→ OOC
□ Name: Red
□ Age: 26
□ Contact: AIM @ thisismyomnitool
□ Journal: ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redfirelight□ Do you play anyone in Ariel?: No
→ IC
□ Name: Sunstreaker
□ Journal: finheaded□ Series: Transformers: IDW Comics (Escalation)
□ Canon point: The end of Escalation, right as he's attacked on the freeway.
□ History:Once upon a time, there was a planet called Cybertron. There were a lot of awesome robots there. Some of them liked to blow things up. Some of them were really pretty. Others turned into guns. Everyone was pretty okay with the world, life was good, there was a lot of energon... Some jerk named Sunstreaker was running around, chilling in death-matches and such.
And then things got real.
The "pretty okay" populace started fighting each other, and before you know it, there was a war. Being the incredible genius he was, said jerk named Sunstreaker went off to war, thinking it was another one of those epic deathmatch things he was so fond of. He eventually got things straightened out, and, honestly, did very well for himself in battle. Something he liked to remind poor Sideswipe of at every opportunity, feeding his incredible superiority complex, while fostering the exact opposite on the other. Good job, kids. Way to be mentally sound. Needless to say, their relationship was terrible, and it never got any better.
Somewhere along the line, someone got the bright idea of putting him in charge of troops. Amazingly, that didn't end in disaster, and they actually managed to be an effective force... And then Sunstreaker got both himself and his ego punted to Earth with several other Autobots -- including Prowl, Jazz, Wheeljack, Ironhide, Ratchet and Bumblebee. The group was supposed to be there to observe a Decepticon infiltration force, but, really just ended up sitting around their underwater base while Prowl read them the rule book and Ratchet did all the work. Under the circumstances, one can hardly blame Sunstreaker for making his own game... although the fact it starred himself has no excuse. He really didn't have much to do, for a while.
Ratchet ended up bringing home a bunch of humans and there was all this to-do about pictures of Decepticons and a computer thing... and the Decepticons acting out of pattern... What it all boiled down to was trouble. A lot of exploding, fiery, It-Was-All-Starscream's-Fault trouble. A Decepticon stronghold was discovered, where there should have been none at all. And, because Ratchet actually managed to locate it with help from Bumblebee, Sunstreaker and the others headed out to check on them.
Suddenly, there was a surprise Megatron, and things were going from troublesome to "Oh no" territory relatively quickly. Any time Megatron showed up, trouble, and violent explosions, were bound to follow. The Autobots were relatively outnumbered, and outgunned. So, of course, the first course of action was to get the squishy little organics out of harm's way--because they'd totally be safer out in the world than in a nice... secure... underwater base. Anyway, having apparently annoyed the resident police car--which, in all honesty, wasn't exactly a difficult task--our hero was charged with delivering one of said humans to safe haven.
He really did not enjoy that.
And then he blew up. Sort of. He was attacked by a group of humans who'd been spying on the Autobots' comings and goings, and both his passenger and himself were taken prisoner. His last coherent memory is being hit with some kind of energy, and spinning out of control.
□ Personality:Egotistical doesn't even begin to describe it. If there was a single line that could be used to sum everything in this guy's head up, it would be:
"Me, me, me..."
Matrix references aside, it's sort of like if you took the Platonic form of "egocentric", and then coupled it with its dictionary definition, swirled it all together in a glass of "superiority complex" and stuck a pair of yellow head-fins onto it, then told it that it was amazing every moment of its life.
Dissecting the little cube of horrors, we see that the most important person in his life is... himself. No one is better, prettier, faster, etc. He is the epitome of greatness, and everyone should know it. At least, that's what he thinks. He's openly disdainful of pretty much everyone. He doesn't care who he upsets or how he does it. In his opinion, he has a right to, as he's just that much better than you are. Don't try and tell him otherwise, chances are, he probably won't listen. Could be because he's not exactly the brightest spark in the bunch, but more than likely, it's just due to the fact he just doesn't believe you.
He likes to fight--perfectly willing to take on whoever, wherever--argue, and generally be rude and obnoxious. Like a teenager with firearms grafted onto their arms and the training to use them--surly, arrogant and dangerous. With a metric ton of self-serving laziness and even more vanity on the side. He has a temper, is fairly easy to rile up, and solves his problems with violence. Or more arguing. He doesn't care who he has to hurt to get his way, half the time, he just wants things his way.
He has a definite dislike for humans. Not because they've ever done anything to him yet, but because he sees them as creatures so utterly beneath him, they shouldn't even bother trying to communicate or coexist with him.
□ Age: Thousands of years. Probably the equivalent of his late 20's by human standards.
□ Gender: Male (technically a robot, but he uses male pronouns)
□ AppearanceApart from being a giant, alien robot, the most striking things about Sunstreaker are quite possibly his eye-searing yellow paint. And the fins attached to his head. He's got a sort of blocky-build up top, and a more slender structure below. Blue bits accent the yellow. He's about average height for his species, somewhere between 13-14 feet tall. His alternate mode is that of a yellow Lamborghini, the specific model unknown.
□ Abilities/Powers: There really isn't anything substantial or extraordinary to note. Granted, he's skilled in combat--almost as much as his self-opinion would have one believe--with all the weapons and armaments expected of a giant alien robot. But, he doesn't fly, he can't turn invisible, or anything like that. He has the usual weapon systems and transformation capabilities of any Cybertronian. He's probably fairly quick, considering his chosen vehicle mode--an obnoxiously yellow Lamborghini. But, short of combat training, ego, and general giant-robot-ness, he's kind of vanilla in the area of special powers. Like all Cybertronians, he's capable of creating and maintaining a "holo-form", a fairly solid projection of, in most cases, a human driver in order not to arouse suspicion. His also takes the form of a woman, for some unknown reason.
□ Personal Items:None.
□ First Person Sample:
[The voice sounds... a bit groggy. Possibly drunk? Maybe tired? Who knows? It also sounds a little mechanical, if that's at all possible.]Where...? What in...? Ironhide? Where'd you--
[A pause. Metal shifts.]What is this? Is this... Is this paint? Someone altered my paint? Wait-- no. Someone...
scratched me?[He says this in the tone of voice someone else would say "you took my kidney?" It's really just a few scratches... but...]Listen up! Whoever you are, I don't care! You don't have any idea who you're dealing with! And when I find you, you're going to wish you'd never even been built!
□ Third Person Sample:For a second, he could hardly believe his luck. They were really throwing him up against an untried recruit? And a tiny one at that. Just how pathetic did they want this fight to be?
It didn't matter. He was the big arena star. They paid him to fight, not ask who was going down when. Doing his best to stifle a laugh, Sunstreaker heaved himself to his feet, and strolled out into the arena, his rifle slung comfortably over one shoulder. His pace was unhurried, stride nice and even, thanks to a medic's back-street repairs. Of course, he'd never admit that.
"You really think a couple curses are going to help you, squirt?" he shot back, letting the rifle fall neatly into position. There was a smug little grin on his face. "Curse until you run out of processing power! You are, officially... screwed."
He set his hips at a confident cock, watching the nervous 'bot.
"Any last words?"
His answer came in the form of a blast of white-hot light, erupting from his opponent's midsection. Some... new sort of weapon he'd never seen before. Something experimental probably, with someone paying to put their new creation to the test in the arena. Against him -- using him as a test subject.
He practically saw red. How dare someone use him like that? How dare they?
It took him a second or two to actually realize what was happening. He was, in some ways, intelligent, but lost in a battle rage was a surefire way to get his head completely out of where it needed to be. By the time it dawned on him, the beam had cut its way clean through the Autobot's knee joint, and said joint had already collapsed under the strain.
He dropped down to one knee, spitting and hissing like a wet cat. Curses dominated the words coming from his vocal processor as, in what looked like a fit of desperation, pulled the rifle to position, and fired wildly, crazily, toward his opponent.
"I'll kill you!" he shrieked. "I'll kill you for that!"
