Thanks," he responds out loud. He continues playing up the cards and relaxing.
//Kid's here.// He murmurs over shortrange upon seeing Mistwind out of the corner of his optics.
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Tarantulas
Minor
The not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man
Posts: 398
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Post by Tarantulas on Mar 17, 2010 0:18:50 GMT -5
Skipping Rattrap due to timeout
Tarantulas picks up Mistwind's transmission and turns his head so he can see the entrance out of the corner of his optic band. And there's the Decepticon emblem on some huge guy's arm. That'd be him, then. Responding on the short-band, he transmits, //If my wayward creation doesn't turn up soon, we'll go ahead and start without her.//
The spider produces some chips and slides them into the center of the table for his bid, staring daggers at Jetstorm when he professes his hatred for technorganics. Then he blinks. //The kid? You can't mean the guy who just walked in. . .// Tarantulas takes another look. The proportions are rather child-like. Consulting his history files . . . a Micromaster? Interesting. "Ante up."
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