Nature of the Beast
One-Shot Series: First Star I See Tonight
One-Shot: Nuts and Bolties
*Time to meet the crew of the Bolt! Or at least some of them. This is going to be from Smokescreen's perspective, since Zodiac obviously knows her crew well, but I'm also going to "reference" that interview mentioned last chapter in a kind of "flashback" manner owing to unique personalities on this ship, and since it happened off-screen. You'll see what I mean as this goes on.
*Also, puns. :P
He'd never been out to the to the Iacon star-ship docks before; he'd never had a reason, really. Now, he had the perfect excuse to explore the docks, the expansive network of structures built into, on, and around a series of great plateaus almost two hundred klicks outside Iacon. Ships of dizzying varieties and colors towered all around him in every direction, bright early afternoon sunlight bouncing off their bodies. The CERF's elegantly simple acronym was emblazoned on each ship at different points, some on the bow, some towards the stern, and some tucked under wings. Hefty carriers filled with trade goods towered above him – he had to wonder if this was how the kids had felt around his kind: small, insignificant. Not all of the vessels looked like they were originally scientific either; some were clearly re-purposed battleships or cruisers, and some of them hadn't even had their weapons removed. Grinning, he wondered if the rest of the CERF was as rebellious as the ones at the Council meeting. Seemed like. Council tended to be leery of anyone with the capacity to mow down half a city's populace with a suite of guns. Either these were new additions, or they'd won against the Council at some point and had been allowed to keep the weaponry.
As he wound around and into the mesas where shops and satellite immigration offices had been built, he noticed for once that not all of the ships were of Cybertronian make. Two of the vessels reminded him of old sailing ships from Earth in their design, but tech-ed up and using shimmering sails and powerful thrusters on their sterns to propel them, each manned by strange fish people, roughly eight feet in height at their tallest, who wandered on deck or high up on the masts. Another was of a somewhat similar design, but far rounded and sleeker and reminding him of a dune buggy in a way. Weird insect-lizard hybrid creatures, ranging in height from a regular human to an impressive nine feet, plodded around on the vessel as they unloaded cargo and growled at one another. Every so often their insect wings would twitch, and their eyes, he noticed, would never blink in unison – it was always one set after the other. What species they were he didn't know – aliens were more the deal of the CERF and diplomats, not Guardsmechs. Another, with its submarine design and fish-themed wings and bow, was obviously from Aquatron. Another vessel, a lithe, streamlined and brightly painted cheetah of a ship, one that would've made Knockout salivate, was obviously a Velocitronian carrier, crew members roaring in and out as they raced each other to deliver in record time.
None of these were what he was looking for though.
Slowing, he swapped forms and hopped onto the walkways as two Velocitronians screamed past. He jolted when he felt something scaly and slimy bump into him from behind and, spinning, one of the strange fish-people staggered past. Irritated burbling came from its throat as a triad of lights lining its throat sparkled ruby, finned arms gesturing. One webbed foot stamped.
"Sorry!" he said. "Sorry! My bad!"
Burbling in what sounded like a "sure, whatever" tone, it broke back into its fluid run. He followed the creature's path until it disappeared into the throng. Moments later a Tigerhawk swooped low, a crate clasped in its paws. He nodded, impressed. The CERF could definitely teach cities or two a thing about rapid integration. He followed her flight path – and spotted what he'd been looking for. It was a small ship considering the behemoths surrounding it, survey class just like she'd said, but the design stood out like Bulkhead in a ballet class it was so unusual. The ship was more...more bestial in the way it looked, even more so than the Aquatronian vessel. The bow, its very tip gently curved, reminded him of a beak. Numerous wings and protrusions extended out like articulate feathers and aimed towards the stern, like the feathered plume of a Writhing Wing warrior mech, and powerful but beautifully made thrusters were positioned on the largest of the articulate feathers in the plume. Turquoise lights ran up and down its Gainsborough grey body and under the many wings, flickering brightly even in broad daylight and contrasting against the midnight blue underbelly. Across its beak-like bow in flawless Autobot blue (excellent taste by the captain) was the ship's designation: CERF Tieyeian Bolt.
He let his mouth hang open by a fraction. Screw the Velocitronian one! This was an awesome ship!
He broke into a run towards the nearest ramp that led up into the cargo bay, sealed from the open air. A quick twist of the Phase Shifter took care of that little problem.
The hold itself was nothing compared to the titanic holds of hauler ships, but judging by the crates of supplies already in the hold, neatly stacked around in towers, it looked like the Bolt might be heading off some time soon. Meandering through the tiny model city, he examined some of the impeccably labeled crates: Energon, medical supplies, polish (what?), cleaning solution, dispensable tools, replacements for different body parts (that wasn't exactly a cheerful find), an entire tower of crates dedicated to datapads, and flame suppressant chemicals of all things, among countless other things. Some of the spots were even labeled for future crates. He couldn't help laughing. Whoever was in charge of supplies here was a die-hard neat freak.
Reaching the exit door, the motion sensors picked him up and the doors hissed open. Before they were even halfway open, a war hammer was aimed at him – a horned mountain of a war hammer that put the Forge to shame, sparking with electricity. The holder, a burly tank former femme whose helm crest had been replaced with a hefty horn and looked like an angry rhino – literally – glared him down. He tensed. His hand went for the Phase Shifter. He tried to get a word out, tried to –
In a grey blur, the hammer swung. There was no way something that heavy could move so fast.
But it did.
The camera lens stared up at the single light that lit a simple hallway. Voices argued beyond its line of sight.
"Frisk, he's just a CI student. He's not gonna rob us," argued a squeaking tomgirl voice.
A grunting female voice demanded to know where his badge was. An ensuing grunt sounded more accepting.
"Alright. Frisk, give him his anti-gravs back."
Tinkering.
The camera re-oriented.
Knockout was never going to live this down. He knew it. He'd just left the clinic that morning, and now he was back on a medical berth with someone looking him over, too-bright lights hovering above him. Or...wait. Why were they checking out his audials, and why did that "digit" feel slime-y...? He jolted when a voice, female and kinda gruff for a Kalian voice print in his opinion, barked in her own language – something about "fixing" or something like that. The "digit" then receded with upset whines. Groaning, he sat up to check where the whining was coming from, regretting it when the world decided to perform backward ollies on him for no reason. He held his helm, wincing at the pain that arced through his tactile net.
"Take this as a lesson to use the front door, zh'ere," the Kalian femme's voice advised in her rough purr.
The swirling passed and his vision cleared. Ahead of him at a counter was a strange, sort of stocky femme that looked like one of those weird armored creatures that waddled around urban areas on Earth at dusk or at night. What were they called again? Turtle rats – no, armadillos. Pretty femme, too, colored like warm caramel with copper accents on her arms, legs, and chest, but the colors faded like old cloth. Even weirder, she had an abstract tattoo on her left arm that seamlessly incorporated markings that betrayed her as a certified field medic.
When he looked towards the door, he yelped. The bad-tempered, hammer-toting bruiser rhino femme from the Pit was there with her arms crossed over her bulky chassis. Watching him. Impassively. Like she hadn't tried to bash his helm in.
"The Pit is your problem?!" he growled, canting his doorwings down and flaring his field. "You could've taken my helm off!"
Rhino-femme-from-the-Pit merely grunted.
"Trust me, zh'ere," the Kalian said from across the room busily mixing together something in a cube, "if Epsilon had wanted to take your helm off, you'd be in a crypt right now, not a medbay."
The Kalian femme strode towards him with an arc welder, a large cloth, and a cube of medical grade that looked cloudy. Rather than make him drink, she dipped the cloth into the fuel and began dabbing it on a spot just beneath his optic and a little above his chin. It stung. Even her light touch hurt, and from the way he felt the cloth dip meant there was a nasty dent there. Primes it hurt, but the Kalian scolded him each time he tried to duck away, so he tried (he really did) to keep still. The whining continued. Cloth was exchanged for the arc welder. The super-heated flame stung about as bad as the liquid as it seeped into a small breech, but she finished in only a breem.
"So who're you?" he asked – any excuse to ignore the angry rhino guarding the door.
"Tonic," she said. "I keep everyone here capable of doing their jobs."
Yeah, he thought, including the rhino-femme-from-the-Pit named Epsilon. Might've been better if she hadn't done her job for once.
Still the whining went on. The Pit was it coming from? He heard small limbs plant themselves on the berth beside him and, daring to glance away, saw a site he wasn't expecting to see on a star-ship: a rust hound, pure white, with large pink-tipped audials like tiny satellite dishes, one of which was forever flopped over. Creature stood maybe seven or eight feet in height, its tail wagging so hard its entire rear end was along for the ride. The whining, he realized, was not really whining, it was the hound desperately holding back its exuberant barking. He laughed. Someone had done some hard-core behavior training on this one. Sweet temperament, too. He obliged it with some rubs on the helm until, fulfilled in that sense, it got down and began to snuff around the medbay, pawing at the ground-level cabinets every so often.
Tonic opened up a comm. link and said: "Simba, remove your mutt from my medbay before she gets into my cabinets again. I am not letting her contaminate fresh supplies with her endless slobbering and chewing for the umpteenth time."
The hound's audials pricked up and oriented around on hearing something he couldn't. Reluctantly it removed itself from the cabinet it was pawing at and bounded out the doors, its long front legs slightly off kilter from its body and back legs. He'd never seen a drunk Hindian, but he a sneaking suspicion they'd run exactly like that rust hound if they did get over-energized. He snorted. Maybe there was something up with its joint alignment or its center of balance, or maybe it was just weird and it ran like that naturally. The hound slipped to the back burner when Tonic rose to return to one of the counters. Reaching into a cabinet, she took out a dent-puller and returned with it, warning him he had to stay still. He promised he would, earning a satisfied nod. She positioned it and set to work. A sharp pang shot through his helm, for which the Kalian apologized, as the dent flattened out in an instant. It would fade in a moment, she told him.
And it did.
"You're free to go," she said. "Check in with the captain on the bridge before you roam."
He blinked. Wait, that was it? Epsilon's blow had felt a Pit of a lot more painful than just removing one dent and sealing a crack in his faceplates.
"Zh'ere, Epsilon wasn't trying to kill you," she smiled in a voice like warm oil. "Just incapacitate you. She's ex-police; doesn't condone killing."
He dared to glance at Epsilon. Oh, ex-police was she? Not hard to imagine why.
Her armor flared on noting his field glyphs. "Not for the reasons you think," grunted Epsilon. "Left the force on my own for reasons I won't discuss with you. Least not til I'm good an' hammered."
A certain something in her voice softened him: pain. Other little warning bells, too, made an ugly truth burrow into his processor: her comment about needing high grade to talk about those "reasons;" her armor suddenly tightening against her frame yet her pauldrons remaining aggressively flared out; her field retreating inside, unwilling to reach out; her attacking him so quickly, like out of instinct rather than conscious thought. Primes was he not liking where this on-ramp of thought was headed. That was a highway he didn't want to get on to, especially because he knew it existed. He blurted out an apology before he really thought about it. He hadn't...had she reported it?
Epsilon merely grunted and motioned him to come forward. He came. She grabbed his wrist, quick and rough, and disabled the Phase Shifter, taking it from him and storing it in her professionally surly manner.
"Hey!"
The rhino-femme glared at him impassively stating: "Ship protocol explicitly says no foreign weapons or devices on this vessel. Once you're ready to leave, I'll return it."
He opened his mouth to protest, but at the last moment decided that Epsilon, maybe, was right. This was Zodiac's ship, and he was nothing more than a visitor. To break her rules just to hang on to his trusty device would be to violate her trust. Hopefully the rest of the crew wasn't so trigger-happy. One smashed faceplate by one crew member per visit was one smashed faceplate too many, but maybe that friendly rust hound was a good sign. Maybe Epsilon was just the fluke – and, as Tonic had said, by not coming in the front like a sensible visitor, he'd kinda brought that attack on himself. Epsilon had had every right to think he was an intruder or there to cause trouble despite being with the Guard.
Giving Epsilon one last suspiciously trusting glance, he left the medbay. He might as well stop by the bridge to make up for his mistake.
And maybe he'd bump into that rust hound or its owner along the way.
The camera hovered along, a slight ungainliness in its movements, the light thuds of its Kalian owner trotting alongside it. Turning a corner, its lens was quickly assailed by a black, grey, and white form with bat-like wings extending from beneath the being's tiny limbs. Optics in size more fitting of a sparkling stared into its depths, twinkling with manic energy. A stream of speech issued from it as it crawled out of the way of the lens:
"Wowyouactuallywentthroughwiththeidea! Ididn'tthinkyou'dbeokaywithaCIcominginandaskingyouandusquestionsbutIguessIwaswrong! WhichisokayIlovebeingwrong – wronginagoodwayImean. Sowhoareyou? YoulooklikeaKalian. AreyouaKalian? Idon'thaveatonoftimetotalkI'msorrytosay – busyrunningerrandsandcheckingsystemsformybossbutIcanspareafewmoments. Alwayswantedtobeinterviewed!"
"BJ?" asked the squeaking tomgirl voice.
"Yescap'n?"
"Slow down. And chill."
The strange little femme took a purposefully slow intake of air.
"BJ?" wondered the Kalian. "That stand for something?"
"Duh! It means 'base jump!' My real name's Freefall! Second engineer under chief Combustor! Captain just likes givin' us nicknames. Makes talking over comm's with each other and with other crews funner!"
The hallways were nothing spectacular. The ceiling were nice and tall and the halls wide for such a tiny ship, and each was lit by practical strips of turquoise light on the floor and on the ceiling. A few portholes peeped into the outside world, around each one a dizzying abstract design that reminded him of the work Sanskrit had been doing when he'd spoken to her – intricate, connected, blending floral henna with mechanical tattoo designs. Sections of the walls, too, had been decorated, but the interior was unfortunately practical in contrast to the spectacular, alien design of the exterior.
He paused on hearing an endless cascade of chatter coming from a connecting hallway:
"OhmygoshIcan'tbelievethere'saGuardLieutenantontheBoltandtheoneCap'nhitthatonetime! Ishecute? Ihopehe'scute. Iwonderifheknowsaboutusyet. DidCap'ntellhimaboutus? Shenevermentionedit...Oh!Thatmeanswecouldsurprisehim! Whereishethough? Cap'nsaidhe'dbeherebynow. Didhegetlost? Solushelphimifhetookthewrongentrance. Ordidhegetdistractedandpayavisitwiththeothercrews? Wayfindermightknow - WayfinderIneedyourhelp!"
He paused mid-step, reeling. Hol-ee Primes. And he'd thought Miko on Monster was bad. Somebody was hitting the red stuff hard.
The t-intersection of three hallways ahead was suddenly occupied, but not where he'd expected it to be. A somber grey and white form clambered, bullet-fast, across a dark wall. He wasn't totally sure what he was looking at. Some kind of squirrel femme? But she didn't really look like the squirrels he'd seen on Earth. She seemed more mouse-like, but had the squirrel's bushy tail, and her body was flatter. Another aspect, harder to catch thanks to her rapid movements, was interesting: her arms and legs looked like they had some kind of thin connecting mesh, silvery in color. Her body design, even weirder, looked like it had hints of some kind of plane. On reaching the end of the wall she was on, his suspicion was confirmed – jumping high off her wall, the femme extended her arms and legs out to reveal the thin mesh. She glided over and caught the next wall, tiny clawed digits clasping on the surface like a flying gecko. Then she just kept going on her way.
And she was still talking.
"Ohmygosh! Epsilongothim?! Noslaggingway! He'sokayright? Tellmehe'sokay! Shedidn'tkillhimdidshe? OohIhopehedoesn'tgetusintroubleoverthat! Whereishedoyouknow? I'lllookforhimandgetbacktoyouifIfindhim!"
Carefully he slunk around the corner into the hallway she'd come from, a door off to the side telling him that was where the chatterbox had appeared. The thrum of a powerful engine came from beyond it. The engine room, or at least the door that led to it. Did that mean Ms. Chatterbox was an engineer? Grinning, he headed for it. The Bolt was a prototype survey ship, and he'd heard from Knockout (in confidence) that it had a prototype infusion engine straight from the geeks at Lucent's: the SL-1 Peregrine. Maybe just a peek..? Wasn't like it'd kill anyone, right? He was just looking, and it'd be quick. No harm, no foul. He'd still go and check in with the captain. Besides – no one was home. No catch, no foul.
The door hissed open at his approach, and he ducked inside.
A short entrance hall led further in, canting a few degrees down. Lights of a different shade, citrine, lined the hallway and soon branched out into an expansive space. Cables and wires snaked around, under, over, and up every space available in an organized way, but the engine itself was a sight to behold despite being tucked away in a protective casing to keep the glare down. It shone brighter than a searchlight, and its humming thrum vibrated around the room like the ship itself was purring. The four-pronged infusion arm that fed the engine hung higher above, inert for the moment. Consoles were dotted around the room, each slightly different from the other. One in particular was almost mini-con level in height, while another towered over it.
Curious, he strolled over to investigate.
The tiny one, he assumed, must belong to the red-addicted chatterbox he'd narrowly avoided. The crazy tall one definitely belonged to someone, and the screen had a message on it. His curiosity mounted; the message was written in Canyon dialect. He began reading it and almost choked as he translated. And here'd thought Arcee and Wheeljack knew some colorful curse words and phrases. He backed away, feeling dirty just looking at the towering giant's console now. The final console looked to be made for a mini-bot, and had some eccentric flairs in its design that spoke of an Altihexian. No curse words, and it had been left open to a live diagram of the engine. Engine seemed stable, and at the moment it was only running on minimal power in an idle state just to provide power to other areas of the ship – probably crew quarters, doors, and the medbay if he had to guess. He hadn't seen any security cameras, but maybe it was powering those too. Security officers couldn't be everywhere; only made sense to have some extra "eyes" around to monitor the ship.
A low growling hiss made him jump. His hand went for his wrist, remembering only after it hit air that Epsilon had taken it from him.
Out of the shadowed recesses of the engine room, a towering figure emerged, its body swaying to and fro, into the light. A giant mech, an Ophidian, easily as tall as Bulkhead, his legs replaced with the thick body of a serpent. White racing stripes that shone with their own light ran from the sides of his helm, down his body, and ended by combining at the tip of his tail. Optics like flickering foundry fires burned in suspicious anger, and his four burly arms he thoroughly believed could throttle Predaking. Drawing up, he loomed over him.
His doorwings lowered of their own accord. "Ah..."
"An' who the frack're yoo, yoo wa'i-bku ultze'o? What're yoo doin' in me Lady's spark without my say so?!" he snarled. One fist balled. "Talk, mat'o'or'ku, afore I rip yoor optics oot an' toss 'em inte a forge!"
The camera stopped at a door. Behind it, what sounded like a titanic Felioid purred away, its soft thunder rattling its delicate internal components.
"I'd...turn the visuals off, sir," squeaked the tomgirl voice. "My chief engineer can be a little...touchy when it comes to recording equipment. He doesn't like gleingin'ayl – ah, that's the Avian word for 'sinning optics in sacred places' if you haven't learned that one yet."
The Kalian made a strange grinding noise. "Ah, I get cha. Doesn't like nosy peepers with cameras, huh?"
"Well, no. He's okay with them so long as the cameras are blinded, and he knows you're coming so you don't count as gleingin'ayl. But the camera...let's just say it doesn't have the same rights and privileges."
"Gotcha. One klik."
Tinkering.
The camera's vision terminated.
"Oh, and fair warning: You might have to do some editing if you plan on turning this in for credit."
"Why?"
"...You'll see. Erm, hear."
He tried to speak. Only a squeak came out. Another fist, one with clawed digits like knives, clenched. The Ophidian mech's looming glower was quickly turning into a wrathful glare. Another growling hiss escaped from the mech's throat and chassis vents, optics narrowing to slits. Nervous, scared, his doorwings lowered further as he emitted a low, soft grinding sound from his own throat – the closest he could get to a nervous gulp.
"Ah..." he managed, gesturing aimlessly. "I...y'see...I..."
The fists remained clenched, but they moved away. Both sets of arms folded over his thick chassis. The fire in his gaze faded by a fraction, but his armor stayed flared. His frown refused to flee.
"Who are ye and what're ye dooin' in here?"
Threat managed, he got control of his vocalizer again. "Your boss. She, um, she invited me? I'm Smokescreen. Elite Guard. The guy she nearly gave a concussion a while back? I-I know I was supposed to go straight to the bridge and all, but I just wanted to see – and I was trying to avoid the crazy flying mouse with the Red addiction. She was looking for me..."
Like magic, the frown lifted to be replaced with a surprisingly warm smile as his folded arms dropped. A hoarse, raucous chuckle escaped.
"If yoo want to avoid her, toonser, this ain't the place. That little vort'qly works fer me."
Great...
"Who is she anyway?"
The Ophidian smiled, "Freefall. Belter of an engineer, but the radge jlorgev refuses to shut her trap fer a single breem. Ah've asked Tonic before to rip her vocalizer out an' spare us the trooble, but the bikleja refuses," he snorted, "as usual."
Ignoring the colorful adjectives, that sounded about right. That was no Red addiction he'd seen out there – she just wouldn't shut up.
"And, uh, who're you exactly?"
The mech drew himself up, not to loom over him threateningly as he just had but to look more impressive. He introduced himself (with more colorful language) as Combustor, the chief engineer, and he was in charge of two fellow engineer underlings, Freefall and Jumpstart. While on this ship, he growled, he'd fracking well make sure to respect the Lady, or he'd ensure well and good that he'd be leaving the ship in a cargo crate – in pieces – and sold to the nearest N'jez pilot for spare parts. Suddenly meek again, he nodded. The Lady, he assumed, must be the captain. But now that he was purposely trying to be in the light he noticed his mesh was oddly glossy. It wasn't the result of polishing either – the mech had tons of fluids on him of different colors paired with countless dents and dings and scrapes. This was a mech who didn't care a scrap about his appearance. So where was that sheen coming from? And why was he getting whiffs of acetone?
"So...can I see the engine?" he asked.
Combustor snorted like an angry Equinine, glaring at him. The Lady's spark were not for optics other than her tenders, he snapped. Fallen's ball bearings! Who did he think he was, asking that question?!
It hit him then. The Lady wasn't the captain – it was ship itself. Combustor treated it as a living being. The Ophidian saw his question as a violation of sacred privacy.
He dropped the subject. Instead, he asked where Jumpstart was. Apparently satisfied that the questions were now on a different frequency, he admitted that the xalunef Jumpstart were hopping about ensuring all systems were running like Harahadrian spider silk. The Lady needed smooth innards to fly right, he said, or she'd get right pissed, and that po'clen of an Altihexian was a good worker when he weren't slacking off. If he wanted someone to talk to, he said, try him or that kilef'vor Jackdaw. Po'clen was always happy to yammer away at a fellow toonser like him. He had to keep the Lady pleased, and right now she were in an eager, temperamental mood. None too happy about being grounded for so long, she was. Tail thudding onto the floor in a weighty tap, he slithered off to resume his work, the acetone whiffs fading with his presence as he muttered colorful descriptions of the present government.
Prolific cursing aside...he kinda liked this guy. He was a half tamed viper within the body of a boa – all he lacked were the toxic fangs. And he knew better than to tickle a venomous snake. Especially one that smelled like a gas fire waiting to ignite and crush him the same way a boa did to its prey.
"I'll, ah, I'll head to the bridge then," he said, pointing behind him to the door.
Combustor gave him a parting word from the depths of the engine room, "Respect the Lady, yoo white-backed ultze'o. Both of 'em."
He swore he would. Cross his spark.
"Hn. Good. Now git yoo deklot'ori!"
He retreated from the viper's den.
He'd been on the Nemesis once before, but the layout of the Bolt was more straightforward in its design. He didn't worry about getting lost. The Bolt was an organized, streamlined highway where the Nemesis had been an urban street plan. Bland, sure – but the entire vessel was designed for efficiency, so extending that efficiency to the inside made sense. But, like with the windows and walls of before, certain sections of the walls had been intricately painted with beautiful designs to add a more home-y feel. Was all this Zodiac's hand at work?
A familiar whine came from around a corner, and the friendly rust hound from the medbay drunk-ran into view, skidding to stop at his heel struts and tail wagging harder than ever.
He knelt. "Aww, hey there. You miss me that bad?"
Whining some more, it put its paws up on his knee pikes and began licking.
"Oh my gosh, you're so cute!" he cooed. "Yes you are!"
A whistle came from the hall she'd (he assumed it was a girl with the pink accents) come around. Moments later a Vizanthan voice called out, but his Vizanthan was rustier than his Kalian. The Vizanthan himself strode from behind corner cover – a mech about his height, pale beige with rust red incorporated into his chassis and limbs, and black accents like that weird Egyptian eyeliner sat at the corners of his periwinkle blue optics. His helm was designed to mirror a roaring lion, but the silver faceplates shielded beneath the twin fangs was gentle.
Wait a klik. Lion's head design for his helmet. Was this "Simba?"
The Vizanthan whistled and the hound retreated to his heel struts. His optics, he noticed, were aimed at him directly, but there was something...off in the way they were looking at him. They weren't looking at him the same way the rust hound's were.
"HETI seems to enjoy your presence, sdi'qyya," the Vizanthan commented, smiling.
He rose, "Who're you?"
Clasping his hands together like an earnest witness, the Vizanthan bowed and, smiling, said: "I am Sirocco, sdi'qyya, this vessel's humble astro-meteorologist."
Smokescreen blinked. Sirocco's smile only grew. He motioned him to follow, seemingly knowing he was headed for the bridge without asking. The rust hound, apparently named HETI, trotted along beside him.
"I am the ah, how you say it, weathermech."
"Oh! So you help out with alien weather predictions and stuff? That sort of thing?"
"More or less. But I also create maps of climate and weather for study, so others know of any oddities or dangers and thus may take precautions. As we Vizanthans say, it is better to fly unfaltering into a rust storm with one's optics open –"
"Than to go in full throttle and blind," he finished for him.
Sirocco's smile broadened further, a hint of something in the smile as he glanced at him, that same off-ness in the way he looked at him returning. His periwinkle optics seemed to brighten, but their unique hue stayed the same. He was hinting at something, he could sense it. But what was it? He turned a corner with him, puzzling over the mystery. Why didn't he just say so outright? Saved a lot of time and effort. He glanced away, feeling toyed with. More of the wall artwork graced his sight, the design this time incorporating little circles of light in between the mechanical tendrils, each glowing in a different hue. One in particular was a seamless meld of red and blue, a little hint of white in the duality. Sparks. That's what they were. Kneeling, he put a hand on the red and blue one. Did the creator know whose this was? Had they seen it? When had they seen it?
"Who the Pit does these?" he breathed, whirling on the Vizanthan in awe and pointing to trace the design. "They're amazing!"
Sirocco tilted his helm to the side, still smiling in that mysterious way, and there was a touch of sadness in their directed off-ness. Smokescreen looked at him, something at the back of his processor poking at him persistently. After a moment it broke through and set off an alarm. His hands flew to his mouth in horror. How could he be so stupid and insensitive?! The answer to Sirocco's mysterious smile was staring him in the faceplates. Literally.
"Primes! I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were –"
"Charming? Intelligent? Mild-mannered? Taken?" Sirocco listed. He was still smiling.
"Blind."
He chuckled. "You say that as if it is a negative trait."
They began walking again. Ahead, at the end of this hall, a door more impressive than the others stood.
"But in answer to your question," Sirocco continued unfazed, "some were done by the captain, and others were done during visits by members of her tribe over the course of many cycles. With each visit, another is added. In fact, there are many you have not seen that are in the individual crew quarters, each unique and inspired by their city or world of origin."
He glanced sharply to stare at the cloud-voiced Vizanthan. World of origin? he wondered. So they were inspired by Cybertron? To which Sirocco answered with another of his chuckles. Had he not been told? The Tieyeian Bolt had an Aquatronian colonial in the crew, a mech by name of Wayfinder, but for someone considered the finest cartographer to ever emerge from Aquatron – and that was no passing compliment! – the mech was ironically uncertain of what to do if not told explicitly. But a pleasant spark on the whole he assured him, one who always enjoyed the chance to speak of his home world to whomever didn't instantly turn their nasal up at him.
Smokescreen nodded. He knew well enough that their colonials weren't viewed in the highest light. It wasn't fair but it was an unfortunate fact.
They paused in unison near the slightly-more-impressive doors. Now, close up, he noticed a raised carving in the metal: a strange image of twin serpent-like creatures with features of both Chinese dragons and possessing the heads of feathered serpents, each clambering up the seam in the doorway with thick bird talon limbs, a single limb looking like it was ready to pull the doors apart like curtains. Lightning bolts crashed around them from invisible thunderclouds. Mutely he shook his helm in wonder. Was there anywhere on this ship untouched by a Painter?
"If you would kindly pardon me, sdi'qyya, I must return to duties of my own. May the sun shine warmly on you, always."
Clasping his hands and bowing again, Sirocco left him, HETI tailing beside him.
Smokescreen took in some air and circled it. He stepped towards the doors. Hissing, the alien serpent beasts pulled them apart in a rapid flick, vanishing into the recess in the walls to rest from guard duty.
The camera panned around the circular chamber. A live image of the world outside was being relayed onto the display screens that doubled as windows. Closer, a Corvid mech was busy analyzing an expansive list while simultaneously analyzing three data displays. Another mech, a strange pale brass mech that looked like an aquatic canine, was immersed in fine-tuning every single control, chittering softly to himself. The Corvid was quick to turn; the water-dog mech was oblivious to its presence.
The Corvid greeted with a crisp salute and a jaunty smile aimed not at the camera, but something just above it.
"I salute you, captain, for conquering your fears. And who might you be, Kalian?"
Considering the tiny nature of its captain, the bridge was a titanic chamber. A live image of the world was held up for all within to see through the windshields, and controls ringed the room like cattle fencing. Smack in the middle of the room, analyzing three separate holo-screen at once, was...Corvus Rho? No, not Corvus. This mech was more powerfully built and had a glossy blue-black finish. He was, however, a Corvid like Rho. He noted in surprise a familiar violet badge like the one Corvus had on his shoulder. What was it, he wondered, with Corvids and aligning with the 'Cons?
And situated on a perch just to the side of the main steering controls of the vessel was the captain herself, analyzing a holo-screen of her own.
He revved his vocalizer. Corvid and captain together turned. The captain was on him in an instant, hovering by his audials and pulling on them like a nervous child. Her beak over his audials hurt a little, but nowhere near as bad as the hit from Epsilon. The behavior was not something he'd seen from her before.
*You're okay? Please tell me you're okay. Dia told me you had a run in with Thor, and with Riddler and Fuzzy off the ship and me being busy getting this bird ready for flight I had no real way of keeping track of you. I'm so sorry about that. I should've warned you to take the main entrance, but on top of the meeting and this whole thing kinda being spur-of-the-moment it just..slipped. You're okay though? Tonic told me you were okay but I wanna hear the words from you.*
He touched the seam where Tonic had welded together the broken metal plates, "I'm fine," he promised. "Really. Your medic knows her stuff."
She stopped tugging and swooped back over to perch on the Corvid's outstretched arm. He smiled.
"Wanna introduce me?"
"Name's Jackdaw, cap'n's loyal right hand and close personal friend," said the Corvid with his twinkling blue-grey optics whilst flashing him a debonair grin.
He approached and shook the extended hand. Firm handshake.
"A pleasure to meet you in person at last. Pity you were unable to attend the convention of Councils; cap'n mentioned you woulda liked to have at 'em."
"Yeah well," he shrugged, "you don't come out of a fall into the Sonic Canyons within the deca-cycle, and those medics there wouldn't let me out till I was at a hundred percent. Would've snuck out, but I'd done it a few times before then, so I was on notice at that point."
Jackdaw's laugh suit his namesake, a loud caw that rang louder than a Draconian's calling cry.
"We're going to get along splendidly!"
God. So. Behind. I: Don't worry. Fire of Youth is up next.
Yeah, introducing the whole crew would be time consuming, so I'm introducing my "favorites" of the cast I created. The rest will appear later.
