Ep 0.5 - Breaking News - Open
Mar 25, 2012 16:37:46 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 25, 2012 16:37:46 GMT -5
The awestruck peace that his systems had finally settled into - amazed, a little anxious, ecstatic, then back to amazed - lasted in equilibrium through long hours spent curled up beside Cleaver's recharging frame. It lasted when the increasingly insistent alerts of his internal alarm finally dragged him away from the berth with one last kiss and a gentle pat along the parts of her chassis that she had pointed out, and she had, true to prediction, never stirred.
It lasted through tip toeing out of her quarters. It lasted through threading his way back through the mess he had made of the blown wall - they'd need to get people on clearing that, sooner rather than later - and all the way out to the entrance of the base where the bright afternoon sun was streaming in. The other residents of the base, wherever they were, had been keeping well back from what he had designated as the blast zone for that day.
It was going to be mid-morning in Nevada, though inside the Autobot base it was hard to tell. Shift would just be starting. The calm mix of emotion that was sustaining him lasted as he absently paged base control for a ground bridge; lasted right up until he looked out over the bright lit landscape of the desert and some rogue errant part of his processor suggested that some day he might be bringing a tiny sparkling out to see this view for the first time. The same processor thread helpfully recalled Bluestreak's first wide-opticed experience outside of the base they had called home at the time as emphasis.
Ironhide found he had no memory, not a single slagging bit, of the bridge forming, or of stepping through it, or of anything at all until he found himself standing in the middle of the control room feeling like a bomb blast had just knocked his neural sensors for a loop.
Bulkhead was sitting early morning monitors, a partial cube of energon at hand. The younger mech was squinting at him a bit. "You alright?"
The words slid in and out of Ironhide's processor, taking forever to connect to something intelligible. "Yeah," he managed at last. "'m fine."
Bulkhead gave him another look, then laughed, shaking his head with a smirk as he turned back to the monitors. "I'm guessing somebody didn't get any recharge last night."
Any other time, Ironhide might have either took it in jest or offense, unwilling to let Cleaver become part of base gossip. Now, the words slid away like water on polish, the whole world sliding until it landed off kilter, like the gravity had gone every so slightly skewed.
Sparkling. They were... she was... All of the shock, all of the heady rushing highs of awe and amazement and ecstatic delight, of fear and terror and worry, came rushing back all at once, no longer restrained for the sake of Cleaver's needed rest. It burst like shock fire across his sensor net, shorting in waves through his processor, a million things and any one of them too large to be contained.
Out of all of it, one single coherent thing bubbled up. Cohort. Their cohort was having a sparkling, and the rest of the cohort needed to know. It was enough to lurch him back into motion, one step becoming two, then three, quicker and faster, sharp non-verbal com pings picking out his kin from among all the sparks on base. Jazz, Bluestreak, Shadow, but Jazz was closest and Ironhide took the ramps at a clip until he swung into the makeshift rec room at speed.
Jazz was there, talking to Optimus or had been - his helm was up, optic visor focused on the door, field a sharp pulse of curiosity and query in response to the pings. "'Hide! What's..."
Anything else he said was lost as more than several tons of red frontliner vaulted the makeshift couch, scooping the smaller saboteur into a crashing tangle of metal that slid halfway across the rec room floor. Ironhide curled to take the fall on his side, Jazz hugged safe from the impact, and every incoherent emotion and thought tumbling out in a jumbled mix of woven glyphs and whirring Basic to wash in a tsunami wave over his cohortmate. Delight-joy-terror-awe-frantic-ecstatic-impossible-amazing...
Ironhide sucked in a deep ventilation and managed to expel it in an upwards whistle, a three part note ending in a click of the purely impossible. '...Sparkling!'
[ooc - open to Bluestreak and Shadowrunner, who got pinged repeatedly and are probably wondering what the heck, and to Optimus and anyone else who was minding their own business in the rec room.]
It lasted through tip toeing out of her quarters. It lasted through threading his way back through the mess he had made of the blown wall - they'd need to get people on clearing that, sooner rather than later - and all the way out to the entrance of the base where the bright afternoon sun was streaming in. The other residents of the base, wherever they were, had been keeping well back from what he had designated as the blast zone for that day.
It was going to be mid-morning in Nevada, though inside the Autobot base it was hard to tell. Shift would just be starting. The calm mix of emotion that was sustaining him lasted as he absently paged base control for a ground bridge; lasted right up until he looked out over the bright lit landscape of the desert and some rogue errant part of his processor suggested that some day he might be bringing a tiny sparkling out to see this view for the first time. The same processor thread helpfully recalled Bluestreak's first wide-opticed experience outside of the base they had called home at the time as emphasis.
Ironhide found he had no memory, not a single slagging bit, of the bridge forming, or of stepping through it, or of anything at all until he found himself standing in the middle of the control room feeling like a bomb blast had just knocked his neural sensors for a loop.
Bulkhead was sitting early morning monitors, a partial cube of energon at hand. The younger mech was squinting at him a bit. "You alright?"
The words slid in and out of Ironhide's processor, taking forever to connect to something intelligible. "Yeah," he managed at last. "'m fine."
Bulkhead gave him another look, then laughed, shaking his head with a smirk as he turned back to the monitors. "I'm guessing somebody didn't get any recharge last night."
Any other time, Ironhide might have either took it in jest or offense, unwilling to let Cleaver become part of base gossip. Now, the words slid away like water on polish, the whole world sliding until it landed off kilter, like the gravity had gone every so slightly skewed.
Sparkling. They were... she was... All of the shock, all of the heady rushing highs of awe and amazement and ecstatic delight, of fear and terror and worry, came rushing back all at once, no longer restrained for the sake of Cleaver's needed rest. It burst like shock fire across his sensor net, shorting in waves through his processor, a million things and any one of them too large to be contained.
Out of all of it, one single coherent thing bubbled up. Cohort. Their cohort was having a sparkling, and the rest of the cohort needed to know. It was enough to lurch him back into motion, one step becoming two, then three, quicker and faster, sharp non-verbal com pings picking out his kin from among all the sparks on base. Jazz, Bluestreak, Shadow, but Jazz was closest and Ironhide took the ramps at a clip until he swung into the makeshift rec room at speed.
Jazz was there, talking to Optimus or had been - his helm was up, optic visor focused on the door, field a sharp pulse of curiosity and query in response to the pings. "'Hide! What's..."
Anything else he said was lost as more than several tons of red frontliner vaulted the makeshift couch, scooping the smaller saboteur into a crashing tangle of metal that slid halfway across the rec room floor. Ironhide curled to take the fall on his side, Jazz hugged safe from the impact, and every incoherent emotion and thought tumbling out in a jumbled mix of woven glyphs and whirring Basic to wash in a tsunami wave over his cohortmate. Delight-joy-terror-awe-frantic-ecstatic-impossible-amazing...
Ironhide sucked in a deep ventilation and managed to expel it in an upwards whistle, a three part note ending in a click of the purely impossible. '...Sparkling!'
[ooc - open to Bluestreak and Shadowrunner, who got pinged repeatedly and are probably wondering what the heck, and to Optimus and anyone else who was minding their own business in the rec room.]