Nothing On But the Radio

[Rattrap]

This is Rattrap. This is Rattrap carefully and wisely avoiding the Autobots' new buddies. Maybe his absence will get on somebody's nerves – if anybody happens to notice, and logically, someone will – but in all honesty, he can't make himself give a damn. The only thing worse than a stinking Pred is a stinking Decepticon, after all, and it doesn't matter how good they say they are, or how good they might be compared to those evil Autobots. They can all just pucker up and kiss his fuzzy butt if he thinks they deserve the opportunity.

Which they don't.

They're still 'Cons and he doesn't want anything to do with them if he can help it. He doesn't want to screw over everybody else, though, and Rattrap knows himself well enough to know he can't keep his mouth shut. Heck, he couldn't around Dinobot and that smelly, scale-faced traitor was a live-in. So it's totally and completely in the interests of this dandy little truce that Rattrap has turned his snout up at the lot of them and decided to be an antisocial cuss.

That's right, his sense of altruism isn't completely rotted away. Pick your jaws up off the floor; it's dirty and you don't know where it's been.

So while he's being an antisocial cuss a safe distance from the meeting grounds, having found an old tourist cantina where it's semi-private and, most importantly, there aren't any 'Cons, he's taking the time to futz around with his toys and run maintenance on his blaster. Busy work, that's all it is.

"Tsk. Didn't think I was dis low on supplies," he grumbles with his hands propped on his hips, taking a rundown of his stock and surveying everything he's laid out on the bartop. Not that it should be surprising after how much he's been using up everything, but it's annoying on principle alone. "It just figures. I nevah run out when I'm payin' attention. Oughtta raid Perceptor's cabinets." Sciencey types always have the best quality stuff. Okay, well, they usually have the best stuff.

That decided, he hits up the broadband – the Autobot broadband, because somebody else can be bothered to relay it to the 'Cons – first, then drops a line to Goldbug before he gets back to occupying himself recollecting everything he's pulled out. He gives the jukebox – a contraption like that can only be a jukebox no matter the language – a solid thump with one foot as he passes it. It lights up and squawks, then squeals, then screeches as long-unused circuitry and wiring surge back to life. The song that finally cues up is garbled and too slow at first before the jukebox's processors get back up to speed and the music reaches full volume, so loud that it makes his fur buzz on the high notes. It sounds like a fusion of honky tonk and metal and it shouldn't work, but it's good enough for Rattrap. Just familiar enough to be cosy, just alien enough to avoid nostalgia. Because the last thing he needs is to miss something else.

Sitting at the epicentre of the noise with his audio receptors ringing while he starts disassembling his blaster for cleaning means he can't hear the way the music carries along the street from the open doors, livening up this otherwise dead end of town….

[Midnight-3]

Mindful of the need not to reveal them all to any scouting Autobots or Other Decepticons, Midnight didn''t fly over with engines thundering. He walked, stalking on massive metal feet. Being well over twenty feet tall, and built from tons of metal, he didn't exactly sneak--he clanged. It was a slow, sinister 'clang... clang... clang...' growing steadily louder as Midnight stalked deliberately down the street, guns ready.

The sound was coming from that strange building over there, with the gaudy flash and trim. Midnight frowned, wondering what it was made of--it didn't have the shine of metal, nor the flimsy look of organic hulls--wood and plastic. It seemed almost like some sort of shaped sedimentary mineral formation.¹

His head turned sharply from side to side; all senses were on alert. Right, procedure--call it in before investigating or engaging.

On the Allied Broadband, Midnight-3 said, // Midnight here. Ah'm picking up some kinda audio code comin' from this here mineral building on the south edge a' town. Will investigate. //

Following that, the big, burly, dark blue and black jet-former quietly been down and peered in the front window, red optics glowing in his dark gray, black-cowled face.
---

¹ Midnight has never seen stucco (or fake stucco facade ) before

[Rattrap]

Atmosphere in here isn't so bad. The music could use some work, Rattrap decides with a discerning sniff while he slides the accelerator coil back into place, then jigs the cowling back on and hefts his blaster.

"Gotta say," he mutters as he lines up and aims at a painting on the wall; he guesses it's supposed to be some sort of octopus-squid thing, but he's no xenobiologist – or an art critic for that matter, so he'll just call the thing abstract for the sake of his own sanity. The eye makes a pretty convenient point for checking the alignment of his sights. "These folks know how to set up a bar, but they got no taste in drinkin' music." Aaand… perfect. He smirks and checks the alignment with his other optic just to identify with the audience a little better. "Heh! Good as evah," he pronounces smugly.

The front window, which he's been keeping in his peripheral field this whole time, goes dark, and he spins on his stool to look, blaster at the ready. Ready for plenty of things – a big critter or a doofy little robot, maybe even a babe with big… aerofoils. Not quite so much for a huge face staring back at him with beady red optics. He recoils, nearly pitching himself backwards over the bar, then recovers and rolls with it, dropping to the floor and rising just enough to peer over the bartop and aim; some cover's better than no cover.

//You inna window! You know the drill,// he snaps on Allied. //Name, and for your sake, it'd better be on dis line or I've got a seismic charge gumball just fer you.//

[Midnight-3]

Something moved; Midnight started to dismount his gun for better shooting in tight places when the radio call came through.

// Ah identified myself! Ah'm Midnight, weren't you listening? // Midnight snapped. // Ah think maybe you oughta identify yerself and explain about this here audio signal you're puttin' out! //

Red optics narrowed suspiciously and Midnight continued to dismount his gun and cradled it in one arm, much like a human with an assault rifle. If the mini-bot inside was a spy or traitor and deliberately signalling, chances were he'd take a shot at Midnight. Chances were very good that shot wouldn't do much, and Midnight would take out the traitor.

On the other hand, if the fellow was on the up and up, he'd have an explanation Real Soon Now.

[Rattrap]

Audio signal? Audio signal? Oh, for the love of Primus.

//Rattrap. And it's called music, ya nincompoop,// Rattrap drawls back, resisting the powerful urge to slap his forehead with his free hand. Midnight… one of those goody-two-shoes 'Cons who's been babbling on the radio. Great. //Since ya seem to be a little behind the eight ball, I'll give you a tip: I ain't telepathic.// Oh, Rattrap knows plenty, but even he isn't good enough to make the leap from Decepticon dunce on the radio to Joe Blow Seeker in the window without some kinda confirmation.

This Seeker stuff is enough to curl his whiskers. The bad bad guys have a bunch of 'em and the good bad guys have a bunch of 'em and Seekers all have the same slagging build type; Rattrap votes they start stamping hands so the kids don't get completely lost.

"What're you doin' down here anyway?" he demands, standing straight and propping his blaster against one shoulder. He had dibs on this dump and he's thinking of scratching out a "No 'Cons Allowed" sign to hang out front just to be a prick.

[Midnight-3]

The face at the window looked distinctly non-plussed.

"Music? That there audio is music? Ah've heard slag-bursts in the Pits thet sounded more like music than that!"

Give him some old-fashioned Cybertronian binary-pulse synth-beat any time; this cacophonous organic-based crap gave Midnight a headache. Creepy little organics gave him the creeps, too; rude half-organic Bots gave him the creeps and a headache.

"You're not only not telepathic, you're deaf. Ah heard that sound of yours clear down at the arena, which is why Ah'm here investigating." Midnight growled. "Ah come down here and find what seems like a hidden audio transmitter--though hell if Ah know why someone would use audio instead of radio. It shore ain't got the range, but it could have been a signal to someone local like."

"So why are you playing that loud crap you call music anyway? Tryin' to wake up the zombies or what?"

[Rattrap]

"It's da local stuff," Rattrap fires back, unruffled. "But I can't expect any o' you guys t' figure that out. That'd take payin' attention." He gives the matter a dismissive shrug; obviously Midnight can't help being an obtuse lightning rod. It comes with the crest.

Whiny, too. Wah, the music this and wah, the music that, audio signal boo-hoo. And here Rattrap's always heard the Decepticons were supposed to be the big bad guys. Tough soldiers and all that.

"When people are in a bar," in small words so they'll process better while he strolls lazily around the bar and makes his way back onto the open floor, "they listen to music. It's called 'atmosphere'." He slows, then finally stops right in front of the jukebox. Tingly. "Buuut if it's too much fer yer delicate audio receptors…." He makes a show of stretching his free arm out and leaves it hang there for a couple nano-kliks before he gives the side of the machine a solid whack. It squawks protest and the music dies without further fanfare. "There. All better?" he asks with nothing but insincerity.

[Midnight-3]

Midnight's optics narrowed. Wonderful; just the kind of smart-aft he always had to restrain himself from pounding into scrap-metal when they got assigned to his squad. Only this one was slightly smaller than a turbo-rat; Midnight would have to be careful not to step on the damn thing. Not matter how much it tempted him.

"Yer a real smart-aft, you know that? We had 'atmosphere' and real music at Maccadam's. This here native slag is just that... slag." He gave the little Maximal a stony glare through the window.

"Yeah, that's better. Now you ain't broadcasting yourself to everything with audials this side of Autobot city. Seriously. Were you Nice-Guy Bots so busy being nice y'all never learned basic security?" Midnight said. He sounded perhaps more annoyed than he intended; he was getting tired of stooping over and peering.

[Rattrap]

Oh, Rattrap knows. It's kinda the whole point of being such a smart-aft.

"Bravo, bucket-head, ya figured me out," he declares, "but for da record, around these parts? Slag's a big mean fire-breathin' dino." And Rattrap might be mistaken, but he's willing to lay odds the big fella's getting tired of folks taking his name in vain. The only reason he worries the spy more than Primus is because Slag shares living quarters. "And really, I'm touched dat you're worried about little old me, but I'm a big 'bot." The phrase doesn't work any other way, shut up. "I can load my own gun and everything. And I don't need no spooky 'Con glitchin' at me about security when he's the one lurkin' around out in the open."

Really. And it isn't like Rattrap's making him stay there. He's free to buzz off any old time he wants.

[Midnight-3]

"Ah ain't lurking, Ah'm checking you out!" Midnight retorted, straightening up. He folded his arms and scowled. He was the one maintaining security and this little glitch-mouse was calling him on it??

"And Ah know what the slag a slaggin' Dinobot Slag is! We got the glitches in my universe!" Midnight growled back. "Wouldn't call 'em mean, though. Laziest things on legs or wheels Ah ever heard tell of."

[Rattrap]

Clearly, Rattrap's wit is wasted on this mook. He's still on about being in the right when he's right there, in the open, wings all over the place and flashing his big purple badges. It's downright lewd. Never mind that he apparently doesn't know the right kind of Dinobots.

"I'm flattered," Rattrap says with a sneer, "but I'm tellin' ya, it'd nevah work out. You ain't exactly my type, and then there's dat whole weird Romeo and Juliet angle…." He wavers his free hand back and forth, shoulders hunched upward and inward. "It's all kinda… unsavoury, if ya get my drift." At this point, Rattrap will be surprised if he does. "And you just know these folks're gonna gossip."

[Midnight-3]

Midnight scowled in puzzlement, briefly--he wasn't Duskwing, just focussed on his job--then comprehension dawned.

"...." Clearly, his vocalizer just went on the fritz. Just as suddenly, it started functioning again.

"You WHAT? I never---"

Cue sounds of an agitated bomber-Con stomping rapidly back the way he came.

[Rattrap]

Rattrap's face splits into a maliciously gleeful grin and he chuckles as Midnight storms off in a huff. Oh, man, but he loves himself sometimes.

He ambles to the front of the bar and leans against the doorjamb so he can watch the Seeker flounce. It's such a heart-warming sight when they bug out because they can't take a little not-so-friendly teasing, and he gives Midnight's back a coquettish little wave.

"See ya later, soldier," he calls gaily, adding in a low mutter meant for his audio receptors only, "unless I see you first."

[Midnight-3]

Midnight did not hear Rattrap, fortunately, and did not lose control of his temper and blow the bar up--because he's a Decepticon and that means he's one of the Good Guys, where he comes from. That's not to say he didn't have to work hard to control his temper and not let it show. Some people have to work harder at being Good Guys^TM than others.

---
Out of thread...

[Rattrap]

Well. Now that that's settled, Rattrap can get back to amusing himself. He struts back into the bar, pausing so he can mash on the jukebox's keypad – it takes a few nano-kliks to get something else playing – before he takes a seat and leans back, propping his feet on the bar top and crossing his arms.

This whole alliance thing really sucks. If he wasn't a good guy….

"Ehh." He isn't exactly the best good guy anyway, but it works. The song winds to its end before he lets his chair drop back onto all three legs and he climbs to his feet. Not much else to do around here and the mood's gone sour thanks to Midnight, so Rattrap might as well find somewhere else to be. He leaves by way of the back door, though, and he's back to beast mode before the door shuts behind him.

---

OOC: Gone. Sorry about the delay.