*Crossarm?*

Crossarm's primitive sensors detected a sudden increase in temperature on the surface of his mesh, then a blast of air that seemed to jar his senses back into functionality.

A shiver traveled the length of his back-strut and his armor flared in kind, fluffing like so many feathers and settling back against his protoform in a series of soft clacks.

Slowly his optics opened.

It took a moment for his t'vre to reengage, but when they did, he received quite the fright.

He was blind.

"I can't see anything!" He exclaimed so quickly that the words seemed to run together, reaching his audio-receptors as a hiss of static.

He was met with silence for several moments. Then came a curt reply. "Give it a cycle. You're experiencing what we scientists like to call 'stasis lag.' You've been asleep for a while."

"What? How long…?" He wondered, spatial and bodily awareness trying weakly to shove back a burgeoning sense of anxiety. His shoulder-caps flexed, seemingly of their own accord, his head tilted side-to-side. Like some far-off observer, he marveled at the stiffness in his servos…like he hadn't moved in decades.

"Fifty-seven point four, stellar cycles," was the straight-forward reply, and Crossarm's spark surged a second time.

Prior to their departure, the Decepticons had advanced to within striking distance of Iacon. True, they were still reeling from the fallout of Tyger Pax, same as the Autobots, but the 'Cons had more resources at their disposal, and were far more unified in their ire against Optimus for essentially dooming the Cybertronian race to extinction.

But now, so many stellar cycles later, had the war finally reached his home? If it had, what had become of the "Jewel of the North?" Had Optimus lead the Autobots to victory, or was everything that he had ever known…gone?

Was Io dead? Was Ratchet dead? Was everyone dead?

The mech's spark began to pulse more rapidly.

"Woah, Grunt; calm it down. You're going to hurt yourself," the mystery voice offered, sounding muffled this time, as if the noise had traversed a long hallway before reaching his audio receptors.

He tried; he really did. But with his higher functions still groggy from his long sleep, normally repressed primal code was now claiming his processor, circuit by circuit, like some wasting illness. The code's commands were simple: Fight. Flee. Survive.

Thousands of neural pathways flared to life in an instant; his body surged forward.

Wham!

He hit something. Hard. Pain shot through the center of his face-plate and he stumbled backwards, stunned.

"Scrap!"

Something warm trickled down his chin.

He shook his head and tried to assess the situation. His vision had improved slightly, though not nearly enough to matter and his processor now had to juggle the sudden, mystery pain along with a host of survival code. He looked up and thought he saw something; a shade within a shade. He squinted, trying to focus. A blob. Living. Cybertronian, assumedly, about as tall as he was, but aside from that, a blob. And a collection of noises that seemed to emanate from one part of the blob. Was it typing? A computer console?

The blob was solid, if the fantastic clicks and scrabbles birthed through its mid-section interaction had anything to say about it. But was the blob friendly? His processor couldn't decide whether to patiently wait or flee.

A sudden hiss startled him and his body lunged forward, again. This time, there was no impact, just an odd feeling of being supported, motionless, twenty-degrees shy of vertical.

"You ok, Grunt?"

Crossarm cocked his head. That word. He'd been called that before…but where?

"And here I thought jets were a bit more resilient than the rest of us…"

That mocking tone…that stupid nickname…

Wait!

A memory drifted into focus, not of a place…but an individual; a femme. Tall, exotic…and lacking much of the armor that one might ascribe to a particular class of alt-mode, the image was that of his commanding officer and captain of the Obsidian Sky, Spec.

A long finger thunked his helm, derailing his thoughts. With effort, he was able to focus on her glowing, blue visor.

Blue! He could see color! His favorite color, no less. He felt giddy and his voice-box attempted a laugh…which was only marginally successful, sounding more like a dying petro-fox than an expression of joy.

"You fry your processor, Grunt?"

The happy feeling faded at her tone. "What…?"

"You've been staring. And now you're giggling."

Crossarm quashed another round of merriment and shuttered his optics. When he refocused on her, he was delighted to discover that his vision had improved quite a bit. Sure enough, Spec was staring at him down the length of her arm, and in fact was supporting a great deal of his weight.

Eventually, the femme shook her head and gave his medial plate a light shove to set him upright. Instinctively his hand sought out the nearby bulkhead for balance while his legs remembered how to support him.

Pause. Calm down. Get your bearings. He was here now, wherever here was, but alive. He looked about, but his vision faltered as if he was moving so fast that he was seeing individual moments of time. He closed his optics once more and took a moment to compose himself.

When allowed himself to see again, he was fully awake and aware, if remarkably lethargic. And sore! Especially his face-plate. Why in Primus' name was it so sore?

Suddenly a rag appeared before him. "You're leaking."

The young mech looked at the rag, then at Spec, then back to the rag. No doubt she was telling the truth, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what he could have done that would have resulted in an injury.

Spec's dorsal sensors rattled. "Ungh…here…" Suddenly the rag was against his face-plate, dead center, just above his mouth. "Hey!" He yelped, and jerked his head away. Commanding Officer or not, no one touched his face without permission. No one.

He flared his shoulder-caps and glared at her, wings low. She stared back, puzzled.

"You know…it's basic politeness to ask before touching someone's face." He said in low tones.

"Oh!" A pause. "I didn't realize…"

"Wait…Seriously?"

Her sensors rattled, again. "You're still leaking…" She said after a moment, this time offering the rag at arm's length.

As the tone of her voice was decidedly apologetic, Crossarm's face gentled and he thanked her, taking the item and dabbing gingerly at his face-plate. Through the fabric, he could feel a vertical crack in the mesh exactly where Triage had split his face-plate open all of those years ago. Thankfully, it was small, not a full bifurcation like it had been. Still, he would be spending a fair amount of time in Adit's repair bay once they were settled. Face-plate injuries as a rule tended not to heal well on their own.

"Are you good to walk?" Spec said snapping him from his thoughts. Her dismissive tone suggested that she had already distanced herself from the situation to focus on other things. What a berth-side manner!

Stifling a chuckle, Crossarm pulled the rag away and reexamined it. Only a few new stains were present, suggesting that the wound had started self-repairing. "Yeah," he said, distracted and slightly queasy. He hated the sight of energon, especially his own. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He focused on talking. It was better than focusing on the injury or the rag.

"Good." She said as she started for the distant exit. "Surveyor has brought us into orbit around MG2505 and should be just about finished with his preliminary surface assessment. After the briefing, we'll attempt to land. I'd like to get a temporary camp set up before nightfall."

Crossarm nodded his acknowledgement and fell into step beside her.

Blue strip lights guided their trods, though they were hardly bright enough to put the jet at ease. He hated confined spaces, and despite the hall being wide enough for both he and Spec to walk side-by-side, the encroaching darkness and low ceiling made it seem as if were walking through a giant hydraulic press.

Crossarm focused on the nearest stasis pod to distract himself, then immediately wished he hadn't. Dragline, the team's lead geologist, stared back at him with dark eyes, like miniature black holes. His usual red and gray color scheme had faded to a sickly gray and If not for the brain-wave activity visible on the pod's console, the old mech could have easily been mistaken for a corpse.

He suppressed a shudder. Dead bodies creeped him out more than spilt energon.

Attempting to mitigate this burgeoning unease, he studied Spec out of the corner of his optic. Her physiology was alluring despite her drab color scheme—white and grey, mostly, with red accents—and the fact that she turned into a mass spectrometer. Only those places that housed her scientific components—or organs like the spark chamber and T-cog—were afforded armor, namely her bracers, trods, pelvic assembly, and torso, and this only the minimum required for EMR shielding. The rest was exposed protoform and sensors.

As he had spent most of his time in the military, this was an unusual arrangement.

Perhaps the most interesting component of her anatomy was a specialized array of sensors, sword-like projections that hung from shoulder-mounted revolute joints. These could be raised or lowered at will, and—much like his own wings—could be used to gauge mood. Which was good because her face, with its visor and permanent mouth-plate, was only slightly more expressive than a sheet of aluminum.

And not that she actually had "moods." She had one setting: ON. Always on task, always on target, always on your case…that was Spec. This mission—her mission—was the only thing that mattered.

Actually…she reminded him a lot of himself, his old self, minus the misogyny and desirable alt-mode.

Maybe that's why they couldn't seem to get along…

"What's wrong?" Spec asked suddenly, causing him to jump.

The mech fluffed his armor and silently cursed himself for being startled. "The sooner we get into the main hall, the better." He conceded, finally, focusing straight ahead. It kept him from noticing whether she was judging him. His faculties may now be back online, but so too were his faults.

Ahead of him, no more than two mechanometers, a rectangle of cheery blue light marked the door to the main hall, an exquisite oval of gleaming steel six toranometers in length. The windows had been rendered opaque, an energy saving measure until they made planetfall. And while he would have preferred to see space with all of its pretty stars and galaxies, he understood the need to conserve resources on their lengthy voyage. Still, the size of the room was a comfort to him.

"You should probably know something about Surveyor before we speak to him…" Spec said as they transitioned from the gloom of the stasis wing to relative brilliance of the main hall.

"Yeah…?" Crossarm said, distracted. Sure, the light was murder on his optics, but he was just happy to be out of the stasis wing. He stretched out his arms and rolled his shoulder-caps, reveling in the blissful comfort that had all but replaced the dread in his spark. "What about him?

"He's…" She seemed to choose her next word carefully. "-Interesting."

"'Interesting' as in 'I've got a real knack for collecting inappropriate images of historical figures' or 'interesting' as in 'certifiable?'"

Spec considered him fully for a bit then laughed. Crossarm jumped at the sound, having thoroughly convinced himself on Cybertron that such emotion was beyond her capabilities. Even her voice-box seemed unsure, as if it couldn't remember the signal pathways to properly emote amusement. "A little bit of both,"

"Ok…?"

"He has a rather unique relationship with his drones." Was her straight-forward comment.

Crossarm cocked a brow-ridge. "You mean those non-sentient things that were always following him around on the dock?"

She nodded. "I won't go into the details, but suffice to say his last job sent him to the Under Levels, sometimes for vorns at a time. Alone." She sighed. "He talks to the drones. Names them." A pause; her visor glowed a brighter shade of blue. "…Canoodles them."

"Interesting..." He mused. Xenophilia was rare, sure enough...but not unheard of, especially in so'vas where they were used as cheaper alternative to thosts. Prisons used them as well, as a reward or when the convict was too dangerous to be around other 'Bots. Had he served his full term, he would have been offered one after completing his tertiary education courses. It was either that or a berth…and he couldn't be certain that he would have chosen the later.

"You don't seem surprised." She marveled, pivoting on her trods so that she could better gauge his expression.

The mech smirked and side-stepped her. "Everyone has their vices…" He didn't elaborate; he didn't have to. He may not support certain life choices, but given his own, unique, history he sure as spark wasn't in a position to call someone out about them.

Her pace slackened and she quickly disappeared from the mech's peripheral vision.

Though he couldn't see her it was all too easy to imagine her standing there, head cocked, studying him as intently as she would one of her rock specimens.

His right wing twitched—one of his little habits whenever he felt put upon—but his overall composure was unperturbed. He couldn't deny a lingering feeling of indignation, but he shoved it aside, suppressing it with a confident head shake and cool optics, just like he'd trained himself to do after more than a decade in the Decagon. There, objectification, harassment, and assault were standard fare and one learned very quickly to tune it all out.

The sudden reappearance of Spec caused him to refocus on his surroundings, and he was pleased to discover that the bridge was just ahead, hidden behind an imposing silver door.

At their approach, the door split diagonally and opened with a gentle swoosh and hiss of equalizing air pressure. Beyond was a wide, windowless room furnished only by a padded chair, and a standard computer console. The absence of equipment was due to the modular nature of their ship. The bridge, the storage rooms, and even part of the stasis wing would all be converted into living quarters and lab space once they chose a permanent landing site, so it made little sense to outfit the space beyond the minimum required for functionality.

Perched on the back of the chair were two non-sentient machines. In design, they resembled repair drones, right down to the stubby arms and sensor panels—but it was clear that they both had been heavily modified for their new role on MG2505, satellite communication. A third was situated near the base of the chair, arms folded and panels low. It appeared to be sleeping.

The two perching bots turned their bodies to look at Crossarm and Spec as they approached. The one on the left leapt into the air and made angry chittering sounds from its new roost on the ceiling—where those sounds originated from, Crossarm couldn't say; no mouth or voice modulator was visible. The other held its ground and scrutinized them through its primary optic, a large, round, recessed orb in its snout. Once satisfied, it chirped and tapped the shoulder-cap of chair's occupant, a tall, blue mech, the team's communication specialist and groundbridge expert, Surveyor.

"Ah, Spec…" He called out, happily as he finished perusing a dataset. "I was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong." The chair swiveled and Surveyor flashed them both with a bright, genuine smile.

It was all too easy to lump him in with the other sci-casters he'd met over the years, especially with his lanky frame, elaborate plating, and severe face. Actually, he looked a lot like Spec in this regard, and it wasn't too much of a stretch to believe that he turned into a piece of scientific equipment as well…or, perhaps, a satellite—he did have two, odd panel-looking things dangling from his back-plate. Regardless, all of the pomp-and-circumstance was just surface wax; he was an easy-going soul, quick to laughter and brimming with an almost sparkling enthusiasm as he carried out his technical duties.

At least that was Crossarm's original impression of the 'Bot.

The drone clinging to the ceiling continued to chatter. "Now, now, Xarsis, no need to be rude." The drone quieted some, though it still glared at Crossarm, red optic glowing fiercely. "Oh…" Surveyor rose to his trods, paused for a moment, then leaned back, flaring his armor and raising his arms in a mighty stretch. "Sorry…" Another stretch. "I don't think I've moved from that chair since we arrived." He recovered quickly, and vectored towards Crossarm with an outstretched hand. "Sergeant." He clasped Crossarm's uncertain hand and shook it firmly. "We didn't get much time to talk back on Cybertron. Good to finally meet you."

Crossarm's brow-ridge crept up along his helm. Wow. News really didn't travel fast.

Even Spec seemed surprised, if her stiffening posture had anything to say about it, but the mission was more important, and she addressed her second in command with a stern, authoritative tone. "So, what have you to report?"

"Ah, straight to business, then." Surveyor remarked with a chuckle. He waived them over to the console. "Quite the fascinating planet. Small, by our standards, but very, very unique."

Humming to himself, he tapped away at the computer interface, pulling up graphs and data sets.

Crossarm scanned the data and scrunched his upper lip. Most of it was unintelligible, even the chemistry stuff. If only he had been able to finish his classes…

"As you can see here, the atmosphere is a bit denser, and the gravity significantly lower than what we're used to. Rotational and orbital periods are very similar…in a way that should cause the universe to implode from the sheer improbability of that convergence." He smiled at his own wit. "The presence of dihydrogen monoxide, in all three states, will make long-term habitation tricky, but I think we'll manage. And that's to say nothing of all the organic…"

"Water? There's water here?" Crossarm blurted out before he could think better of it. Water was one of the best solvents that he'd ever worked with, second only to energon, but it was virtually non-existent on Cybertron and, hence, very, very expensive.

Spec's visor darkened disapprovingly. Surveyor seemed not to notice, or at least the shift in conversation to something beyond the basics was too good an opportunity to pass up. "Indeed!" He said with growing enthusiasm. "Oceans of it. It's quite the sight."

Crossarm cocked his head. Spec's sensors rattled.

"You haven't…" He reconsidered his statement with a chuckle. "Of course you haven't seen it…we've had the windows closed." He turned to the console and typed for a few moments. "That ought to do it." He looked up at the opaque bulkhead with expectant optics.

Spec and Crossarm did the same.

For a while nothing happened. Then, the bulkhead texture changed, going from matte to granular in the blink of an optic. The molecules then began to saltate, moving up and down, wavelike, radiating from multiple foci on each wall. As fronts advanced, transparency followed until every wall had become as clear as fine crystal.

Even though Crossarm knew that the walls were still there, he suddenly felt as though he had been transported to the external hull, surrounded on all sides by space. Raw space. Infinite. Basic physics told him that. Yet, despite this understanding, the huge disk of MG2505, bright, blue and imposing, seemed so much larger. He had never seen a planet from space before, having been put into stasis several solar cycles before their departure. It was a truly awesome sight and his spark swelled so that he wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. It was blue. So much blue. Like an energon concretion, fresh out of the ground and streaked with white flazon.

Or both.

If this were smaller than Cybertron, he could only imagine what his homeworld might look like. Then again, he wasn't sure if he would want to see what stellar cycles of war had done to it…

"The blue is water." Surveyor explained, and Crossarm had to shake himself from an almost mystified stupor just to follow along. "It's deep enough in some places that the hydrostatic pressure can crush a Cybertronian like a tin can. The clouds are water too, tiny droplets suspended by atmospheric convection cells." He pointed toward the south pole. "See that continent down there, it is covered with frozen water thousands of toranometers thick."

"And the organic stuff?'" Crossarm asked, curiosity blooming. "Are we talking hydrocarbons or…'

Surveyor laughed. "Nope. Well, yes…" another chuckle. "But not in the way that you're thinking." He pointed at one of the continents. This one was mostly green except for the western part which was brown and grey. "The surface is literally teeming with organic lifeforms: bacteria, plants, animals…billions and billions of species. Cybertron is a barren wasteland by contrast."

Crossarm was hanging on every word. Already his processor had begun to paint hypothetical landscapes: Dense alien jungles, frozen plains, rocky mountains…all overrun by ferocious beasts, like the predacons of primordial Cybertron. It was almost too much to take in.

Surveyor seemed to sense this unspoken wonderment and opened his mouth to add to the data overload, but Spec clapped her hands loudly. "Mechs, can we please focus on mission specs? We'll have plenty of time—vorns—to investigate the particulars of this…unique world." A twinge of disgust edged into her voice as she said the word "unique," as if the thought of living among organics offended her.

"Sorry," Crossarm offered with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," Surveyor said at the same time, also sounding embarrassed.

Spec nodded as if satisfied. "Have we detected any Decepticon activity?"

"None. Not so much as a blip." Surveyor shrugged. "I'd be very surprised if they managed to make it out this far."

Spec seemed to think this over for a moment. "Have you found a suitable landing site."

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded proudly. "It's a bit rugged, but it has everything that the geologists need to get started: Lots of rock variety, high geothermal gradient, inferred seismic activity based on surface structures. Heck, there's even an active volcano nearby."

Crossarm cocked his head. "A volcano? Aren't those dangerous"

Surveyor laughed. "Not the soft-rock ones." He clapped Crossarm on the shoulder-cap. "You should probably avoid flying through the ash, though."

Crossarm wanted to ask why, but Spec cut him off with a quick summary of Surveyor's observations. "Aside from the obvious strangeness of the planet – water everywhere – it seems quiet. We should have no problem completing our mission… once we get our trods out there to experience it."

Spec considered the strange, blue planet with the optics of a trained scientist.

Crossarm followed her stare. Everything was new, well… most everything, and the prospect of science for the sake of science in addition to their mission held an immediate allure. However, they were here for a purpose and that took precedence over all other considerations. They were going to turn MG2505 into a solid energon producing factory for the war effort.

He could almost imagine the immense pressure Spec was feeling, especially because she was the one that had to coordinate their efforts. It would take them stellar cycles…vorns, even, to see their task to fruition. If she didn't have a dedicated, ordered mindset, it would have been overwhelming. But she was nothing if not determined.

This was evident as she wasn't even allowing herself to absorb the majesty of this new place.

Looking at Surveyor and then at Crossarm, she regarded the planet with a severe optic.

"Let's get started." she said.