Ep 0.5 - Negotiations and Guns - Closed
Jun 8, 2012 17:09:59 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 8, 2012 17:09:59 GMT -5
(Hide and Jaws. Takes place late in month 4. already added to TOC!)
The lamentable fact of rank was that no matter where you went there was always - always - bureaucracy. And by "bureaucracy" Ironhide primarily meant what the humans called "paperwork", though the organic pulp sheets of paper was something he'd never had the misfortune of having to deal with before and was just as happy NOT to have to deal with now as Agent Fowler was perfectly agreeable to taking reports in electronic format.
Humans had bureaucracy. Cybertronians had bureaucracy. Autobots most assuredly had bureaucracy - duty assignment rosters, patrol plots and rosters, reports from said patrols, base reports, inventory, and if he at least no longer had to fill out multiple requisition forms then the downside was that there no longer was anywhere to requisition from which made inventory all the more important. THAT was being supplemented by fiscal reports and requisition forms from the human government, something which made Ironhide's endostructure crawl underneath his plates - if there was anything that underscored the desperation of their position it was the 'diplomatic' thinly veiled charity of the local organic government. Their forms were also, Ironhide had concluded, even more meaninglessly redundant than the ones he remembered from vorn before.
He had long ago learned that if he didn't keep on top of the multiplying pile of reports it would eventually balloon like a a red-spectrum star, swamping everything in its path. In an effort to avoid that, certain sections of certain shifts were given over to plowing his way through the mess with a grim determination usually reserved for makeshift weapon repairs while under enemy fire.
Ironhide didn't miss having a desk and he most certainly didn't miss having an office, but he did miss truly comfortable Cybertronian designed and made furniture. Chairs, for instance. The stool in his room was precisely that - a stool, meant primarily for leaning one hip on while he worked at the broad table reserved for parts repair. It was in no way suitable for sitting and working on reports. He knew from experience that sitting on a berth was even less conducive to any form of concentration on something as recharge inducing as 'paperwork' and their current location left him few other choice besides the newly refurbished rec room (where the chairs were comfortable but peace and quite was far from guaranteed), an empty storage room, or a slow, perambulating walk around the base corridors, optics only half on his pedes and mostly focused on the scroll of reports filtering across his HUD.
The last option, at least, kept anything from tightening up due to prolonged sitting, and he had found himself using it more often than not. He was, he thought irritably, finally starting to understand why in Primus' name Optimus paced so fragging much.
Which in no way stopped perimeter sensors that never entirely cycled down from patrol levels from noticing the pair - or rather, the quad - of small, light pedes that had fallen into step with him. It did take a moment to properly register, but when it did Ironhide stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, forcing his shadow to do likewise, and flicked his optics upwards to the flashy colored symbiont that was eyeing him from the ceiling. "Yeh want somethin', or yeh just happen t' be walkin' mah way?"
The lamentable fact of rank was that no matter where you went there was always - always - bureaucracy. And by "bureaucracy" Ironhide primarily meant what the humans called "paperwork", though the organic pulp sheets of paper was something he'd never had the misfortune of having to deal with before and was just as happy NOT to have to deal with now as Agent Fowler was perfectly agreeable to taking reports in electronic format.
Humans had bureaucracy. Cybertronians had bureaucracy. Autobots most assuredly had bureaucracy - duty assignment rosters, patrol plots and rosters, reports from said patrols, base reports, inventory, and if he at least no longer had to fill out multiple requisition forms then the downside was that there no longer was anywhere to requisition from which made inventory all the more important. THAT was being supplemented by fiscal reports and requisition forms from the human government, something which made Ironhide's endostructure crawl underneath his plates - if there was anything that underscored the desperation of their position it was the 'diplomatic' thinly veiled charity of the local organic government. Their forms were also, Ironhide had concluded, even more meaninglessly redundant than the ones he remembered from vorn before.
He had long ago learned that if he didn't keep on top of the multiplying pile of reports it would eventually balloon like a a red-spectrum star, swamping everything in its path. In an effort to avoid that, certain sections of certain shifts were given over to plowing his way through the mess with a grim determination usually reserved for makeshift weapon repairs while under enemy fire.
Ironhide didn't miss having a desk and he most certainly didn't miss having an office, but he did miss truly comfortable Cybertronian designed and made furniture. Chairs, for instance. The stool in his room was precisely that - a stool, meant primarily for leaning one hip on while he worked at the broad table reserved for parts repair. It was in no way suitable for sitting and working on reports. He knew from experience that sitting on a berth was even less conducive to any form of concentration on something as recharge inducing as 'paperwork' and their current location left him few other choice besides the newly refurbished rec room (where the chairs were comfortable but peace and quite was far from guaranteed), an empty storage room, or a slow, perambulating walk around the base corridors, optics only half on his pedes and mostly focused on the scroll of reports filtering across his HUD.
The last option, at least, kept anything from tightening up due to prolonged sitting, and he had found himself using it more often than not. He was, he thought irritably, finally starting to understand why in Primus' name Optimus paced so fragging much.
Which in no way stopped perimeter sensors that never entirely cycled down from patrol levels from noticing the pair - or rather, the quad - of small, light pedes that had fallen into step with him. It did take a moment to properly register, but when it did Ironhide stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, forcing his shadow to do likewise, and flicked his optics upwards to the flashy colored symbiont that was eyeing him from the ceiling. "Yeh want somethin', or yeh just happen t' be walkin' mah way?"