We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
His firewalls worked frantically as the burning only got worse. Two servos went to brush against the substance on his mace-arm, and he grunted as the tips boiled and frothed. He'd only come into contact with such a substance once or twice before — Cybertron's answer to napalm, it was a nasty chemical weapon. Bulkhead's field flared at the thought of Miko getting in contact with it, unsure if it would eat at her skin as well.
He wasn't sure where he was running anymore, only that the sounds of fighting had become more distant. Wincing as his bad arm gave a hiss, he curled a fist and banged it against his chest-space, grinding and gritting his dentae. Between pants from both exertion and pain, Bulkhead said, "Miko...Miko, you okay in there?"
He thought he heard a yelp. His head abruptly turned towards where he had come, and he prepared to start swinging again. Halfway turning his body towards the sound, he crossed an arm over where Miko was, intent on keeping his "rider" safe.
Ghost wanted to curse, a little bit. Mostly he bit it back and the exasperated sigh that did escape him he turned into a nearly soundless, long puff to clear his vents of the dust their slightly harried march was rising. That was him, juuust clearing his vents.
"All due respect, sir, we both missed the ambush. These slag--" He reset his vox briefly, and that time he did sigh; language was something very few officers were tolerant of. "These tunnels are like the humans, too... alien. Nothing works right here, not even the press--"
For a moment, just a second, Ghost came fully upright, energy string taut. He'd... felt/heard/sensed something; he thought he had. Maybe he had. Possibly not. The tunnels were full of distant sounds, steam hissing, current thrumming. Even dust settles noisily, if you listen hard enough. Anything can sound like running footsteps if you're hoping to hear them.
The moment, however, reminded him that he was talking to Mister Utmost. Mister Utmost was not at all the kind that was interested in a lecture of tunnel dynamics. Mister Utmost wanted his generator, and he wanted it yesterday, and he wanted it, if need be, paid for in spilled energon. You didn't reason with someone like Mister Utmost; Ghost had dealt with his share of them, though none quite as... weird. He relaxed minutely, going back to his zig-zag jogging as he moved towards that maintenance tunnel.
"It's your call, sir, but it's a bad idea. You're leaving behind someone who knows how we came in and why we came in for the 'Bots to pick up, when right now they don't know anything else other than they found 'Cons down here." And that was all he'd say about the matter, turning towards the promised escape. "Sir... how do we get you to safety once we're surface-side, if not by 'bridge?"
The two-wheeler jumped his comm. to one of the common Vehicon frequencies. He was fairly certain Mister Utmost would not be talking to the lowly grunts if he could help it, but he'd put odds that Dart likely did her share of grunt-communicating; he didn't care if the 'Butts detected the message: they already knew of their presence in the tunnels.
::Dart, I got Pyrotech. If you're mobile drop anything else, get out, get up and meet us top-side.::
Dart's hand clamped hard on her shoulder. Greenish goo slithered out from under her grey fingers and slid across the lean planes of her upper chest. Behind her, the concrete scraped across her rattling spoiler. She raised a foot, lowered it, and then raised it again in an involuntary, frightened gesture, lowering the brim of her helmet to peer frantically around the tunnel. Her intakes snatched at the air, her processors trying to make sense of the mess surrounding her now.
The shooter wasn't here, wasn't close, the air currents told her that he'd moved now, and there were other scents between them. Ghost and Pyrotech.
She wasn't able to concentrate on it too much though since the stink of burning metal ripped into her sensors. Dart snorted out bursts of air, trying to clear that odor from her systems. That smell, that horrible smell. She could hear the big mech in the side tunnel behind her thrashing and banging, and under that stench she found something that absolutely terrified her.
Fabric softener. French fries. Dirt.
Not an odor out of a tunnel, that might be caught crosswise in the venting systems down here, swirled around oddly with the air currents. It wasn't a worker, with the touches of sweat and cheap cologne. This whiff did not belong down here with all the others, with the mechanical ones, with the grease and the oil. It belonged with the cursing mech who was trying to scrape Pyrotech's attack off of him.
The Autobot's rider was a young girl.
No, no. Oh no. No.
Click.
Ghost's sudden words over that comm startled Dart into the air. Spooked, she crowhopped a few meters before sliding back into the wall. She never would have expected a communications burst on this line. Yes, the Vehicons used it back at the base to put tasks on her instead of them, but... she'd not had anyone but them use it in months. The courier froze, baffled and unsure.
Ghost was telling her. He had their commander. Get the heck out. Run.
The courier's brain came to an abrupt halt, as if she'd smashed through a plate glass window. She had once. Being chased. It was that same sensation; crashing glass, shrieking people and her sitting dumbly in the middle of a bank lobby.Even the Autobot chasing after her had stopped dead in the parking lot and decided that it was best to creep out of there so he didn't get caught either. That must have been a heck of a story to tell back at base. So I ran this dumb Decepticon right through the bank windows, but hey, she got style points for her impression of David Hasselhoff on a bender.
Well, this upcoming moment might equal that one. She hoped not.
"Sir," she breathed, and her voice was quiet and grateful. "Yes sir, Ghost sir, mobile. Hit, but I'll live. One near you though, armed, dangerous. I'll- I'll give the other something to think on, sir, promise. Fast enough I hope. Meet you topside."
A pause. "Be careful." She meant it. About so many things right now...
With that, Dart gathered herself and bolted. Not away from Bulkhead. Towards him. The courier flung herself across the distance, her lanky frame eating up the distance in an instant. She couldn't go top speed, no. But she could go darn fast, and she was counting on it.
Duck past him while he's occupied with being on oh, fire - get around him, under his arm and his swing. He's got to follow you. Can't bolt flat out. Not yet. Gotta get him to chase, if you can, Dart. Ah, this guy can break me in a half like- like a-- yeah, like a me. This is stupid.How are you going to get him to chase you--
"Come on, you big green moose!" she barked, her spoiler hackling up and over her narrow shoulders. "Come on!"
Well congrats, Dart. That was really, really, really stupid.
Pyrotech was moving steadily beside the smaller mech. He was obviously concentrating on some other conversation as well as sweeping the tunnel ahead of them. Likely, he was in discussions with the Vehicons again. Who knew what he was snapping at them over that line, but from the slight snarl on his lips it wasn't a conversation Ghost wanted to be involved in in any way whatsoever.
He did look over at Ghost when he spoke. His optics narrowed ever so slightly at the smaller mech's admission. Imperceptibly, his doors flattened back behind his shoulders. He did not interrupt though as Ghost continued to speak.
Underneath their feet the hollow echoes of their metallic strides bounced off of the confines of the light rail tunnel. The LED lights flickered coldly against Ghost's silver and Pyrotech's glossy red. Both of them now carried a light film of dust.
"True. You both failed to do your job," he murmured on the line between them, his voice quiet and thoughtful.
After that, he didn't speak. There was just a soft rumbling murmur of static; open line but no communication from Pyrotech. Not to aleviate Ghost's concerns or to even discuss with him his reasons- be they unreasonable or not. He had his job parameters and the architect followed them to the letter.
Make it an accident. The weather. Autobots.
The architect pinned his distant gaze on the corridor ahead of them. On his shoulder, his cannon shifted into a slow, deliberate weave back and forth on the hinge, as if it were a cobra waiting to strike.
"I have lived the last years without any sort of ability to bridge," Pyrotech finally replied to Ghost. "You use the layout of human cities to your advantage, and I know my way through this one. Their signals and mess hide us, and no Autobot dares to directly confront, much to my amusement. I have things to finish tonight once they get that generator bridged. You, on the other hand..."
The red mech trailed off at that and said no more, concentrating once again on the tunnel ahead of them.
The air was getting light and -Zoom-Zoom liked to imagine- cleaner. It wasn't long before the tunnel ended and the minibot emerged out on a set of train tracks. Steep walls protected the tracks from the access of the general public. The minibot's hurried steps were quick to carry him clear, Zoom-Zoom's first impulse was to hide. He leapt high, servos catching himself on a ledge. The minibot hauled himself up, then quickly scaled the fence above it.
Zoom-Zoom's scanners swept the surrounding area before he ducked back and re-activated his dampeners. For the moment, he was in the clear. His comm lines had cleared up enough that he could get a signal. The minibot moved himself up along the fence line, so he was behind the mouth of the tunnel and could keep watch in case anyone exited it.
::Omega base, this is Zoom-Zoom reporting in:: he called. ::Stumbled upon some sort of Decepticon operation down here in Portland and I've lost Bulkhead. Miko, too, apparently:: Zoom-Zoom checked his sensors again and gave a shrug. Nope, nada, nothing. ::Can't get hold of Bulkhead's signal. Any chance for some back-up or can I return now and just forget all about this little exercise?::
Last Edit: Sept 24, 2014 23:03:34 GMT -5 by Deleted
The voice that answered Zoom-Zoom's hail was curt and did not ring with enthusiasm.
"Stand by," it growled.
A minute later a ground bridge opened at the mouth of the railway tunnel, shedding green light against the falling rain. It closed just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a tall and hunched robot behind it.
Fortress Maximus laid a hand over the long seam of weld running diagonally up his abdomen and glared around himself, rain sheeting off his head and shoulders.
It had been a long day. Now it was a long night. It was raining on top of that, a heavy downpour that pounded down against his plating and drummed an empty beat into his spark. The damp chill bit into his healing side and made it ache. Water gurgled through the overlapping grooves in his track treads, loosening the accumulated dirt and mud and washing it clean. Well, at least that was something.
The rain hit the ground hard enough to churn up a haze. Maximus welcomed it as he turned in place, his agitation rising. He was standing directly within the limits of a human settlement. He had never done that before. His tank mode prohibited contact with humans outside of Agent Fowler's limited military circle. He was big and looming and dreadfully exposed. He was hurt. Raw unease crept through his neural net, making him prickly.
To make matters worse Ratchet had ushered him out of the base in a response to a call for backup from the absolute last Autobot he wanted to deal with right now.
"Zoom-Zoom," snarled Maximus. He turned in place and peered down the tunnel, unclipping his rifle from his back as he did so. "Where the hell are you, you lit- Bulkhead! Do you read anything on this channel? This is Fortress Maximus. Please respond."
Last Edit: Sept 28, 2014 20:29:19 GMT -5 by Deleted
There was a crackle of static from Bulkhead's end, and the Wrecker responded with a pained, uneasy breath. Between the sounds of ragged venting, the Autobot responded with, "...I read you...Fortress."
There was a grunt of pain and the sound of creaking metal.
"'Cons...'Cons hit me with something...Miko tagged along, I had to get her out of there...I can see the inside of my arm, it's eating down to my fuel line...."
There was another grunt, and a hissing, growled intake as the Wrecker tried to hold it up in the tunnel. He tapped his chest hatch, waiting to hear some sort of response from Miko to see if she was okay; he couldn't risk taking her out. A 'Con could be around the corner, just waiting to strike and finish off the "rider" that had stowed away within him.
"...I didn't mean to get separated from Zoom-Zoom...what the hell is this slag — SLAG!"
The comm. cut out. In the tunnel, Bulkhead whirled around in a disoriented haze, spotting instantly the lanky figure at the other end. Bringing his other arm to bear, he transformed it into another mace, and lunged forward with a battle cry. He'd swing at Dart, not wanting to leave his back to her and too in pain to think of anything more sensible to do. Wreckers were tough, vicious fraggers to deal with, but what was happening to his other arm was something entirely different....
Ghost kept his resigned fatalism to himself, because those words and that tone, coupled with what he'd seen so far of Mister Utmost and the fact Mister Utmost had only belatedly realized that no one (not even his shiny perfect red aft) had detected the 'Butts, implied not great things for the Tomahawk's future. A berating, most likely, or a formal load of vitriol on his record. A beating, if the officer was the kind. Or he might just try to disappear him in those streets he was talking about.
Dart's acknowledgment, at least, was a bit of something good gained out of this slag-all-mess. Hopefully she was as good as her word and could, indeed, get out on her own.
It changed nothing, really, at the moment. Come a fight with Mister Utmost, if it did come, Ghost would do his best to cut and run, but that was a given. You didn't just sit there and wait for an angry officer to take it out on you unless you were a glitchwit. And that time, anyways, had not come yet.
::I'm with you until you say otherwise, sir. I imagine until the job's signed, sealed and delivered.:: He didn't shrug, but his tone conveyed nothing but the flat neutrality he'd tried to return to since this whole Autobutt debacle had started. ::Until you're safe sounds about --::
Ghost's whole frame turned slightly. He did not have Dart's highly focused senses, and his tunnel-smarts were acquired instinct rather than innate knowledge, but nonetheless he reacted to the thin cross-current of air, turning towards it as if towards a magnetic pole.
He let go of the bow's energy string just long enough to gesture for Pyrotech to hang back, trying to put some politeness into it. He had to inch forward and make sure no one was waiting for them here, at what might be the very edge of freedom. Ghost would have never thought fresh air and open spaces would be so welcomed. And if there was someone waiting for him, he wanted some space to back away and put an arrow or three in them.
But there was nothing. No one. The rushing wind was dropping from a narrow, sloping tunnel, and rain spattered in the darkness. Ghost scuffed a pede lightly against the floor, found it skidding uneasily on sluicing water and ancient, flaking oil and soot. Whatever this tunnel was, it was old, unused, and empty. The wind poured around him untarnished by other obstacles in its way.
::Clear.:: That didn't mean, however, that he'd let go of the ready bow. He held the arrow ready as he inched forward, back to the surface, swaying slowly to keep a wide area about him covered. ::Following your lead from here on, sir. Not familiar with urban stealth.::
Or any stealth at all. And while Mister Utmost might want to erase him, until he did he was still Ghost's responsibility.
If that mace connected, she was down, if not- well, best not to think on that. Speed. That's all she had going for her right now, speed. The tunnel wall was so close she could feel the cold from the concrete brush against her plating.
The courier twisted in a desperate mid-leap like a bucking bronco as that huge weapon whistled past her wounded shoulder. There was a flicker of an opening and she took it; and then flung herself down the passageway back the way the two Autobots had come. Her nose reinforced that yes, they'd traveled this way. Keep him following, gotta get him to follow--
How?
Only one thing came to Dart's mind.
Keep him angry. Which was possibly the most terrifying phrase ever. Because no one in their right mind wanted to deal with a giant green thing chasing them down while it was angry. Yeah, thanks a lot drive in movies- Avengers was a lot better if you oh, didn't have to actually live it.
If he was moving, roaring, and wanting to hit her, that meant he wasn't thinking. Well not about anything but wanting to smash her into something that the workers down here might find years later and comment on Portland's modern art craze going a bit too far.
A duck, a scoop, she snatched some gravel from between the rails and spun to throw it at the charging mech. It scattered off the walls, the floor; Dart had no idea if she'd hit him at all, and the courier spun again, leaping forward. The distance had to be enough to keep him charging after her but not enough for him to give up in frustration.
If she made a wrong move, she knew there was a good chance she'd be dead. The courier bounded ahead of the huge Autobot in the tunnel, her nose frantically searching for something she'd picked up here and there along the way but really hadn't thought about it.
When she found it though, Dart did not stop. There was a shake of her wrist, a flick; the knife blade she carried popped out and over her hand as she ran. The courier pushed off with a toe, she pronked into the air in a long bound and slashed--
Through one of the pipes that ran along the ceiling for the fire sprinklers. It ripped in half.
Water gushed and frothed from the ruined section. It spattered out in a wide cone, spraying along the walls and curtaining downwards, obscuring the femme and the passage ahead of Bulkhead in a haze.
Outside, the rain was still hazing against the ground.
Ghost would find himself in an access tunnel that had led him out into a ravine. There was a halogen light overhead; but the rain and the darkness had hazed it. As he peered out, his bow at the ready, the red mech stepped up behind him.
Pyrotech simply looked out past Ghost in to the pouring rain. He eyed the concrete retaining walls that led upwards and then strode past Ghost up to one. Easily, he stepped over it and climbed up the short slope, fully expecting the smaller mech to keep up with him. He didn't say a word when he reached the top and simply looked out over the area.
The city center's windows were softly glowing in the dark. Traffic ribboned along the distant highway, curving along in streams of white and red lights.
Pyrotech's optics narrowed slightly. The architect seemed to be concentrating on something else... a comm, no doubt. His doors slicked back slightly and then rose. The ladder on his back and shoulder clicked and resettled. Rain sluiced along his glossy shoulders; it beaded neatly on his finish before the water seemed to realize it really didn't want to be here and streamed off of Pyrotech, diving for the ground.
"Done," the red mech murmured to no one in particular and then he glanced down at Ghost.
"Come along," Pyrotech said to him before he transformed into his vehicle mode. The car rested on that thin strip of blacktop, hood pointed towards the city. "They won't dare follow us into the main. The generator is dealt with."
The minibot's optics were wide behind his visor, mouth agape as he pressed his face against the chain mesh fence and started blankly down at Fortress Maximus. Why would-? Why would anyone send Sir Stomp A Lot after him? Did they want him to die? An odd little hysterical burst of static escaped the bot as the tankformer roared for him. It was not helped that Sir Stompers pulled out that ridiculously oversized gun of his at the same time. For half a moment, Zoom-Zoom was certain the warden was here to finish that job he'd started only a few cycles ago.
His lip plates thoroughly downturned to express how unhappy he was with this turn of events. ::Command:: he seethed. ::That question was rhetorical. Take Sir Stompers back, I don't want him::
Then he cut the line and pondered the angry tankformer down on the train tracks. As much as he didn't want to be near Sir Stomp A Lot (the moon would be an adequate amount of distance), he figured he didn't want the big mech angrier with him than he already was. So, cautiously, Zoom-Zoom scaled the fence again. He did not return to the bottom of the tracks though, instead, he was far enough up along the tracks that he was actually on top of the tunnel.
The minibot did not stand on the roof however. Instead, he dropped onto his front and wriggled up to the edge to peer down cautiously at Sir Stomp A Lot. No need to give the big mech a large target if he decided to shoot him. Though, Zoom-Zoom considered the forest that Fort Max slaughtered when chasing him, he wasn't really sure that this was any help.
The frown on Zoom-Zoom's face deepened when Bulkhead's voice came through the battle channel. Huh, the big bot sounded like he was not in a good way at all. Thanks for not telling him that when he'd taken off. Not that that would have stopped Zoom-Zoom from running. But hey, the near dying info might have been useful to have. Zoom-Zoom's optics narrowed as he peered down at Fort Max. He had the vague feeling that the tankformer wasn't going to be pleased with this turn of events. Or, with him.
Bulkhead had been hit by something that was eating through his plating. Maximus was well familiar with the horrors of chemical warfare. Molten slag, acid, fuel bombs, hydroxide gas, phosphorus, even certain forms of corrosive plagues - he'd seen it all. Except for the horrific mycopropelene - Gideon's Glue - which had been air-dropped by the Decepticons at Babu Yar and spread a wide rash of agonizing injuries and death. Even tiny remnants of the foul substance were known to eat into a brain module and kill, long after the victim had been transplanted into a new frame.
Maximus grimaced. This didn't sound as dire as that, but anything that could burn through armour was a threat nonetheless.
With two fingers pressed to his helm he said, "Bulkhead, do you read me? Wash it off immediately. If it does not react to water then use another substance to smother it out. Deny it oxygen if it is a sticky-fire type jellied incendiary. Water will not remove such a weapon. Use dirt, or any other sort of dry powder. Do you copy, Bulkhead? Bulkhead?"
With a loud oath Maximus rounded on Zoom-Zoom. He couldn't see the minibot but could detect his presence on his scanners. His red optics glared up at the top of the tunnel.
"Zoom-Zoom," he said. Throttled anger shook in his voice. "You little monster. Did you leave an injured Autobot behind in order to save your own hide? Please tell me that your being out here safe and sound is all part of some greater tactical plan. Otherwise I am going to skin your metal ass."
Bulkhead saw the knife, and made a lunge for the femme. His swing was drunken, almost desperate, and he lost his footing as the water came down. With a loud, crashing THUD, he fell face-first into the now-muddy tunnel's floor, wounded arm stretched out before him. The hissing rain of water from above splattered onto his sticky, burning arm; it rinsed him like he was under a faucet. His optics blinked on and off, then went offline and left his orbs a scratched dark.
A trickle of incendiary gel had gone beneath his plating, filtering through a crack sustained an then forgot about. Bypassing several layers of plating, it immediately ate into electronics and then into fuel lines, causing a searing pain that worsened as the rest of the gel ate down. Pressure was building up inside his arm, and he was beginning to bleed out coolant and other fluids from the unseen, potentially-devastating injury. If he were still conscious, he'd be remarking to himself about how Ratchet was going to flip his slag about Bulk not coming in for proper repairs.
The Wrecker and the courier had very few things in common. Yes, they were stranded on an alien organic world. They were the same height and turned into cars. Other than that, they were two entirely different creatures that happened to both be desperately trying to get out of a light rail tunnel down in Oregon.
Bulkhead was built to fight, armored in slabs of thick plating from head to toe. He was surprisingly agile for his great size though. His framework was meant to piledrive into mech to mech combat and just smash into whatever was in his way.
Dart was lean and streamlined, light and designed for entirely for speed. She was no match for someone like this in close quarters. The courier's preferred way to deal with dangerous moments was to sniff them out and then run as far away from them as possible before they ever happened.
Also, Bulkhead possessed a hand that transformed into a freaking mace.
Spoiler clamped flat to her shoulders, Dart yelped and scrabbled forward as the green mech's bulky frame lunged for her. Overhead, the ripped open sprinkler pipe overhead gurgled and frothed; dim led lights in embedded along the walls flared and then began to steadily blink in time to a silent alarm. Between the tracks, gravel churned up and spanged against Bulkhead's legs, and yet the courier hadn't flung herself into a dead run and left him far behind. Her main pump was thudding frantically, the courier's systems in overdrive - this is stupid, this is stupid, get out get out get out, he's going to kill you...
Slow down. Gah, just slow down, slow down, come on, you have to think, giant green Autobot whatever your name is. Wash it off, wash it off, think about the girl, not me, think about her, dangit.
Much to her dismay, his momentum carried him quickly through the spray-
Right before he landed face down on the floor with a resounding crash.
Dumbfounded, all Dart could do was slam her heels into the ground, digging a furrow into the gravel. She stopped and stared at the mech lying on a heap on his chest. Her jaw dropped open. Okay, she'd expected something to happen. A swing. A punch. The mech to keep running after her. Anything other than what had just happened. Pent up air escaped her olfactory sensors in a nervous snort; she reared back and danced nervously, her toes clicking against the concrete. He'll get up. Don't get close. He'll get up.
Dead still. Not a twitch. Dart was so keyed into body language, the lack of it threw her. Was- was he-
A quick duck forward, ready to run if he so much as wiggled a finger. No, not dead. Worse. Offlined. Wait, how was that worse? Oh this whole thing was worse. Her spoiler flattened back as she picked through all the mess in the tunnel. Fuel lines; things, bubbling, boiling coolant that smelled like a terrible mix of burned sugar and filthy oil.
-- wait, ugh, maybe that was her.
A quick bob of her nose, she sniffed at her own wound; no. Not her, but that was nasty too. Stripes of coolant were winding down the inside of her forearm; there was an awful ache from that nasty blast hole in her shoulder.
Her sensors reached for another smell; that undertone of scent drifted in the air. It snapped her head back around. The courier lifted her foot slightly, her spoiler clicking back upright; the tips framed Bulkhead's still form.
Salt and grease. Shampoo. Fabric softener.
Blue optics widened, and Dart lunged for the body in the tunnel. Elbows locked, grey fingers spread; the femme shoved her palms flat against the huge flank and attempted to push Bulkhead's body back into the water pouring from the pipe. She clenched her jaw against the pain that stabbed into her shoulder and shoved again. The mech rocked slightly, but his shoulder and chest barely came up off the ground.
Dead weight. Dart was nothing compared to Bulkhead; a deer attempting to move a rhino. So not happening. Her spoiler pinned back and she set her toes, driving her weight forward again and again.
"Move," she grunted. "Ugh, you moose! Stop, drop and roll, for crying out loud, do they not teach that in Cybertron grade school?!"
All Bulkhead's unconscious body did was rock slightly back and forth, metal grating against the concrete. A sound rolled out of Dart's throat, a frustrated growl that trailed off to a mechanical whine.