Ep. 0.5 Rearranging the Stockroom -closed-
Apr 22, 2012 20:40:01 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2012 20:40:01 GMT -5
The bunker was silent in the early morning hours; the exterior of the base was on the order of single decibels and, though the gargantuan robots who resided deep within the former human missile silo did not need to sleep, the base had fallen mostly silent in the wake of the late night. The little humans had gone home some time ago and all but the most active of bots were doing something quiet to pass the hours in the interim between rotational cycles. Though it was understandable that some still were not used to the day rotations of the Terran planet a few of the Cybertronians had actually taken to semi-daily recharge or defrags and it always left the base quiet.
In the deep hallways of the bunker, concrete chipping from age and the passage of massive pedes, heavy footfalls pounded slowly, evenly onward as one of the bots who rarely ever stopped to rest continued his self-imposed duty of patrolling the base and seeing to problems where they arose. The prime had often told him to take it easy but, as Pistongasket had known for some time, too much time at rest caused the unfortunate memories within his cortex to surface through the data search algorithms; the less he had to think about those the better. It did not do to dwell on the past. As long as he kept himself busy, stopping only to recharge, talk, take part in missions he was fine. A
s he passed into a lesser utilized portion of the bunker his headlamp came on to light the path dim from the lack of working primitive lights; his lamp and his optics were the only light from his frame and, with no fire in his boiler, there was no smoke, no steam on a compliance to a request from the Prime. No coal burning in the base. The old bot didn't hesitate to comply though he did arrange for a room where he could smoke, sit in silence; his quarters, the back of a cluttered furnace room. As his thoughts flowed like steam his headlamp stopped on a large door to a marked store room and he paused. May as well take a look.
Stepping toward it he gingerly undid the bolt and pushed the door open, having to bend down to access the room without slamming his helm on the concrete above it. Once inside he vented, straightened up at the sight of a well lit room lined with large storage containers, ones similar to those he used to haul from cargo ships in the human city of Saint Louis years ago. Cobwebs dotted the room and the containers seemed to be in general disarray. Nodding to himself, his azure optics looking this way and that, he stepped slowly inward. In his cortex a series of graphs were being cogitated noting container number, size, and serial number to cross reference them against those he had already worked with. By and large the containers were of unknown numbers so as he reached the end of the room, his footfalls coming quite slowly, he turned and stretched, his large form coming to grips that this would be a long job.
In the deep hallways of the bunker, concrete chipping from age and the passage of massive pedes, heavy footfalls pounded slowly, evenly onward as one of the bots who rarely ever stopped to rest continued his self-imposed duty of patrolling the base and seeing to problems where they arose. The prime had often told him to take it easy but, as Pistongasket had known for some time, too much time at rest caused the unfortunate memories within his cortex to surface through the data search algorithms; the less he had to think about those the better. It did not do to dwell on the past. As long as he kept himself busy, stopping only to recharge, talk, take part in missions he was fine. A
s he passed into a lesser utilized portion of the bunker his headlamp came on to light the path dim from the lack of working primitive lights; his lamp and his optics were the only light from his frame and, with no fire in his boiler, there was no smoke, no steam on a compliance to a request from the Prime. No coal burning in the base. The old bot didn't hesitate to comply though he did arrange for a room where he could smoke, sit in silence; his quarters, the back of a cluttered furnace room. As his thoughts flowed like steam his headlamp stopped on a large door to a marked store room and he paused. May as well take a look.
Stepping toward it he gingerly undid the bolt and pushed the door open, having to bend down to access the room without slamming his helm on the concrete above it. Once inside he vented, straightened up at the sight of a well lit room lined with large storage containers, ones similar to those he used to haul from cargo ships in the human city of Saint Louis years ago. Cobwebs dotted the room and the containers seemed to be in general disarray. Nodding to himself, his azure optics looking this way and that, he stepped slowly inward. In his cortex a series of graphs were being cogitated noting container number, size, and serial number to cross reference them against those he had already worked with. By and large the containers were of unknown numbers so as he reached the end of the room, his footfalls coming quite slowly, he turned and stretched, his large form coming to grips that this would be a long job.