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red_diode_district2011-11-14 01:01 am
cliffjumper) wrote in red_diode_district2011-11-14 01:01 am
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Cliffjumper: This whole situation was demeaning and insulting, really. He could take care of himself, he's not a protoform. And yet. Cliffjumper scowled, arms crossed, as he stared down the street, glowering at anyone else on the street in suspicion. No one came close, but whether that was due to the angry minibot or...
"Primus help me, if ya get the idea to pick me up an' run if somethin' happens, I don't care what they paid, I'm shootin' ya in that mask with the glass gas an then punchin' you," Cliffjumper growled, suprememly unhappy he had neither managed to convince anyone to allow him a normal gun in addition to the 'proper protection' glass gas gun, nor managed to swipe said normal gun himself.
Optimus: "...If it is required to save your life, then it will be done. Despite that risk." The bodyguard was well trained enough to keep his optics on their surroundings, gun at the ready, rather than the irate client. 'Client' being a loose term, as he clearly wasn't wanted.
...Not that it mattered. In this case, he wasn't getting paid to make himself wanted. He wasn't getting paid by the little red mini at all, even if he was the current recipient of his skills.
Which gave him a little leeway to snark, even as he scanned for the supposed threats.
"In fact, I believe fees for repairs to injuries caused by you were specifically mentioned in the contract. ...I can see why, now."
CJ: "Yeah, whatever. At least the other ones get guards they don't need to wear out their neck cables to talk to." Cliffjumper shifted his glare from the surroundings up at his Primus-damned bodyguard, the mech more than half again as tall as he was.
He wondered, briefly, if they amused themselves with finding the largest mechs they could, just to annoy him. Cliffjumper liked his size, thank you very much, but when someone took pleasure in matching you against the biggest they could find, it... got to you.
"The afts had it comin' to 'em. 'Sides, I don't see the reason for this... ah, slag it. This is stupid." With that decision, Cliffjumper marched out from the doorway they'd been standing in, heedless of any potential trouble... perhaps even aggressively not caring about it. Maybe not even considering that there would be trouble, and that was why his bodyguard was there. Among other things.
This had, also, been mentioned and included with an extra fee in the contract, since Cliffjumper tended to leap before he looked.
O: "I'm afraid my height is something I cannot alter much, while still being of any use." As a guard, anyway.
He followed without any visible signs of exasperation, only increased vigilance as they stepped into the open. Another issue he'd been warned about, indeed. It was enough to make him wonder if the mech was suicidally brave or just suicidal.
"Clearly they have reason enough, if they chose to hire me. Do you not fear the threats?"
CJ: Cliffjumper snorted, but didn't dispute it; if you weren't formatted for it, you weren't formatted for it. His bodyguard's height wasn't anything he really was annoyed at the truck-alt mech for.
It probably wasn't that he was either of those as simply... reckless. Of course, in this situation, that 'reckless' should probably be read as the other two possibilities.
"If I did, I'd slaggin' well have to stay inside a high-security room or whatever. I ain't gonna agree to that," Cliffjumper scoffed, once again, though, wish for a proper gun... or even a cannon. Why he wasn't 'allowed' any of those besides a potentially non-lethal weapon he just couldn't understand.
"What, if it were you, would you just have stayed put like a well-behaved protoform?" Cliffjumper frowned, eyeing the large gun his bodyguard was carrying with envy. It was all 'blah blah ransom this, blah valuable that, too precious blah blah blah' and slag that scrap.
O: "Hn. I supposed that would depend on why I was under threat in the first place." The guard shrugged, optics on the rooftops as his systems scanned the area for anyone taking an undue interest in his client.
He only knows the barest bit of info about the little mech, and why he needs protection. 'Need to know' basis and all that. He's curious, but he wont' ask.
CJ: "Uh. Bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time..." Cliffjumper shrugged, but in his opinion it hadn't been 'wrong place, wrong time' but right place and right time. Of course, being the protegé of a high ranking senator had given him access to said place and time, but even so, most others wouldn't have gone snooping.
But he hadn't liked the look of that 'Con senator. And he'd been right. And they called him paranoid.
"Callin' me 'badly diciplined', hah. Glitches. If I wasn't we wouldn't even know 'bout that---" he cuts himself off, almost apologetically. Firstly, out in public. Secondly, the boduguard may have to hang around like he's attached to Cliffjumper's plating for... however long this will take, but he's not supposed to know.
Some stupid slag about bribery risk and whatelse.
Cliffjumper, while usually attentive and somewhat used to being a target, still wasn't paying attention where he wandered along the edge of the pavement to the road, and thus wasn't seeing the approaching sports car. Which was driving way too close to said pavement.
O: He merely blinks at the sudden silence, before nodding mostly to himself in quiet understanding.
He doesn't want to know, more than likely. Or then he'd need a bodyguard, and well...
Senators didn't usually pay for expensive bodyguards to protect those of such...diverse skill-sets, like himself. Expensive or not, he was considered expendable.
So he doesn't ask. And instead focuses on all movement and motion nearby, which definitely includes traffic. Hmm... Choosing to be safe, he deftly slips in on Cliffjumper's side closest to the road.
CJ: There's an annoyed noise when the guard slips between him and the road, but Cliffjumper has had enough bodyguards (especially lately) to do no more than cast a glare up at the mech... and thus catch sight of the sports car who only veers away from the pavement-edge side of the road at the last possible second, maybe hoping for the large mech to just move out of the way.
Cliffjumper stares, glaring after whoever-it-was, and then vents a sigh. Okay, maybe he should be more careful. But the area's not too bad it's in the middle of the slagging day... he didn't really think anyone would try anything, even something as 'subtle' as attempting to run him over a bit, and/or snatch him.
"Rrr... Okay. Whatever," Cliffjumper mutters, and moves in closer to the building-side of the pavement. "So, since ya might be stuck with me for a while... What's your designation? An' what do ya do when you don't get stuck followin' overly tempramental mechs around?" the grin accompanying those last words are sharp; Cliffjumper knows what people think of his attitude, but while he's... almost apologizing here, that's all.
O: Optimus watches the car-mech speed off, noting the colors and frame type for record. It could have been a bad driver. It was in the middle of the day, yes. But he hadn't worked the bodyguard detail for so long without catching on to the fact that 'could haves' and 'maybes' generally weren't worth the risk.
It wasn't paranoia when someone actually was out to get his clients, after all.
He turned back to the other mech, lifting an optic ridge at the comment. At least the grumpy little mini was beginning to get amusing.
"...Optimus. And I just tend to follow less temperamental mechs around, that's all."
No reason to mention the other, varied details of his services.
CJ: Well, even grumpy little mechs deprived of the weapons they want to use and in need of protection could be somewhat personable, right? Cliffjumper still, despite the maybe-obvious attempt of some sort doesn't like or want to have to be all careful. It just isn't in him to think of things like that, or take them into consideration.
"Huh. That gotta suck, or is the pay really that good to make up for it?" This sort of gig really must be frustrating, but then again... Optimus had kind of chosen the job in general, right? At least he could carry any slagging weapons he wished without getting censured and told "no, that's not proper" or what-the-slag-ever.
He may be eyeing his bodyguard's brandished weapon with some envy as he grumbles about the unfairness of it, even though what he actually wants is to try out one of those large cannons.
O: "Hn. It can. The pay makes up for a lot, though." It has to. 'Escorts' can only hold so many certain jobs, after all. There are certainly worse things to be doing.
He does note the gun-envy with some amusement, though, and moves the weapon closer pointedly.
"Ion blaster. It should be sufficient, should things get...messy."
CJ: It's probably a testament to Cliffjumper's relative naivéte that he assumes there's more choice in Optimus' position than it is... But then, since what he remembers is being picked up off the street by the same senator that is, and has been since then, his patron, and he's never noticed any strange reactions around this, one could, perhaps, forgive the innocense.
"... that was three vorns ago," Cliffjumper's mutter is quiet enough it's obvious it's not meant to be heard, but since they're walking as close to each other as they are... But that little incident was quite (in)famous, of Cliffjumper just ripping the gun out of his bodyguard's hands to take a few shots of his own (that was when he was given the glass gas gun).
"What else do ya got?" Shrugging off his earlier mood, Cliffjumper grins lopsidedly up at Optimus, clearly curious and eager to know... and the heightened glow of his optics could be taken for a less innocent interest, considering his words.
O: "What was?" He wonders, shrugging and tilting his head. He gestures to his own forearms before giving the area another visual sweep. Well, why not. If the client wants to know what his capabilities are, there's certainly no reason no to say.
"Small-round, low burst cannons. ...Energon blades for close range combat, if I must."
CJ:"There was a... situation." Cliffjumper waves one hand vaguely as he speaks, not really paying attention to the slowly growing crowds. It is, however, the wrong time of day for a natural congestion of people to be happening in this part of the city, as they have, by now, turned onto the large multi-levelled avenue leading up to Iacon's High Council Pavilions and the Forum of Enlightment... Which usually didn't have a large collection of 'regular' people moving slowly but determindedly closer.
"An' I kinda plucked th' gun the bodyguard had," Cliffjumper finally admits with a shrug, not really sounding sorry about it. It may also have been this incident that led to all bodyguards he's had since be taller and stronger than he is. The two of them have now been forced into single file by the growing amount of people, some of them who are doing rather obvious... and muttering, double-takes of the minibot.
"Huh... Well-armed. Ya always carry that much, or this a special occasion?" Cliffjumper merely sounds amused, not as if he's arrogantly expecting that he should be the cause of all those armaments.
O: "...ah. Well. Don't do that. Really." He almost laughs - he might have if it wasn't for the growing crowd. He quickly shifts gears, pressing closer to Cliffjumper, resting a hand on his backstrut to guide him.
"...Stay close." His gun rose to a ready position.
CJ: At least his new bodyguard sees the humour in that situation; most others had been summarily unimpressed, stonily silent or saying something about badly integrated defense/offense routines (where they thought he couldn't hear). He'd always ignored that.
"Yeah, well, why do ya think you're---huh?" Cliffjumper's amusement is derailed first into brief confusion, and then a scowl as that hand comes to rest at the bottom swell of his back-kibble and the backstrut just under it. He is not incompentent and can walk alone thank you very much. But Cliffjumper's used to such behavious by now, and doesn't protest more than by an irritable rev of his engine.
"... Shouldn't be this many people 'round here at this time," Cliffjumper mutters, Optimus' actions actually having had him look around and pay attention. Somewhere far to the front of the crowd, a chant starts up, and by now it's not just the closest passing people that's sending narrow stares at the minibot, though his bodyguard garners slide-over nervous looks.
No one is, yet, antsy enough to do anything... rash.
O: "...We need to move. Come, quickly," he mutters quietly, keeping his optics on those protesters closest to them as he looks for the thinnest part of the crowd. They need to get out of there. Discontentment with the council and elite being what it was, a discontent crowd could easily become a mob.
CJ: "Where, though?" Cliffjumper frowns, tilting his head up and back to cast a glance at Optimus, gesturing slightly at the crowd; where there might have been open spots and slightly less mechs before, seemingly in answer to Optimus' need for the crowd thinning out, there's no longer any such spots.
"Ya wouldn't even be able to transform right now... Me either, for that matter, unless ya want to crush someone," he points out, and then jerks as someone just off to the side glares at him, before turning away and echoes said threat of crushing... but what they're referring to, is harder to tell.
Especially as a wave of muttered unease flows through the crowd around them; there's been reports of the protestors having set up their own encrypted channels, but comminucations haven't been shut down. It's as much a show of faith as it's an attempt to keep tensions low, really.
O: He only pauses for a moment, before tightening his grip on Cliffjumper's back. There is no way he will allow the crowd - or Cliffjumper himself - to separate them in this mess.
"This way. Stay close."
He's going for the thinnest part of the crowd to their left, with the as-of-yet unblocked alleys behind the growing mob. And he's going to shoulder his way through them whether they like it or not.
CJ: Cliffjumper would probably, by dint of being smaller and having good reflexes, along with an optic for opportunities, managed to separate them the moment Optimus pointed out where he wanted to go (Cliffjumper had been keeping a rather awkwardly tilted look back at his bodyguard for this). The grip then serves its purpose of both keeping them together and allowing the bodyguard to guide his client where he wants him to go.
To Cliffjumper's displeasure.
"Stayin' close ain't a problem... specially not with that grip," the last part is muttered, almost sullenly, even if he understands the reason for it, and doesn't do anything to even attempt to dislodge it. At the same time, the crowd is more than displeased at being pushed aside roughly, elbow or shoulder going in various places.
Some just glare, other protest loudly, but each, by now obviously a protestor, being pushed aside leads to notice of what Optimus is pushing in front of him.
"Hey, you!" Someone who just got pushed aside calls out, righted by one of their fellow protestors. "Y'don't need t'guard one of them y'know? Could just---" Whoever they were disappears further into the crowd, but by now Optimus' and Cliffjumper's progress is halted, not far at all from the alleys, as the slowly firing-up mob heaves and there's a roar of rage from somewhere further up front.
"Uh... this ain't good, huh..." Cliffjumper trails off with a frown before he's jerked and only Optimus' grip keeps him from being pulled into the crowd. This apparently doesn't dissuade whoever has his wrist from pointing a gun at his helm, grinning.
O: As soon as the gun comes up - as soon as he even registers the fact that the other mech is carrying a weapon, Optimus is in motion, hardened bodyguard programming snapping online so fast he doesn't even have time to berate himself for not paying closer attention.
In a flurry of movement, he jerks hard at Cliffjumper's backstrut, twisting his charge to angle him away from the barrel even as he swiftly moves to shove his own bulk between the minibot and the stranger. The shot intended for Cliffjumper's processor burns instead through the upper level of plating on his arm and continues on into the crowd, and someone screams, but he doesn't even feel it yet. His gun arm comes up in the same motion, and for a nanoclick it looks as though he might fire - but that would only cause a frenzy in the crowd, the protector of the noble 'firing on innocents', and so instead he uses it as a lever, jamming it against the attacker's shoulder joint, twisting his own arm just so...
There is a pop, and a scream, and suddenly the mech's elbow joint is turned completely the wrong direction, his grip on Cliffjumper's arm is gone, and his the pistol is clattering to the ground.
"Run!" He bellows into Cliffjumper's audials, not even waiting for an answer before he jerks the smaller mech off his feet, hauling him through a crowd already reaching for them both.
CJ: It's obvious who of them is both used to acting quickly, and has combat programming, besides the fact that for a glass gas gun to be useful, you at least got to have both hands free (or the leverage) to follow through with a punch or something. Cliffjumper's barely registered the gun before he's pulled away, the arm (however briefly) still gripped by his would-be assailant stretched out rather uncomfortably.
But there's no time to think about that as he kicks after a few others in the crowd, but they don't have the time to grip onto a flailing pede to attempt to pull him away; Optimus bellows, leaving his audials ringing before they readjust, and then sets off into the crowd.
"Slaggin'--- This ain't gonna work!" Cliffjumper shouts as he does his best to stay on his feet, not so much because his bodyguard is faster than he is on his feet (which he obviously would be), but because he's barreling forward through the now very angry crowd, the closest all fully aware of what's happened, with all the - heh - subtelty and force of a truck.
Now, the mob isn't interested in being careful around the large bodyguard and his shorter charge, or avoiding them; several attempt to trip Optimus, or use more blunt weapons, but there's, by now, a few more guns flashing in the streetlights, and while they're getting closer to the alleys, it's hard to say if getting there will help.
"Hey-- Let go!" Cliffjumper snarls, pulling the trigger once of his gun before it's ripped away, and even as he kicks out and meet metal more brittle than it was just a few astroseconds earlier, someone takes the opportunity as Optimus charges past to slam down the butt of a gun against the minibot's helm, causing him to stumble, momentarily stunned.
O: Optimus snarls, dodging blows when he can, stomping down with heavy, grated pedes on joints and delicate servos when he can't, and all the while barreling down with all his weight to keep breaking through the crowd despite the raining blows.
But even he can be blindsided, and the hit to Cliffjumper's helm is noticed a moment too late. Snarling, he spins on a heel, slamming the barrel of his gun into the attacker's face, and hauling the stunned minibot up and under his arm, tucking him protectively against his chest.
Then he hunches down, and charges, engine roaring as he plows through the crowd like the truck he is. He aims for the lighter, weaker mechs all the same, bodily tossing them out of the way when he can. Often, blows meant for him land on those flying over his shoulders, which makes it worth it.
CJ: In all probability it's possibly both better and easier for them with Cliffjumper being where he is, now, but when the brief disorientation of a recalibrating processor is over, he's rather... well, not so much unhappy, as feeling awkward, even if there's not much time for that.
Gripping what he can just to feel a bit more active as Optimus charges through the last rows close to the alley, Cliffjumper has to admit to some admiration of the heavy-duty engine working beneath the chassis he's held against... Casting a glance over his shoulder - mostly to see when he could demand to be let down - the minibot sort of sputters static when they're through, the last congestion of the mob, even if the nearest mechs are intent on following them into the alley anyway.
A bit into the alley stands about another ten or twenty mechs and femmes, much more heavily armed than anyone in the mob, whispering. Cliffjumper has time to wonder if the mob was as random as it seemed, what with this group---
"Get rid of th' slaggin' noble an' the sellout!" Someone bellows from behind Optimus and Cliffjumper, a piece of broken metal going flying past the bodyguard's audial fin.
O: "...Scrap."
The swear is muttered, not meant for Cliffjumper's audials, but he doesn't pause or hesitate. Mob to their back, armed forces to the front...they have no choice but to go through. The others haven't fired on them yet, they might have a chance - and the second floor windows of the alley's buildings are just by them.
If they can just get to them...
Keeping his path irregular to prevent anyone from getting a good line of sight on them, he charges on into the alley, hunched over to keep as much of Cliffjumper's frame protected.
CJ: Weapons are cocked, and some of the group do attempt a few shots, but with Optimus' irregular path and a number of people spilling into the alley from the mob on the avenue, most don't chance shooting what is probably some of their own people. One or two, however, take to riddling the ground with laserfire, attempting to both impede and slow the bodyguard down, so he'll be easier to hit.
This is such slag. The mutter, even if not meant for him, has Cliffjumper both tensing and almost attempting to squirm out of the protective grip and go for the gun still clutched in Optimus' hand, just so he could do something. But moving may mess up Optimus' balance, so with a few muttered swears, Cliffjumper stills even as they're closing in on the group.
"Going the wrong way, escort. Shoulda kept to the other part of your profession!" One of the larger ones shout before they launch themselves bodily at the bodyguard, a smaller, handheld weapon in one hand... not a gun, exactly, and it has four fuel cells instead of the usual one or two.
O: Oh.
Oh but now he's getting slagged off.
And the situation has gotten far too dangerous to restrain himself any further. One look at that overpowered weapon is all he needs - finally raising his gun, he targets the other weapon and fires.
If the other mech ends up loosing a hand or arm, well...he shouldn't have been trying to kill them.
As soon as he fires, he doesn't bother to confirm the hit, just dodging to the side from the inevitable explosion, and leaping for the second floor windows.
CJ: The group on the ground are all yelling and either flinging themselves away, or crouching down, depending on how close they are to the mech Optimus shot at.
There's a static-laced shriek which is cut off and swallowed as the fuel cells explode and the mech slams into the ground, tumbles, and then finally skids to a stop; the arm is completely gone, several other plates have been warped, cracked or partly-melted, and the side of his helm on the same side as he'd held the weapon in is kind of a mess.
He'll survive, though.
Cliffjumper's not sure if he should wish to be in a spot where he can see more, but would be less protected, even as his bodyguard leaps and there's a jerk as he grips onto the windowsill of a window, and then a rather gentle crunch as they meet the wall of the building.
"Can ya even climb with me in this position?" Cliffjumper hisses and despite the fact that there's scattered shots being aimed at them, he's already on the way to squirm out from between Optimus and the wall, to climb himself.
O: "Only if you hold on," he growls back. That explosion won't distract them for long, and his back is completely exposed.
Swinging his gun arm, he smashes the barrel of the weapon through the window, sending glass raining down on them and their attackers both. The gun is tossed through the now open space, and Optimus grabs hold of Cliffjumper to keep himself between the minibot and the mob. There is a muffled clang as a heavy piece of still-hot shrapnel hits his shoulder armor and bounces away. It hurts, but he's more worried about the guns. With a grunt, he heaves himself and his charge up through the window as shots begin to ring out.
CJ: ... Well, that was probably true, so Cliffjumper freezes in place right before Optimus actually grabs onto him again to make sure he's between him and the people on the ground. He supposes he's way too impatient for these sort of things, but he hates just kinda... hanging there. Literally, in the case of his current bodyguard hauling him around. Not that Optimus couldn't haul around most other frame-types, but still.
So despite the fact that he wants to do something, Cliffjumper - kind of - accepts that trying to 'help' will just make Optimus' work harder, and he kind of... likes this bodyguard.
When they're inside, Cliffjumper stays where he should be, actually waiting for Optimus to decide what to do next. At least the building, in the area they're in is empty.
"So, uh... what'd we do now?"
O: He rolls inside with an overclocked engine rumble, away from the window, and gestures for Cliffjumper to stay back as well as he scans the building they ended up inside. Office building. Empty. Good.
"...We get back. Make sure no one else gets up here. And find a way out."
He hisses quietly as he moves to sit up. Despite the dark of the room, the glow of spilt energon is slowly lighting the place up.
He's obviously been shot.
CJ: Cliffjumper frowns up at the broken window they came through and while no one seems to be immediately following, he doesn't trust that at all, but his question gets quietly requeued as he looks back to the bodyguard and catches the slowly growing line of dripping, glowing pinkish-purple.
"Uh... slag. You got anythin' for this? I have have something, otherwise, but it probably ain't gonna be enough." Shuffling around to the side the wound is, it takes about a few seconds of waffling before he gently pokes it, then wipes away the energon to get a better look; he's been clinging to the mech for a bit now, and it's not as he hasn't ended up body checked or otherwise manhandled by bodyguards before, but usually... he'd never actually been alone with one of them like this, injured.
Usually they could, and did, go to get the injuries fixed and he'd never have to think about it.
"What's the chance they're gonna come crawlin' through that window, or followin' us at all?" This isn't an orchestrated assassination or kidnapping attempt, after all, 'just' an anrgy mob, and Cliffjumper doesn't really have any experience with those.
O: He shifts over, craning his neck to get a look at the blast wound on the outer side of his thigh. The location is awkward - it figures he'd finally get hit while climbing in the damn window.
The poke makes him twitch, leg servos firing in pain, but he avoids crying out. At least he should still be able to walk.
"...If they don't come up through the window, they'll come up through the building. Or try to burn us out. We need to move." Growling, he digs through his own subspace, before tossing a small field path kit at Cliffjumper.
"Just stop the leakage. We don't have time for anything else." He'd do it himself, but can barely see it at that angle... and he has to pick up his rifle as the sounds from outside pick up again. The mob is getting over the confusion from the explosion, and someone's flailing fist peeks over the edge of the window ledge.
He shoots it off.
CJ: He catches it, then kneels down, briefly distracted, however, when Optimus shoots the fist off the window ledge. Bossy, isn't he?
"Uh-huh..." While bodyguards obviously have the jursidiction, so to speak, to make or demand their clients... or charges, do what they say when they're doing their job in an active situation, it's still kind of a strange experience. Not that he's going to go off on the mech; he's doing his job, and even Cliffjumper can see the location of the wound is in a bad place (though he is acquintained with one or two mechs and femmes who wouldn't care to help their guards like this).
"They're really gonna do that? I mean... you've already kinda shown this's more trouble than it ought to be worth, right? I ain't that special," Cliffjumper scoffs as he patches the wound up, his expression as annoyed as it's disbelieveing; despite the reason for Optimus' precense, Cliffjumper doesn't really consider himself important... naïveity or an accurate opinion?
He gives the patch-job a frown and then shrugs, but in his opinion the metal mesh bandage doesn't really look enough, or sturdy enough... though anything else would probably break and open with any greater acrobatics or whatever. There is, however, besides the scrabbling attempt to get into the window, the distant noise of rage and heavy footspets.
"Slag. I think you're right."
O: "...I hate it when I'm right." He groans, forcing himself back up to his feet. The wound is small, and with his size he won't bleed out any time soon, but the patch doesn't change that it hurts and it's going to effect his movement. As the newest oncoming mech clears the window, he grabs at the nearest bit off office furniture - a heavy chair - and sends it flying at the attacker. It hits with a crunch, and sends the mech flying back down the way he came.
"Because we've made them angry. Mobs are never rational. Come on," he turns to Cliffjumper, gesturing him toward the door as he turns on his nightvision. "We need to move before they get up here. Up the stairs, to the top floor!"
CJ: "What? Up the stairs? The roof? Last time I checked, neither of us're any sort of flyers, less ya hidin' some flight mods somewhere!" Cliffjumper protests, gesturing in emphasis, even as he gives Optimus another look. He can't see any proof of tucked away flight mods at all, though; his bodyguard's all... truck, and while it's a nice sight, that doesn't refute the fact that neither of them can fly.
It has him incredulous enough that he turns towards the door on the other side of the room that'd probably lead down instead of up, but the faint noise of footsteps have become slightly louder, and he growls. They can't go down, unless they find elevators...
"Okay, okay, whatever. Hope ya have some sorta plan, though," he snaps before turning towards the door Optimus wanted them to go through and actually starts running towards it, turning on his own nightvision with another growl. He isn't exactly afraid of heights; he even has a jetpack, but he doesn't have it with him, which means it's useless, so why the slag are they going up?
They'll be just as trapped, if not more, on the roof.
"Primus help me, if ya get the idea to pick me up an' run if somethin' happens, I don't care what they paid, I'm shootin' ya in that mask with the glass gas an then punchin' you," Cliffjumper growled, suprememly unhappy he had neither managed to convince anyone to allow him a normal gun in addition to the 'proper protection' glass gas gun, nor managed to swipe said normal gun himself.
Optimus: "...If it is required to save your life, then it will be done. Despite that risk." The bodyguard was well trained enough to keep his optics on their surroundings, gun at the ready, rather than the irate client. 'Client' being a loose term, as he clearly wasn't wanted.
...Not that it mattered. In this case, he wasn't getting paid to make himself wanted. He wasn't getting paid by the little red mini at all, even if he was the current recipient of his skills.
Which gave him a little leeway to snark, even as he scanned for the supposed threats.
"In fact, I believe fees for repairs to injuries caused by you were specifically mentioned in the contract. ...I can see why, now."
CJ: "Yeah, whatever. At least the other ones get guards they don't need to wear out their neck cables to talk to." Cliffjumper shifted his glare from the surroundings up at his Primus-damned bodyguard, the mech more than half again as tall as he was.
He wondered, briefly, if they amused themselves with finding the largest mechs they could, just to annoy him. Cliffjumper liked his size, thank you very much, but when someone took pleasure in matching you against the biggest they could find, it... got to you.
"The afts had it comin' to 'em. 'Sides, I don't see the reason for this... ah, slag it. This is stupid." With that decision, Cliffjumper marched out from the doorway they'd been standing in, heedless of any potential trouble... perhaps even aggressively not caring about it. Maybe not even considering that there would be trouble, and that was why his bodyguard was there. Among other things.
This had, also, been mentioned and included with an extra fee in the contract, since Cliffjumper tended to leap before he looked.
O: "I'm afraid my height is something I cannot alter much, while still being of any use." As a guard, anyway.
He followed without any visible signs of exasperation, only increased vigilance as they stepped into the open. Another issue he'd been warned about, indeed. It was enough to make him wonder if the mech was suicidally brave or just suicidal.
"Clearly they have reason enough, if they chose to hire me. Do you not fear the threats?"
CJ: Cliffjumper snorted, but didn't dispute it; if you weren't formatted for it, you weren't formatted for it. His bodyguard's height wasn't anything he really was annoyed at the truck-alt mech for.
It probably wasn't that he was either of those as simply... reckless. Of course, in this situation, that 'reckless' should probably be read as the other two possibilities.
"If I did, I'd slaggin' well have to stay inside a high-security room or whatever. I ain't gonna agree to that," Cliffjumper scoffed, once again, though, wish for a proper gun... or even a cannon. Why he wasn't 'allowed' any of those besides a potentially non-lethal weapon he just couldn't understand.
"What, if it were you, would you just have stayed put like a well-behaved protoform?" Cliffjumper frowned, eyeing the large gun his bodyguard was carrying with envy. It was all 'blah blah ransom this, blah valuable that, too precious blah blah blah' and slag that scrap.
O: "Hn. I supposed that would depend on why I was under threat in the first place." The guard shrugged, optics on the rooftops as his systems scanned the area for anyone taking an undue interest in his client.
He only knows the barest bit of info about the little mech, and why he needs protection. 'Need to know' basis and all that. He's curious, but he wont' ask.
CJ: "Uh. Bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time..." Cliffjumper shrugged, but in his opinion it hadn't been 'wrong place, wrong time' but right place and right time. Of course, being the protegé of a high ranking senator had given him access to said place and time, but even so, most others wouldn't have gone snooping.
But he hadn't liked the look of that 'Con senator. And he'd been right. And they called him paranoid.
"Callin' me 'badly diciplined', hah. Glitches. If I wasn't we wouldn't even know 'bout that---" he cuts himself off, almost apologetically. Firstly, out in public. Secondly, the boduguard may have to hang around like he's attached to Cliffjumper's plating for... however long this will take, but he's not supposed to know.
Some stupid slag about bribery risk and whatelse.
Cliffjumper, while usually attentive and somewhat used to being a target, still wasn't paying attention where he wandered along the edge of the pavement to the road, and thus wasn't seeing the approaching sports car. Which was driving way too close to said pavement.
O: He merely blinks at the sudden silence, before nodding mostly to himself in quiet understanding.
He doesn't want to know, more than likely. Or then he'd need a bodyguard, and well...
Senators didn't usually pay for expensive bodyguards to protect those of such...diverse skill-sets, like himself. Expensive or not, he was considered expendable.
So he doesn't ask. And instead focuses on all movement and motion nearby, which definitely includes traffic. Hmm... Choosing to be safe, he deftly slips in on Cliffjumper's side closest to the road.
CJ: There's an annoyed noise when the guard slips between him and the road, but Cliffjumper has had enough bodyguards (especially lately) to do no more than cast a glare up at the mech... and thus catch sight of the sports car who only veers away from the pavement-edge side of the road at the last possible second, maybe hoping for the large mech to just move out of the way.
Cliffjumper stares, glaring after whoever-it-was, and then vents a sigh. Okay, maybe he should be more careful. But the area's not too bad it's in the middle of the slagging day... he didn't really think anyone would try anything, even something as 'subtle' as attempting to run him over a bit, and/or snatch him.
"Rrr... Okay. Whatever," Cliffjumper mutters, and moves in closer to the building-side of the pavement. "So, since ya might be stuck with me for a while... What's your designation? An' what do ya do when you don't get stuck followin' overly tempramental mechs around?" the grin accompanying those last words are sharp; Cliffjumper knows what people think of his attitude, but while he's... almost apologizing here, that's all.
O: Optimus watches the car-mech speed off, noting the colors and frame type for record. It could have been a bad driver. It was in the middle of the day, yes. But he hadn't worked the bodyguard detail for so long without catching on to the fact that 'could haves' and 'maybes' generally weren't worth the risk.
It wasn't paranoia when someone actually was out to get his clients, after all.
He turned back to the other mech, lifting an optic ridge at the comment. At least the grumpy little mini was beginning to get amusing.
"...Optimus. And I just tend to follow less temperamental mechs around, that's all."
No reason to mention the other, varied details of his services.
CJ: Well, even grumpy little mechs deprived of the weapons they want to use and in need of protection could be somewhat personable, right? Cliffjumper still, despite the maybe-obvious attempt of some sort doesn't like or want to have to be all careful. It just isn't in him to think of things like that, or take them into consideration.
"Huh. That gotta suck, or is the pay really that good to make up for it?" This sort of gig really must be frustrating, but then again... Optimus had kind of chosen the job in general, right? At least he could carry any slagging weapons he wished without getting censured and told "no, that's not proper" or what-the-slag-ever.
He may be eyeing his bodyguard's brandished weapon with some envy as he grumbles about the unfairness of it, even though what he actually wants is to try out one of those large cannons.
O: "Hn. It can. The pay makes up for a lot, though." It has to. 'Escorts' can only hold so many certain jobs, after all. There are certainly worse things to be doing.
He does note the gun-envy with some amusement, though, and moves the weapon closer pointedly.
"Ion blaster. It should be sufficient, should things get...messy."
CJ: It's probably a testament to Cliffjumper's relative naivéte that he assumes there's more choice in Optimus' position than it is... But then, since what he remembers is being picked up off the street by the same senator that is, and has been since then, his patron, and he's never noticed any strange reactions around this, one could, perhaps, forgive the innocense.
"... that was three vorns ago," Cliffjumper's mutter is quiet enough it's obvious it's not meant to be heard, but since they're walking as close to each other as they are... But that little incident was quite (in)famous, of Cliffjumper just ripping the gun out of his bodyguard's hands to take a few shots of his own (that was when he was given the glass gas gun).
"What else do ya got?" Shrugging off his earlier mood, Cliffjumper grins lopsidedly up at Optimus, clearly curious and eager to know... and the heightened glow of his optics could be taken for a less innocent interest, considering his words.
O: "What was?" He wonders, shrugging and tilting his head. He gestures to his own forearms before giving the area another visual sweep. Well, why not. If the client wants to know what his capabilities are, there's certainly no reason no to say.
"Small-round, low burst cannons. ...Energon blades for close range combat, if I must."
CJ:"There was a... situation." Cliffjumper waves one hand vaguely as he speaks, not really paying attention to the slowly growing crowds. It is, however, the wrong time of day for a natural congestion of people to be happening in this part of the city, as they have, by now, turned onto the large multi-levelled avenue leading up to Iacon's High Council Pavilions and the Forum of Enlightment... Which usually didn't have a large collection of 'regular' people moving slowly but determindedly closer.
"An' I kinda plucked th' gun the bodyguard had," Cliffjumper finally admits with a shrug, not really sounding sorry about it. It may also have been this incident that led to all bodyguards he's had since be taller and stronger than he is. The two of them have now been forced into single file by the growing amount of people, some of them who are doing rather obvious... and muttering, double-takes of the minibot.
"Huh... Well-armed. Ya always carry that much, or this a special occasion?" Cliffjumper merely sounds amused, not as if he's arrogantly expecting that he should be the cause of all those armaments.
O: "...ah. Well. Don't do that. Really." He almost laughs - he might have if it wasn't for the growing crowd. He quickly shifts gears, pressing closer to Cliffjumper, resting a hand on his backstrut to guide him.
"...Stay close." His gun rose to a ready position.
CJ: At least his new bodyguard sees the humour in that situation; most others had been summarily unimpressed, stonily silent or saying something about badly integrated defense/offense routines (where they thought he couldn't hear). He'd always ignored that.
"Yeah, well, why do ya think you're---huh?" Cliffjumper's amusement is derailed first into brief confusion, and then a scowl as that hand comes to rest at the bottom swell of his back-kibble and the backstrut just under it. He is not incompentent and can walk alone thank you very much. But Cliffjumper's used to such behavious by now, and doesn't protest more than by an irritable rev of his engine.
"... Shouldn't be this many people 'round here at this time," Cliffjumper mutters, Optimus' actions actually having had him look around and pay attention. Somewhere far to the front of the crowd, a chant starts up, and by now it's not just the closest passing people that's sending narrow stares at the minibot, though his bodyguard garners slide-over nervous looks.
No one is, yet, antsy enough to do anything... rash.
O: "...We need to move. Come, quickly," he mutters quietly, keeping his optics on those protesters closest to them as he looks for the thinnest part of the crowd. They need to get out of there. Discontentment with the council and elite being what it was, a discontent crowd could easily become a mob.
CJ: "Where, though?" Cliffjumper frowns, tilting his head up and back to cast a glance at Optimus, gesturing slightly at the crowd; where there might have been open spots and slightly less mechs before, seemingly in answer to Optimus' need for the crowd thinning out, there's no longer any such spots.
"Ya wouldn't even be able to transform right now... Me either, for that matter, unless ya want to crush someone," he points out, and then jerks as someone just off to the side glares at him, before turning away and echoes said threat of crushing... but what they're referring to, is harder to tell.
Especially as a wave of muttered unease flows through the crowd around them; there's been reports of the protestors having set up their own encrypted channels, but comminucations haven't been shut down. It's as much a show of faith as it's an attempt to keep tensions low, really.
O: He only pauses for a moment, before tightening his grip on Cliffjumper's back. There is no way he will allow the crowd - or Cliffjumper himself - to separate them in this mess.
"This way. Stay close."
He's going for the thinnest part of the crowd to their left, with the as-of-yet unblocked alleys behind the growing mob. And he's going to shoulder his way through them whether they like it or not.
CJ: Cliffjumper would probably, by dint of being smaller and having good reflexes, along with an optic for opportunities, managed to separate them the moment Optimus pointed out where he wanted to go (Cliffjumper had been keeping a rather awkwardly tilted look back at his bodyguard for this). The grip then serves its purpose of both keeping them together and allowing the bodyguard to guide his client where he wants him to go.
To Cliffjumper's displeasure.
"Stayin' close ain't a problem... specially not with that grip," the last part is muttered, almost sullenly, even if he understands the reason for it, and doesn't do anything to even attempt to dislodge it. At the same time, the crowd is more than displeased at being pushed aside roughly, elbow or shoulder going in various places.
Some just glare, other protest loudly, but each, by now obviously a protestor, being pushed aside leads to notice of what Optimus is pushing in front of him.
"Hey, you!" Someone who just got pushed aside calls out, righted by one of their fellow protestors. "Y'don't need t'guard one of them y'know? Could just---" Whoever they were disappears further into the crowd, but by now Optimus' and Cliffjumper's progress is halted, not far at all from the alleys, as the slowly firing-up mob heaves and there's a roar of rage from somewhere further up front.
"Uh... this ain't good, huh..." Cliffjumper trails off with a frown before he's jerked and only Optimus' grip keeps him from being pulled into the crowd. This apparently doesn't dissuade whoever has his wrist from pointing a gun at his helm, grinning.
O: As soon as the gun comes up - as soon as he even registers the fact that the other mech is carrying a weapon, Optimus is in motion, hardened bodyguard programming snapping online so fast he doesn't even have time to berate himself for not paying closer attention.
In a flurry of movement, he jerks hard at Cliffjumper's backstrut, twisting his charge to angle him away from the barrel even as he swiftly moves to shove his own bulk between the minibot and the stranger. The shot intended for Cliffjumper's processor burns instead through the upper level of plating on his arm and continues on into the crowd, and someone screams, but he doesn't even feel it yet. His gun arm comes up in the same motion, and for a nanoclick it looks as though he might fire - but that would only cause a frenzy in the crowd, the protector of the noble 'firing on innocents', and so instead he uses it as a lever, jamming it against the attacker's shoulder joint, twisting his own arm just so...
There is a pop, and a scream, and suddenly the mech's elbow joint is turned completely the wrong direction, his grip on Cliffjumper's arm is gone, and his the pistol is clattering to the ground.
"Run!" He bellows into Cliffjumper's audials, not even waiting for an answer before he jerks the smaller mech off his feet, hauling him through a crowd already reaching for them both.
CJ: It's obvious who of them is both used to acting quickly, and has combat programming, besides the fact that for a glass gas gun to be useful, you at least got to have both hands free (or the leverage) to follow through with a punch or something. Cliffjumper's barely registered the gun before he's pulled away, the arm (however briefly) still gripped by his would-be assailant stretched out rather uncomfortably.
But there's no time to think about that as he kicks after a few others in the crowd, but they don't have the time to grip onto a flailing pede to attempt to pull him away; Optimus bellows, leaving his audials ringing before they readjust, and then sets off into the crowd.
"Slaggin'--- This ain't gonna work!" Cliffjumper shouts as he does his best to stay on his feet, not so much because his bodyguard is faster than he is on his feet (which he obviously would be), but because he's barreling forward through the now very angry crowd, the closest all fully aware of what's happened, with all the - heh - subtelty and force of a truck.
Now, the mob isn't interested in being careful around the large bodyguard and his shorter charge, or avoiding them; several attempt to trip Optimus, or use more blunt weapons, but there's, by now, a few more guns flashing in the streetlights, and while they're getting closer to the alleys, it's hard to say if getting there will help.
"Hey-- Let go!" Cliffjumper snarls, pulling the trigger once of his gun before it's ripped away, and even as he kicks out and meet metal more brittle than it was just a few astroseconds earlier, someone takes the opportunity as Optimus charges past to slam down the butt of a gun against the minibot's helm, causing him to stumble, momentarily stunned.
O: Optimus snarls, dodging blows when he can, stomping down with heavy, grated pedes on joints and delicate servos when he can't, and all the while barreling down with all his weight to keep breaking through the crowd despite the raining blows.
But even he can be blindsided, and the hit to Cliffjumper's helm is noticed a moment too late. Snarling, he spins on a heel, slamming the barrel of his gun into the attacker's face, and hauling the stunned minibot up and under his arm, tucking him protectively against his chest.
Then he hunches down, and charges, engine roaring as he plows through the crowd like the truck he is. He aims for the lighter, weaker mechs all the same, bodily tossing them out of the way when he can. Often, blows meant for him land on those flying over his shoulders, which makes it worth it.
CJ: In all probability it's possibly both better and easier for them with Cliffjumper being where he is, now, but when the brief disorientation of a recalibrating processor is over, he's rather... well, not so much unhappy, as feeling awkward, even if there's not much time for that.
Gripping what he can just to feel a bit more active as Optimus charges through the last rows close to the alley, Cliffjumper has to admit to some admiration of the heavy-duty engine working beneath the chassis he's held against... Casting a glance over his shoulder - mostly to see when he could demand to be let down - the minibot sort of sputters static when they're through, the last congestion of the mob, even if the nearest mechs are intent on following them into the alley anyway.
A bit into the alley stands about another ten or twenty mechs and femmes, much more heavily armed than anyone in the mob, whispering. Cliffjumper has time to wonder if the mob was as random as it seemed, what with this group---
"Get rid of th' slaggin' noble an' the sellout!" Someone bellows from behind Optimus and Cliffjumper, a piece of broken metal going flying past the bodyguard's audial fin.
O: "...Scrap."
The swear is muttered, not meant for Cliffjumper's audials, but he doesn't pause or hesitate. Mob to their back, armed forces to the front...they have no choice but to go through. The others haven't fired on them yet, they might have a chance - and the second floor windows of the alley's buildings are just by them.
If they can just get to them...
Keeping his path irregular to prevent anyone from getting a good line of sight on them, he charges on into the alley, hunched over to keep as much of Cliffjumper's frame protected.
CJ: Weapons are cocked, and some of the group do attempt a few shots, but with Optimus' irregular path and a number of people spilling into the alley from the mob on the avenue, most don't chance shooting what is probably some of their own people. One or two, however, take to riddling the ground with laserfire, attempting to both impede and slow the bodyguard down, so he'll be easier to hit.
This is such slag. The mutter, even if not meant for him, has Cliffjumper both tensing and almost attempting to squirm out of the protective grip and go for the gun still clutched in Optimus' hand, just so he could do something. But moving may mess up Optimus' balance, so with a few muttered swears, Cliffjumper stills even as they're closing in on the group.
"Going the wrong way, escort. Shoulda kept to the other part of your profession!" One of the larger ones shout before they launch themselves bodily at the bodyguard, a smaller, handheld weapon in one hand... not a gun, exactly, and it has four fuel cells instead of the usual one or two.
O: Oh.
Oh but now he's getting slagged off.
And the situation has gotten far too dangerous to restrain himself any further. One look at that overpowered weapon is all he needs - finally raising his gun, he targets the other weapon and fires.
If the other mech ends up loosing a hand or arm, well...he shouldn't have been trying to kill them.
As soon as he fires, he doesn't bother to confirm the hit, just dodging to the side from the inevitable explosion, and leaping for the second floor windows.
CJ: The group on the ground are all yelling and either flinging themselves away, or crouching down, depending on how close they are to the mech Optimus shot at.
There's a static-laced shriek which is cut off and swallowed as the fuel cells explode and the mech slams into the ground, tumbles, and then finally skids to a stop; the arm is completely gone, several other plates have been warped, cracked or partly-melted, and the side of his helm on the same side as he'd held the weapon in is kind of a mess.
He'll survive, though.
Cliffjumper's not sure if he should wish to be in a spot where he can see more, but would be less protected, even as his bodyguard leaps and there's a jerk as he grips onto the windowsill of a window, and then a rather gentle crunch as they meet the wall of the building.
"Can ya even climb with me in this position?" Cliffjumper hisses and despite the fact that there's scattered shots being aimed at them, he's already on the way to squirm out from between Optimus and the wall, to climb himself.
O: "Only if you hold on," he growls back. That explosion won't distract them for long, and his back is completely exposed.
Swinging his gun arm, he smashes the barrel of the weapon through the window, sending glass raining down on them and their attackers both. The gun is tossed through the now open space, and Optimus grabs hold of Cliffjumper to keep himself between the minibot and the mob. There is a muffled clang as a heavy piece of still-hot shrapnel hits his shoulder armor and bounces away. It hurts, but he's more worried about the guns. With a grunt, he heaves himself and his charge up through the window as shots begin to ring out.
CJ: ... Well, that was probably true, so Cliffjumper freezes in place right before Optimus actually grabs onto him again to make sure he's between him and the people on the ground. He supposes he's way too impatient for these sort of things, but he hates just kinda... hanging there. Literally, in the case of his current bodyguard hauling him around. Not that Optimus couldn't haul around most other frame-types, but still.
So despite the fact that he wants to do something, Cliffjumper - kind of - accepts that trying to 'help' will just make Optimus' work harder, and he kind of... likes this bodyguard.
When they're inside, Cliffjumper stays where he should be, actually waiting for Optimus to decide what to do next. At least the building, in the area they're in is empty.
"So, uh... what'd we do now?"
O: He rolls inside with an overclocked engine rumble, away from the window, and gestures for Cliffjumper to stay back as well as he scans the building they ended up inside. Office building. Empty. Good.
"...We get back. Make sure no one else gets up here. And find a way out."
He hisses quietly as he moves to sit up. Despite the dark of the room, the glow of spilt energon is slowly lighting the place up.
He's obviously been shot.
CJ: Cliffjumper frowns up at the broken window they came through and while no one seems to be immediately following, he doesn't trust that at all, but his question gets quietly requeued as he looks back to the bodyguard and catches the slowly growing line of dripping, glowing pinkish-purple.
"Uh... slag. You got anythin' for this? I have have something, otherwise, but it probably ain't gonna be enough." Shuffling around to the side the wound is, it takes about a few seconds of waffling before he gently pokes it, then wipes away the energon to get a better look; he's been clinging to the mech for a bit now, and it's not as he hasn't ended up body checked or otherwise manhandled by bodyguards before, but usually... he'd never actually been alone with one of them like this, injured.
Usually they could, and did, go to get the injuries fixed and he'd never have to think about it.
"What's the chance they're gonna come crawlin' through that window, or followin' us at all?" This isn't an orchestrated assassination or kidnapping attempt, after all, 'just' an anrgy mob, and Cliffjumper doesn't really have any experience with those.
O: He shifts over, craning his neck to get a look at the blast wound on the outer side of his thigh. The location is awkward - it figures he'd finally get hit while climbing in the damn window.
The poke makes him twitch, leg servos firing in pain, but he avoids crying out. At least he should still be able to walk.
"...If they don't come up through the window, they'll come up through the building. Or try to burn us out. We need to move." Growling, he digs through his own subspace, before tossing a small field path kit at Cliffjumper.
"Just stop the leakage. We don't have time for anything else." He'd do it himself, but can barely see it at that angle... and he has to pick up his rifle as the sounds from outside pick up again. The mob is getting over the confusion from the explosion, and someone's flailing fist peeks over the edge of the window ledge.
He shoots it off.
CJ: He catches it, then kneels down, briefly distracted, however, when Optimus shoots the fist off the window ledge. Bossy, isn't he?
"Uh-huh..." While bodyguards obviously have the jursidiction, so to speak, to make or demand their clients... or charges, do what they say when they're doing their job in an active situation, it's still kind of a strange experience. Not that he's going to go off on the mech; he's doing his job, and even Cliffjumper can see the location of the wound is in a bad place (though he is acquintained with one or two mechs and femmes who wouldn't care to help their guards like this).
"They're really gonna do that? I mean... you've already kinda shown this's more trouble than it ought to be worth, right? I ain't that special," Cliffjumper scoffs as he patches the wound up, his expression as annoyed as it's disbelieveing; despite the reason for Optimus' precense, Cliffjumper doesn't really consider himself important... naïveity or an accurate opinion?
He gives the patch-job a frown and then shrugs, but in his opinion the metal mesh bandage doesn't really look enough, or sturdy enough... though anything else would probably break and open with any greater acrobatics or whatever. There is, however, besides the scrabbling attempt to get into the window, the distant noise of rage and heavy footspets.
"Slag. I think you're right."
O: "...I hate it when I'm right." He groans, forcing himself back up to his feet. The wound is small, and with his size he won't bleed out any time soon, but the patch doesn't change that it hurts and it's going to effect his movement. As the newest oncoming mech clears the window, he grabs at the nearest bit off office furniture - a heavy chair - and sends it flying at the attacker. It hits with a crunch, and sends the mech flying back down the way he came.
"Because we've made them angry. Mobs are never rational. Come on," he turns to Cliffjumper, gesturing him toward the door as he turns on his nightvision. "We need to move before they get up here. Up the stairs, to the top floor!"
CJ: "What? Up the stairs? The roof? Last time I checked, neither of us're any sort of flyers, less ya hidin' some flight mods somewhere!" Cliffjumper protests, gesturing in emphasis, even as he gives Optimus another look. He can't see any proof of tucked away flight mods at all, though; his bodyguard's all... truck, and while it's a nice sight, that doesn't refute the fact that neither of them can fly.
It has him incredulous enough that he turns towards the door on the other side of the room that'd probably lead down instead of up, but the faint noise of footsteps have become slightly louder, and he growls. They can't go down, unless they find elevators...
"Okay, okay, whatever. Hope ya have some sorta plan, though," he snaps before turning towards the door Optimus wanted them to go through and actually starts running towards it, turning on his own nightvision with another growl. He isn't exactly afraid of heights; he even has a jetpack, but he doesn't have it with him, which means it's useless, so why the slag are they going up?
They'll be just as trapped, if not more, on the roof.
This is a party, but perhaps later we'll have a wedding! ;D
It was merely because the current Prime actually seemed to be somewhat decent that he was still functioning, and in possession of a relative freedom to move around.
He still didn't see what he was doing here, standing on the opposite end of the room from said Prime and the doors themselves, in front of the mirrors that took up the back wall of the antechamber.
"Someone thinks they're funny," Megatron growled, mostly to himself, as he stared at the traditional jagged designs of a top-tier gladiator and the stylized glyphs forming "champion", the first on the front of his helm, the second on each of his upper arms/shoulders.
Someone had done their reading, since this was the exact arrangement he'd carried during the three vorns he'd spent as the champion of the gladiator games. The only difference was the quality of the etchings done, and the paint used to fill them in.
What he didn't find amusing was the colour of the paint used; bright, purple-shaded pink, the exact shade of processed energon... None would actually carry this colour in actual life (even those who carried shades closest to the most important liquid did not wear the exact such), and not even the gladiators' glyphs were painted in this.
Further, while he knew no one actually knew the exact glyphs his designation were made up of... he was now brandishing it on his frame again. That part was the only thing vaguely amusing in this.
Using the mirror to look across the room to see what Optimus was doing, Megatron somewhat viciously hoped the mech was as uncomfortable as he was, but... considering he'd been an escort, that was highly improbable.
He just had no idea how to handle these sort of high-society parties that they were about to enter, and he did not like that. Either the Prime, or whoever else who'd convinced Optimus to take him with him, would pay for this.
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The Prime glanced back (or rather, used the mirror to look behind him, as the number of assistants polishing armor and applying decorative glyphs blocked his view,) to look over Megatron's frame. He chuckled at the mech's expression, causing a servant to gasp in dismay as the laugh jostled his careful brushing.
"...You look good. The markings suit you." As they should. Optimus had wanted the mech decorated, even if it was in the most obvious way possible. He quickly gave the frazzled assistant a pat on the shoulder, keeping his own expression light despite his dislike for the hovering horde of bots. He didn't like being fussed over any more than he liked these stupidly wasteful and extravagant gatherings, but they were unfortunately required for the time being.
At least until he make his move.
"Is something wrong with them or do you just not like...'reliving the look', so to speak?"
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Scowling down at one of the attendants doing some last detail-work and then revving engine and twitching threads both as they pulled at his arms when he tried to fold them across his chestplates, Megatron nonetheless let his arms be pulled back to his sides.
It wasn't as if he could toss away the attendants without some sort of punishment, because he'd been curtailing an urge to do so for the last two breems... The glyphs and designs made in the arena? Put there by medics, and later touched up by fellow gladiators, all of which that he usually knew.
He didn't like letting mechs he had no idea who they were this close.
"I'm more questioning the processor power of whoever chose this colour. And why these designs would be chosen." Looking up from staring at himself, Megatron met Optimus' optics in the mirrow, helm tilted, an arch cast to his expression. For the moment, the bubbling annoyance stilled.
"And why I'm even here."
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"You're my 'consort', and that sort of thing is required for situations such as these. Especially for the Prime."
He should be pleased, really. They had done their research well, to make the markings authentic. And really, it had either been something that suited him, like the gladiator markings, or his own Prime glyphs.
...And given the situation between them, that had seemed a bit too much like branding marks for his own comfort.
But he'd never tell him that, and simply shrugged and played the fool, gently shooing away the detailers now that they could no longer reach his shoulders. He stood, briefly admiring his own armor in the mirror - shined to a glossy finish as it was - before turning to face Megatron properly.
"But I would think you might be able to use the situation to your advantage, at least."
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"Yet I seem to remember you having quite a few other consorts who could be present here, and be more comfortable as well as soothing," he said, a mocking smirk trailing briefly around the edges of his lips. He'd noticed the faint tension in the Prime's frame, but that didn't, really, make up for his own.
He also didn't like having to stand here with his back to the Prime, even if he had a mirror right in front of him and could see every little thing Optimus did.
"I doubt I would get anyone to listen, since even those who might be... amenable to be persuaded, wouldn't dare to approach." Megatron grunted as he spoke, casting a narrow stare across himself in the mirror and briefly snapped to the attendants something about them turning the current markings the wrong way.
Mostly because they'd been glancing between him and OPtimus, but since all of the other ones were correct, it'd annoy him if the last ones weren't. Luckily, though, it was an easy thing for them to rectify.
"And an advantage means I would actually have to know the situation." He didn't like to admit it, but this sort of thing he knew nothing about. If he'd been free, he'd have Soundwave to rely on.
Megatron was also somewhat sore over the fact that after over a mega-cycle prowling around without having to be in the public eye in any way in this status, that would now come to an end.
A sort of acknowledgement of the situation, of his position currently. Despite that Optimus had shown himself to be a rather agreeable - if naïve at times - and downright honorable mech, not to speak about him as Prime, Megatron... was unsettled.
And unsettled made him cranky.
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"And the situation is simple." Optimus slowly drifted over, eying Megatron's frame up and down as he went, noting the markings and shine with approval.
"We're going to go in there. There will be a fragton of self-important blowhards who will be terribly annoying just to be around at best, and we are going to stick to lethal snark only. But,"Optimus reached up, pinging a finger off the glossy finish covering one of the glyphs on Megatron's arm, "-there will be good fuel, and we can both use the opportunity to get a feel on the situation and political climate. You might be surprised at how much they let slip when they are neck-deep in highgrade."
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Not yet short of patience enough to really snap.
"Strangely enough, that does not make this any more attractive," he said, tilting his helm just minutely backwards to glance up at the ceiling. "And being verbally cutting is all I'm allowed at the moment." Not that he couldn't ignore the pain for a good bit until it shut him down; he was used to pain and the program did use a ramp-up technique as he'd noticed from earlier attempts to either knowingly strain it, or unwillingly so, as when the shell program had taken over.
Distractedly, he tossed an interal glance on it, and sneered mentally over the 78.3% decrypted and purged that blinked at him. It had been stuck like that for two full solar cycles, and it was adding to his frustration.
Finally "allowed" to turn around as the attendants stepped away, Megatron did so fast enough to make one of them stumble. He gave Optimus a hard stare for nearly a full kilk before he dipped his helm.
"Since we're both apparently finished, do we go out there before someone thinks I've either managed to kidnap you somehow, or that you're indulging yourself?" The smirk hovering around his lips was hard and nearly unamused, but it wasn't due to the reference to interface - really he didn't care about that part, but rather still the annoyance that he had to do this at all.
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"I can't say I blame you. But it is something that needs to be done." He pauses for a moment, indecisive, before seemingly coming to a decision, voice dropping briefly.
"Besides. You are probably safer in your current state with me than away from me." Take from that what you will, Megatron. He perks up again right away, slapping a hand on a glossy shoulder before heading towards the door, as if the previous words had not been spoken.
"They will assume I'm indulging if I vanish for two kliks to refill my drink. Let them assume and gossip. It only reveals the idiots for who they are."
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Though he does follow, tossing a glare at the mirror the Prime had been standing at, looking himself over. Yes, he looks more or less precisely as he did while in the arenas. The only difference is the nearly lurid energon-colour of the glyphs decorating his frame which, at the moment and with both shine and gloss, is pure alabalster.
It annoys him, because while it obviously looks impressive, it looks too pristine. Too vulnerable, when coupled with the situation.
"I'd be impressed if anyone could get out anything out of an interface lasting two kliks. Completion isn't everything." Ignoring the threat and his own bubbling offense at it, Megatron sneered as he spoke, just as the doors slid apart to let them out.
Like the Prime had said. Let them assume and gossip, since someone had undoubtedly heard what he'd said.
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---
"-I'm afraid the chancellor is correct," the Prime chuckled gently as he sipped around a cube of lime-glowing highgrade. "Such a maneuver would require far more funding and far less red tape to see it through."
Because it's damn well illegal, and going to stay that way if I have anything to say about it, Optimus grumped to himself, carefully maintaining his facade of amusement towards those who thought themselves his allies.
More low-life politicians, hiding like painted tire-strips in the roadway. If you didn't know there were there, you wouldn't see them even after your hovertires shorted out and you crashed into a wall.
Still, he joined in with the good-natured laughter, pinging at the private commline he shared with his newest consort.
::And how are you holding up over there? Never pegged you for a femme's mech. Those lithe models haven't left you alone all evening.:: Optimus chuckled, more genuinely this time, at the small crowd that was vying for Megatron's attentions - in more than one way.
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He didn't really - at all - have the patience for the political and etiquette minefield this thing was; it grated, and he knew he'd mistepped more than once so far. Which just frustrated him more.
Presently, however, there were no "important" individuals in the crowd around him, though Megatron didn't make the mistake of assuming they didn't have pull with the respective senators, nobles and such that they were accompanying.
In a way, in certain matters, these were the most dangerous. He knew at least one of the lithe companions was an escort to one of... either a noble or a senator that currently was standing by Optimus.
::I don't have much of a preference,:: Megatron muttered over the private line, and while he couldn't exactly manage a pleasant surface smile, his neutral, slightly closed-of expression and intense optic glow was probably at least part of why the crowd was right there.
It was only partly a lie; he didn't have any preference in frame design, but, both as a miner and as a gladiator, he didn't really hold fascination with those not possessing the physical strength to either match him... or outmatch him.
::How many of these are really interested, and only here because of my current position? I can tell at least one of them is scared enough to nearly glitch as soon as I glance at her.:: He didn't smirk, even if his tone implied he was close to doing so, and ironically, the femme was a small, so deep blue she was nearly black little hoverbike femme by his right arm and she seemed at ease - smug, even - by the comparatively large hand against her side and over her hip, but as soon as Megatron's red gaze angled sideways even close to her own, she couldn't exactly hide the wince.
::And I do know how to entertain a group wanting attention.:: He'd been a champion for a good while, and popular before that, but he preferred the usually straight-forward attention-seeking (and sometimes more intimate than that) fans back then to this.
He didn't know enough to know what they wanted, which made it all seem like a threat. Which, amusingly or not, included nearly all of the individuals close to the Prime as well, which he didn't understand and was, frankly, an annoyance.
He had enough trying to not let combat programming assess everything around him as a threat to not include Optimus as well, for whatever reason.
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His communication ping included the location of the thin Femseeker senator standing nearby and watching on with calm amusement, all long wings and limbs.
::Remiges...might be a like-minded ally, but she, like most Seekers, is firmly in the realm of 'Vos First; everyone else second.' They both have a bit of a thing for larger mechs. Especially mechs of your reputation, I would imagine.::
His amusement was obvious, and he let it show with a gesture towards said senator, who looked far too amused in turn, and lifted her flute of energon up in a mock salute.
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::Doesn't surprise me. Seekers - more than any other airframes - are rather insular. Egoistical. Usually makes for bad gladiators.:: Megatron said, somehow timing it with shaking his helm at something said to him, and smirked at Isotope.
"No, the Prime is surprisingly proficient in hand-to-hand..." Megatron trailed off, leaving out the probably nearly expected dig/innuendo about 'in more than one way'. He didn't even pay attention when yet another senator - clearly with some weight to throw around as she was left to pass and the others closest to the Prime even moved to the side for her - approached Optimus.
::Besides, Vos, as well as Kalis and Kaon have all held on rather firmly to the city-state mentality...::
"I have to say, it's been exceedingly enlightening and engaging - as always - to see you work the floor tonight, Optimus Prime... And your new consort as well." The Senator of Praxus, a lime-green and gray femme of a hard-to-figure-out alt, smiled politely over the edge of her own energon flute.
Her expression pure professionalism, but there might, perhaps, be a glitter in her optics as she glanced over at said consort; she wasn't - shouldn't - be a threat, but suddenly Megatron's attention was zeroed in on her.
He wasn't even sure why.
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::But you are correct. Those three have always fought the hardest for further independence, be it for good or ill. All too often, it is for shady reasonings, but at least their fight has proven useful for maintaining perspective for the rest of the senate.::
Kalis and Vos were probably the only reason the previous, more corrupt Primes hadn't been given even more power to hide their corruption. He would have said more, but the private conversation was interrupted too soon.
"Why thank you," Optimus replied lightly, his own dislike for the new arrival carefully hidden away under barely-polite innuendo.
"I am quite pleased with him myself. How are you this evening?"
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::Of course, but that's actually not what usually makes them bad.:: Megatron allowed the conversation to still there as Optimus did as well, and despite his attention being directed like a laser-guided sight on the senator, allowed another of his little crowd of 'attendants' to draw his surface attention.
"I'd be surprised if you weren't. His skill is rather... impressive," Ragna Major said with a tilt of her helm, and suddenly Megatron recognized both the voice and that particular mannerism, usually used to substitute for a smile.
Knew her and wondered what the point was, since the innuendo was badly hidden (intentionally so), but he was not among the gladiators who had entertained her... patronage.
"It's been quite... profitable, but could surely be a lot more interesting and pleasing; I'm sure you wouldn't necessarily keep your new consort for yourself?" This time, she smiled, both challenging and secure in the fact that this was a rather acceptable thing to ask... and hard to decline when asked in a public setting.
Around her, the crowd closest to the Prime and his conversation partner shifted, not so much away as if a shockwave had moved through them.
Megatron had to conciously not freeze in place, not storm stomp right up and inform her where she could take her requests; she was attractive, yes, but she was completely uninteresting to him, and this?
Expected, in a way, and all the more rage-inducing because he couldn't deal with this as he wanted to. As he otherwise, back as even the lowliest of tier of gladiator (regardless of what pressures could have been put on him) he could have decided to.
It took a very concious mental wrench to not glare a hole in her helm and shift his attention to the crowd instead in an attempt to control his anger. He didn't actually know that it might be terribly rude of Optimus at this point to decline the interest of the Senator to spend time with his consort and if he had, he'd have been more on-edge.
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::...You're not going to like where this is going.:: He cautioned, before forcing a smile.
"I certainly don't mind talking profit, though everyone seems quite curious about him, I've noticed." Optimus managed to twist his expression into some a hint more proud, as though he was pleased at owning such a popular mech.
"Are you interested in his company? I'm sure he has room on an arm for another admirer," he teased, gently enough for high-class company.
::Try not to decline unless she does something completely untoward.:: ....At least he didn't sound particularly pleased about it.
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"I would be, perhaps. Both very different and at the same time very fitting and suitable for the wide variety you have represented in your harem, Optimus Prime." That was, strangely enough perhaps, a real and sincerely meant compliment, though for what motivation lay behind Ragna's appreciation was harder to tell.
::Not supposed to--- Prime.:: He did manage to not growl out loud, but the noise over the private commline was not pleasant at all, and the glow from Megatron's narrowed optics was less than pleasant as he stared at Optimus before - as minimally as possible - offering his arm to the senator as music started up again.
Sounding displeased about it or not, Megatron wasn't very pleased either. At all.
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"Thank you. I do pride myself on having a bit of a...diversity, in my ranks. Quite aesthetically pleasing, if I do say so myself."
::Just roll with it! I won't let her get far - just chat her up, and I'll explain later. It actually is important.::
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It was quite obvious, from the look of him, why Ragna was... interested... in the Prime's newest consort.
::I've spent more than the few vorns I was champion denying her my presence, and here you go and hand me over, Prime,:: Megatron said with a growl, but there was a dryness to his voice that betrayed that despite his displeasure, there was something in the situation that was still amusing.
With that, though, he was "obliged" to follow the prompting to take her dancing and the only reason he was displeased by the senator leading - as her rank and power, if not seniority, would give her right to do - was because of who she was.
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He could barely keep from snapping, a rare possessiveness blooming in his spark at the sight of Ragna wrapping eager arms around the gladiator to sweep him off for dancing. It left him with more questions than answers. He wasn't the type to get jealous over consorts - his own time as one had thoroughly removed any such inclinations, if he had ever had any - so the confusion only worsened his already souring mood.
But he was trained and talented enough to keep the emotions contained for now, instead taking the arm of the offered party-consort. He'd noted Ragna taking her pleasure with the same femme earlier, as had others, and all had passed on their highest recommendations.
It would be an insult to refuse at least a dance.
"Of course. I would indeed be a pleasure." He smiled at the well-armored femme; the armor was a surprise, but it was as well-gilded and aesthetically pleasing as any thin-plated consort who might prance around without any armor at all to hide naked circuitry. And it certainly did nothing to hinder her. She melded easily into his arms with a coy smile, moving along with the music as though she was born to it.
Everyone had their tastes, and there were already several consorts of the 'standard' type roaming about. So he suspected nothing at all - and a part of him was thoroughly focused on keeping sensors tuned on just how far Ragna's hands might be wandering.
"You dance well. What may I call you?"
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Coy?
Who did Optimus think he was? He had never needed, wanted or had the tiniest inclination for being 'coy'. The vague flirting he'd done with the Prime during their sparring had been double-edged, and more intended to provoke another type of reaction rather than the most obvious one.
If he wanted - or did not - want something, Megatron had never been coy about it.
::Prime, unless the programming you so graciously gave me at the beginning of this includes some new behavioural codes you haven't revealed to me, in which case I suggest you start running, I've never been coy. What do I look like, a politician?:: Ignoring the twinge of warning from said programming at his very obvious and sincerely meant - if given for a joking reason - threat, Megatron murmured the words, caught between exasperation and amusement.
Until a hand was laid - as part of the dance, of course, but the more acceptable spot to rest it would have been at his side, or even on his elbow - right underneath and around the largest sparklight.
::I am going to kill you, Optimus Prime.:: That earned more than a twinge, but Megatron was well-versed in ignoring pain, and he mostly needed the outlet as he merely tilted his helm at Ragna, whose smile said she knew exactly what she was doing, and what he was thinking about it and the fact that he knew that she knew him and that they both remembered well the many times he had declined her... attention.
--
The Prime's new dance partner kept her expression vaguely pleasant, though her blue gaze slithered over to the Senator of Praxus and her dance partner a few times, the small smile widening slightly at the compliment.
"Cozenage, my Prime." Her gaze dropped away from his own as she curled a hand, light and unobtrusive, right against one of the wheels of his shoulder and the metal of its housing. The heel of her hand pressed down slightly, but that, in itself, wasn't so odd. And the pulse would undoubtedly be lost in the vibrations from his own engine, the music and all that interaction with Optimus' own frame.
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::I hardly mean 'act like an overheating protoform and swoon all over her', you glitch! More like 'be a raging jackaft and string her along like a cranked-up arena champ!'::
--
Given normal naming perimeters, the designation isn't alarming in the slightest. Optimus even has a (much needed) moment of amusement, assuming the name is a dig on her own profession - it is certainly lucrative enough at time to feel like cheating, if you are good enough at what you do.
Optimus himself had considered stage names of a similar type before.
"Very nice, indeed. Are you enjoying yourself this evening?" He could make smalltalk. It was boring enough that it should calm his vexed spark and too-warm frame.
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::How much romatic fiction, probably of dubious caliber and content, have you read involving gladiators, Optimus?:: Thoroughly amused, Megatron shook his helm, partly for the need to make the movement physically and not just lace his words with glyphs that would imply a similar expression of emotion, and partly to give some sort of explanation as Ragna obviously had felt his laughter, even through his armoured form.
"I apologise, Senator... this situation's quite... unbelievable." It would have to do, as he indicated the whole room with a tilt of his helm for her benefit. He couldn't tell exactly why the Prime was getting worked up - completely from something else than he was, he could tell, but he was ignoring the fact that he'd called the Prime "Optimus" to him.
Megatron would probably usually have been able to pick up the strains of poessessive jealousy Optimus was displaying merely from experience, but he was quite busy both ignoring and being annoyed by the fact that he was including the Prime - all on his own - into his threat assessment of the situation and the room at large.
No matter how pleasant, up until now, anyway, Optimus had been... why would he care enough to do that?
--
Cozenage had indeed noticed Optimus' heightened agitation, but her answer was a lack of reaction... except for a well-placed, subtle pulse outward of her field; she was a consummate professional, after all.
"It's always... entertaining, to get to use my skills at this level, my Prime," she murmured, not saying yes, but not denying it either. Some would have lied; Cozenage, despite what her name might imply (and had, indeed, been chosen for the irony) preferred not to lie, rather preferring to use her skills in a way that'd circumvent the need for lying.
As the music briefly swelled in a mid-crescendo, the faint noise of transformation was hidden, and as the Prime twirled his partner around and the lighting flashed in time with the music, the faint shockwave going outwards from the wrist Cozenage had resting against Optimus' wheel was expertly hidden.
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::Romantic fiction?:: He sputtered at the insinuation. ::Is that what you think-::
And then he abruptly fell silent, as though too angry to speak...when in reality his communications were knocked offline as the rest of his frame went slack in Cozenage's arms.
Only his optics, hidden in the crook of her neck, stayed online- wide and shocked with the realization. Betrayal?! In the middle of the dance hall!?
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Not that she'd need long anyway, as she slid the hand she'd had at his side, hidden by the bulk of his frame, up against his chestplates. Thick or not, the slow, gentle slide of the vibro needles extending from her fingers were obvious against his chestplates, and would be able to penetrate the armour.
::Shh. It'll be over in a moment.:: Not that Optimus could answer, and that might have been rubbing raw circuits with the wrong current. The obvious, slightly dreamy smile of Cozenage's faceplates would for anyone watching merely be interpreteed as very logical excitement - even for a professional Escort, spending time personally with someone like the Prime wasn't a small thing - where it was for another reason entirely and a glance was exchanged with four other Escorts now suspiciously close and arranged around the Prime as the dance went on.
Suspicious, if you knew anything was going on.
--
There was another chuckle over the commline as Optimus supttered, and Megatron would have said something (most probably questioning if the Prime was going to deny it), when he realised the last few astroseconds hadn't just been quiet, but dead.
The sort of radio silence from a cut-off commlink, not just offended silence. Optics narrowing and engine dropping in pitch and energon flowing into certain reservoirs already, despite there being no actual reason for it...
Except maybe there was.
Because he didn't think Optimus was quite that easily offended, and even if he were he'd ben arguing back, not cutting the commlink like a huffy protoform thinking it had been given the most deadly of insults.
At the next twirling turn - and while he wasn't an expert on dancing, he could tell Ragna Major was a natural at leading - he cast a glance over at Optimus.
That barely-second was all Megatron needed for both his concious part and a part he wasn't even fully aware of as present, supressed by the shell programming as it... had been, to make a decision over what was going on.
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Hopefully this doesn't give too much away?
;D Nope
Goooood
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