Alien By Perspective

"That's the thing about people who think they hate computers...What they really hate are lousy programmers." – Larry Niven

Chapter 5

Atalanta tended not to regret or criticize herself. Usually when she was a little too dramatic with leaving her mark, or couldn't keep her mouth shut, she would simply laugh the situation away and crack some senile, often twistedly insulting joke to 'lighten' the situation. A lot of petty fighting would follow, along with some bizarre escape plan and crossing off another port on her map of the cosmos to avoid.

However this world was different.

There seemed to be a set of rules that she couldn't bend, or some secret that everyone knew but her.

She was different.

Her beloved scout ship was spit into a billion particles, most likely adding to the formation of new stars and clouds above. Her old body was gone, and while mere hours ago she was unfazed by that, doubt was seeping into the cracks of her confidence.

Atalanta could practically taste the damp fog over her. She felt more negative, filled with angst. Any of her usual wise cracking was done bitterly, in her own mind. Perhaps it was for the better. For once, she was being interrogated so that she could stay somewhere, not by people trying to lock her up.

Grimly she scowled. Perhaps she was wrong on that account. The Autobots weren't exactly throwing it back with her.

But then again, why would they? And how could she be so utterly, abysmally idiotic? Not in a thousand years would she have been so moronic to simply dash off like a puppy on the heels of their owner. She was a hunter for god's sake! How could she have made such a rookie mistake! Sure, she ran blindly into a lot of things, but there was always a plan a, b, c…you get the picture. There was always a way out that was almost as good as pressing a rewind button.

Her own naivety, something she thought had been lost in her teens, made her pull a crinkled expression.

Briefly, Atalanta was distracted with apt wonder at how similar her facial plates were to the flesh of her old face. The fibrous muscles were constructed of cross-hatched meshes, interlocked on a microscopic level like glycosidic bonds. A whisper of metal on metal was caught by her audio receptors as they stiffened and tilted to catch the sound waves.

Her own stupidity had brought her here. In the brig of the Autobot base, sitting cross-legged against the grey walls of her cell. It was literally a cube. She could reach the base of the other wall by lying flat on her back, pressing her feet against the smooth surface to get a painfully satisfying stretch up the back of her legs. The lights were high up, snuggled against daring cameras. The rim of the door was visible by its thin indent of the frame opposite her. There was no way of opening it on this side, as far as she could fathom. Or maybe she was just to brain dead tired, not to mention fucking bored to try.

Atalanta had been blunt with Jazz and his team. The moment they had led her into an equally grey and hostile interrogation room to the cell that she was in now, she had opened the port at the base of her neck and starchily said, "Let's get crackin' shall we?"

Her answer was silence, but as Jazz moved around her to feed his connection plug in, she had seen a relaxed smirk grace his features. This bot was rare, to be able to hold such an aura of confidence and amiability while still making her plating tense. In her experience, people like that were the once who walked away alive and smug at the end of the day. The three other bots took up positions, a manner of routine it seemed around the room, watching her like hawks.

Feeling someone shift through your processor made her want to heave. She had never met a telepath before, but it must have held a similar sensation. Before even entering the outer limitations of her mind, Jazz had deployed various coding to protect himself from whatever he expected to be attacked with. Instinctively, Atalanta accidently activated her own mechanical immune response, and she started to panic at the thought that Jazz would get the wrong message. However without hesitation, the mech cornered every one into a firewall, encasing them into dormancy to think that there was no threat. The simplicity of her defences was thoroughly embarrassing, but then again, Atalanta had never been a great computer expert. Basic hacker and saboteur, yes. But she could easily see that Jazz outclassed her skill. And if she was honest with herself, most of the time she got bored and just stuck some plasma bombs under the keyboard for the next luck user.

Her HUB screen was alight, agitated in red and tracking Jazz's movements. He hummed quietly as he shifted through her statistical information, the slight sucking sensation on her neck telling her that he was copying everything he found after searching for viruses and other hidden defences. If any, they were negligible in slowing him down.

Jazz pursed his lip plates in curiosity as he worked into the deeper cores of the femme's processor. The complexity of her processor was like that of a youngling, or even the average bot's before the Great War started, where the defences of a soldier's processor would have been reserved for those in high positions and military class. She didn't even have the basic coding to send mediocre viruses at him! He could tell any that went his way, she was trying to prevent, but the question was why was she having such difficulty controlling her own processor?

Suspiciously, he stopped humming when he saw Atalanta cringe as he entered her memory core. Jazz prepared himself for whatever he was about to download.

In hindsight, he knew that nothing would've prepared him for what he saw.

: Prime?

A pause, and then a response.

: Yes Jazz. What is your report? Has there been any development?

As his own processor pinged, informing him that he had viewed every part of the femme's processor, he retracted his connective plug out of her and stepped back, staring at the femme that by everything he knew should not exist. Hell, she had seen things that she shouldn't have, and now he had too.

Was it normal to not react when you just saw a conversation with your creators in an ex-human's processor?

: I'll send ya what ah found. Jus'…make sure ta' sit down fer this one, Optimus.

The silence reigned. Atalanta grimly stared at nothing, focusing on the humming of her engines as she tried to calm her anxiety. Jazz noted that Blinder, the newest to join his team, was loosing his blank exterior. He wasn't used to interrogation training yet, and the lack of action was making him twitchy. Even more so now that Atalanta had picked up on the fact, and was staring him down, making him twitch even more. A mental note for extra training was made. Eventually;

:…Are you certain of the validity of this data file you have sent me, Jazz?

: Ah hundred times ova'. Ah know it seems incredible, but that's what's in her processor. Want me ta' check if Shockwave or Soundwave have planted it?

: That won't be necessary. Her encounter with Primus and Unicron, they match the images the Matrix has shown me. Not even those cons could have manifested a bluff like that. Make sure that she is given some energon, and then send her to the brig. Place guards especially for her cell. Report to me immediately after dismissing your team. I shall call the other senior commanders to inform them.

: You got it, Prime. Jazz out.

Atalanta would internally moan about how she didn't know how long she'd been in the cell, but her HUB screen all too cheerfully informed her that it had been for 5 human hours, 23 minutes and 13.49 seconds. Vaguely, she noted that her processor prioritised the human measurement, with the Cybertronian equivalent in small digits below.

She wished Barkuub were here. Even in the same universe would've been nice. Alive at the very least.

God, she felt needy.

Dryly, she chuckled to herself. Primus, actually.

It was almost as bad as being in the black hole again, but for actually having the time on her. Her mind was starting to race again, anxiety and bad memories lifting through the base of her spine like a toxic gas. She forced the excess air out of her tanks and sprang up with too much energy, instinctively falling into a crouch. After a moment of unsure blinking and listening to the whirring of her own gears for what felt like the thousandth time, she steadily rose up like she had the very first time she had done so in this form. Habitually, she ran a clawed hand through her copper wired hair, tapping her thin band like chevron as each finger slipped over it. The curls still tangled in the same pattern as they had before, which was an odd relief.

How long did it take to decide her fate? In all honesty, she didn't have much experience in the situation she was in. Usually she didn't cooperate. Usually, she would've blown the place up five ways Sunday by now. Fuck, (translated to frag, her HUB told her) she even had her own built in weapons system, and she hadn't even scratched the paint of her cell!

Exactly 12 minutes 54.33 seconds later, her enhanced audios caught the footfalls of several persons approaching. By the sound of it, the walls were thick, though she had guessed that, and seen the thickness of the doorframe when she was shoved in here before. The 'ting' and 'pling' sounding footfalls indicated Cybertronians, though she hadn't seen any humans near the brig, now that she thought about it. One of the bots was larger, she guessed. Their engine seemed to rattle, and there was a heavy cloud of greasing oil she could smell as the party neared the other side of the door. For some reason, she associated that smell with age.

The 2 guards outside sprang up to attention at the sight of the mechs and femme in front of them. Atalanta smirked with mirth, the clanking of straightening spines distinct. A gruff rumble of a voice snapped for the door to be opened and moments later it slunk in to the sides of the walls to reveal a towering black and silver mech, his narrowed eyes and stand by cannons making Atalanta barely resist the urge to run away with wide eyes.

Everything about this mech screamed military and tough. You simply did not mess with this mech. His battle armour was no nonsense, with the glyphs on his armour representing his high rank. Everything about him was huge; he was at least 5 or 6 feet taller than her, and his thick dark plating made that fact even more prominent. His surprisingly light blue optics were drilling holes into her with the mother of all glares as if she had just admitted to smelting his grandmother.

Next to him, a much slimmer mech that she had not seen before stared emotionlessly at her, his blank blue optics hidden by a visor similar to Jazz's. He seemed to hold a similar function, as his armour was also streamlined and lightweight with many glyphs, however this paint job was black with gold and white detailing. This mech stood with a perfect posture, and commanded just as much presence as the hulking monster of a mech next to him.

Finishing off the party was Arcee, the magenta biker femme from her first escort team of the day, stood with her hand on her hip. She still had the same suspicious condescension about her as before. Instantly, Atalanta raised her upper lip in a threatening smirk, exposing her lengthening canines more than necessary. She happily noted that the scowl that was thrown back at her was not nearly as impressive.

Why did she get the feeling that crash landing had been the easy part?

Here's chapter no.5 folks!

I hope you enjoy, and thanks to all the reviews (the constructive criticism is great), follows, and favourites! You're all stars!

On a side note, has any one watched ep1 of the new Gotham show? I'm in love, I just hope they can maintain it's awesomeness, like TWD or Arrow.

Love,

Renzin xo