Ep1 - Rebirth - (Pyro) Open - Finis

[Flatline]

The Continental Shelf off of Oregon's coast.

It was a mysterious and hostile place, the corals and wildlife suddenly stopping as the world itself seemed to plunge into the darkness of the oceans basin where larger creatures lay. It was simply a void opening of ambiguity, depicted at times by some of having absolutely nothing in regards of life, while at other times teeming with odd and unique creatures that is almost alien to the world of humans. If only they realized just how Alien it could be.

The side of the drop-off held more than just stone and primitive life forms, as what appeared to be an odd ship was imbedded into the continental shelf. It was dug down into the stone and corals, so much so it displayed that either it had hit with tremendous force, or the matter had built up over it through much time. Or perhaps? It was both of the above combined that consumed half of it. The part that was exposed had dulled corals wrapping and weaving up its sides with barnacles, seaweed creating a green webbing that reached up towards the dim light above.

This structure was not as deep as it could have been considering the oceans vastness, having almost hit the reefs and better yet, the shore, only clutched nearly to the cusp of the trench itself, yet had so much further it could fall. If it were to become dislodged? The vast dark pit of mystery loomed below like an ominous maw looking to consume any that ventured near. It was certain if it were to do so? Then the amplified pressures would have completely decimated the ship and contents.

The odd angle from which it was stuck on the stone, and the fact its top was masked in coral and seaweed successfully hid it from human's prying eyes and explorations for many decades. It was perhaps for the best though, as the contents were not something that their fragile minds were likely ready to wrap around. The ship had been a Decepticon escape vessel, having landed on this planet many decades prior. The pilot was meant to be awakened upon landing, it was MEANT to jar them from stasis, but something had gone wrong, and as such, they remained in a deep shutdown in the darkness.

The ship was a rusted mess, the frame itself compressing and buckling inward from the pressure it endured. Ships were built for the vacuum of space, not the hellishly heavy pressures of the sea. But despite this fact? Amongst the rust and mangled mess of decaying technology? Sat a single sealed stases pod. The pod was partly compressed inward, but remained stabilized, its form holding rust splotches across its frame as well as barnacles, while the large shield of translucent material had a severe crack along its length. Within, barely visible under the layer of sediment on the plexy glass, lay a single Decepticon.

Their form was recumbent, long slender primary arms folded gently across the chest to make sure they fit within the pod due to their long length. The hands were curled on either side of the head, which was hooked forward against the 'collarbone' of the chest, blotting out immediate visual to facial features. Slender secondary arms, were pulled up flush under the torso, the fingers gently curled atop the abdomen at rest. Attached at multiple points, were pipes and wires, that fed only the base needed material to keep its cargo alive. But even though it was running off of the absolute minimum? Where only drizzles of Energon where used over long periods? It was running low, and would teeter out soon if not replenished. It was simply a miracle enough that the thing survived as long as it had, under such extreme pressures and rust.

The Allspark must have not wished for this Decepticons spark just yet however, as whether by its will, lady luck, or whatever one believed in, it had survived just long enough for a tremor.

The ground quivered slightly from an earthquake from the tectonic plates shifting along the plate line, a long rusted panel from a collapsed ceiling plate, dislodging. With a heavy dulled clunk of it against metal, it had impacted the command station, which triggered the emergency beacon that started to relay a distress signal out for Decepticon aid. But the tremors did more than break that component.

A thin eye peeled open from the tremor, the lens large, before it contracted down with a light whir to try to focus around it through the suspension gel that filled the pod. The individual shifted, its head lifting to roll back, while stiff joints flexed and gently curled back into fists before falling immobile again. The Cybertronian's eyes stared off into nothingness, its mind trying to catch up to them, not yet fully conscious.

What had happened? Where was he? Why was everything so dark? He had been in a Stasis Pod correct? Then why wasn't normal opening procedures occurring? Why was he not breached into the air to clear out the suspension matter from his vents? Nothing about this felt right, yet... what could he do? He could barely move, and still felt weak and feeble, since the pipes meant to infuse a stimulant were not functioning from the disarray.

Weakly, a secondary arm unfolded, cutting through the suspension material enough to touch the glass front of the pod. He stared at it flatly for what felt like an eternity, before the aftershock from the tremor rippled through the ship. The entire pod shifted its positions, the new angle, and jolting movement? Pushing his processors to recover quicker than they had been. A twisted maw opened up into a silenced cry, the hands unfolding from across the chest enough to plant upon the glass as well. He couldn't move, he COULDN'T MOVE he was trapped! Instantly he started to panic, not understanding this malfunction, as he pushed and shoved on the opening with all of his strength. When this was not enough? He got frantic.

A long forearm split in half, the hand folding down and back, as a large circular saw unfolded with a few labored clicks. The blade gradually started to rotate, one edge on the glass, another barely clearing his own frame of a shoulder. A few inches back?... and he would be forced to cut into himself. The risk was worth it though, as the blade plunged into the material, cutting a long slit. Once it was breached? The entire thing shattered and ruptured from the underwater pressure. Before he knew what was happening? He had pushed himself out of the pod, all the cables and connectors on his spine and sides ripping off unceremoniously from himself, or the pod, leaving a few to hang off of him.

Once more the maw wrenched open into a silenced sound, the vocals completely hindered from the gel, and this new salinity high water. Despite no sound coming forth, the look of distress and rage signified it had been a roared cry of some sort as he ripped forward.

Overall, getting to shore was the simple part, the ship decimated enough that breaching through was no issue, it was getting OUT of the water that things took an ugly turn.

The large frame of the mechanical monstrosity heaved out of the sea with gnarled steps. The entire framework looked almost like it was pulled up by puppet strings, disjointed, barely functional. Smeared across this surface, was the gel that suspended it in stasis, it now slipping off and falling to the white sand below with wet slaps. This sand clung to the thin limbs of the creature, the legs themselves sinking down into the material nearly to what would be considered an ankle joint. Draping off of his frame, were long tendrils of seaweed that had clung to him upon breaching. Flatline himself, was almost atrophied from the sheer amount of time in stasis, his form buckling down onto its elbows and knees, as he started to 'vomit' out the gel.

Clearing the processors, vents, and inner workings from the material was not pleasant, and as such, he remained grounded while doing so, his head hung low in a look of defeat and exhaustion.

[Pyrotech]

It had been a long, long night.

Pyrotech did not mind long nights, as long as they were ones that ended up being productive ones.

This had not been one of those nights.

Overhead, scattered stars and silver moonlight were partially obscured by gathering clouds.

A line of rusting, travel-worn railroad cars stretched along the Oregon beachfront. They crouched on the rails; waiting patiently where they'd been left by their engine hours ago. Sometime in the morning a new locomotive would take the switch and come and start heading south with them once more, dragging them across the state.

Sand and gravel had blown up against the edges of the rails, which were rusting in patterns along the sides, corroded by the constant, salt-laden wind. The cold Pacific ocean wasn't far from here, in fact, if you climbed up on top of the cars you would see it in the distance; white ribbons of foam that caught the moonlight. The briny scent of it curled through the air. The area was quiet; no sounds of humans except a distant whisper of traffic off in the distance.

A heavy scrape, a scuffle, and a sudden thunk of metal broke the night's silence.

The mech's glossy crimson doors flicked back, pinning sourly behind his shoulders. The cannon mounted on his shoulder twitched towards the sound. He turned on his heel, divoting up a deep gouge in the soft earth beside the tracks.

"Be careful with that," he ordered sharply. "Not that it's worth anything, but it's worth certainly more than-"

Pyrotech stopped in mid-rebuke. His doors raised, and slowly shifted forward to their normal position. He shifted slightly in place, his mouth flattening into a thin line. His hand rose to rub at his narrow chin, fingers scraping softly against his plating.

"S-sir?"

The courier's voice drifted back to him. He glanced at her; she'd managed to wrestle the shipping crate to the ground without further damage to it. She stood quietly now, watching him; her spoiler flicking up and pricking over her shoulders, obviously unsure as to why he had stopped berating her so suddenly.

He pulled his hand away and lifted it, palm out, silencing her with a gesture. "Quiet," he ordered her. "Do you hear that?"

Immediately, the lanky femme lifted her nose into the breeze. As always, her automatic reaction was to draw scent; she sucked a deep gulp of air past her intakes. A long sniff, even as her head tilted from one side to the other.

Quickly, she glanced back at him. Blue optics shuttered in a quick, confused blink, and she brought up her foot to nervously paw at the ground, even as she continued to search. "N- no sir. I don't hear anything."

"Of course not," Pyrotech muttered, and gave her a dismissive flick of his fingers. He turned in a slow circle, aligning himself this way and that until he was finally satisfied. "Well, I do. A distress beacon. A Decepticon beacon, and we are nearly on top of it."

"It could be a trap," he told her calmly, and looked thoughtful. He glanced around them at the rusting tracks, at the broken crate, and then shrugged. It hadn't been worth his time in the first place.

"That way. Take the point."

"Yes sir," she murmured, and slunk out from behind the railcar. He waved her on, and as she trotted down the low slope, he followed after, picking his way down towards the beach.

With her in front of him, he could concentrate on that signal. It nagged at him; the signal was strong, insistent. Pyrotech mused on the fact that those code-strings felt a bit archaic in tone. Not incorrect, mind you- it was a Decepticon distress beacon. He'd heard enough of them over the years to be sure of it. Then again, that did not mean much. He'd also been in Australia, where it was a common practice among those Autobots to use one as a lure in. Not that it mattered to him; after a while, he'd taken great pleasure in springing those traps and not in the way the little Autobot vermin had expected.

Lost in those pleasant thoughts, he nearly ran into the courier. She'd come to a sudden stop on one of the tough ridges of dune. At first, he gathered himself to snap at her, and then he realized she was focused on something right below them on the pebble and sand beach. Her spoiler was pricked across her shoulders; she was sniffing the air again. Pyrotech heard her give a low whine somewhere in her lean chest before she pawed at her nose with the side of her hand. Well, apparently she had smelled something pretty awful.

The sounds of mechanical retching echoed over the beach.

Pyrotech's lip curled. He watched the miserable figure not that far from them now hunch and sputter. A foul drift of odors even reached his olfactory sensors; his doors slicked back in disgust.

"Oh. Lovely," he said.

[Flatline]

Why!? Why did he think this was a good idea!?

Going into Stasis was one thing, but going into such a deep form of it that used the suspension gel? Was another. Sure it had made his very minimal reserves of Energon last much longer than it would have used otherwise, and sure, it was the correct decision, but for right now? When such logic was set aside due to illness and misery? It seemed like it was a very poor choice on his part. Setting aside Logic? He chastised himself for even following through with such a thing.

Flatline remained down upon his knees and elbows, his long spindly fingers flaying out to dig down into the soft substance. His head curled forward, as the broad mouth of his faceplate stretched back with a retching gag. With a rattled wheeze, he drew in a long breath, before forcing the matter through his side vents to try to clear them so they could properly regulate his inner processors. This sputtered motion helped clear them, as well as further wake him up, so that he could critically analyze a bit better than he had before.

The beach seemed to be organic material, ranging from water to some plant matter, and then stone that took the shape of rocks and sand. It was a filthy planet, that didn’t appear to have much in the way of metal at first glance, making it appear very foreign to the bot that had never been out of a realm of steel. It definitely was different from his normal confines, and to add onto all this? He didn't even know if this was the planet he had been aiming for.

Was this where the Deceptions were? Was this where he was meant to be? What if this planet or worse off, MOON, intercepted his path? What if he was trapped here? Was he left for dead? He didn’t want to die slowly of starvation, that seemed like a poor way to go.

His head turned back to the water, recalling just how decayed and damaged his ship was. There would be no boon in trying to scavenge for parts, as even if he could? He likely didn't have enough Energon left to survive putting a new ship together and fuel it. But perhaps if he managed to make a distress beacon? Something to call for help?... No no... they would never get the signal in time, and would they even bother? He would hope so! He was a skilled medic! But was he willing to bet on that?

Flatline's gears audibly whirred and churned in desperate measures, the sand crackling in the joints as he tried to stand upright. His large right hand, slid back along his frame, unintentionally smearing wet sand across the abdominal hinges and cables. But as bothersome as this was, he did grab hold of one of the pipes that were protruding from his side. A low growl emanated out, the sound granulated and gurgled, before he wrenched the cable free with a pop, letting it fall down to the ground below.

He was about to dislodge one of the others that still remained attached, planning to let the valves seal properly so he didn’t lose anymore internal fluids, when a sound caught his receptors.

Suddenly, the disproportionate mech's head turned sharply towards the two, the blazing red eyes cutting through the darkness from their luminosity. But for how fierce and intent his look was? Like he was glaring down into their very sparks? He couldn't exactly see them too clearly. The lag from the stases was still impairing his receptors enough that all he could tell? Was that there were two large figures that appeared to be Cybertronian in structure.

Decepticons? Come to help him? Or Autobots come to intercept?

Flatline was a lab worker, he always was a 'behind the scenes' sort of player that did not have really any combat experience or skills in differentiating the two factions from looks rather than shields. Since he couldn't see their shields? He looked at their eyes, one of which having blue eyes which he recalled was not trebly common amongst their ranks. It was with this, the grinding sound whirred again as he reeled up to his full height.

Digitigrade post limbs, raised, and slammed down in the sand, trying to walk and gain momentum to move horizontally along the beach. He was planning on trying to get away, but this went as successful as stilts across soft sand, as he stumbled and fell again with a careening crash of metal. One more attempt, another stumble, one more try, and a failure. Finally, he snarled, reeling back into the air, before throwing his head forward violently towards the sand.

Plates across his body shifted rapidly, while limbs slid down in their sockets and twisted forward. He almost looked like he curled into a wheel, the curve of which slamming into the sand. This much broader structure with the balanced momentum and symmetrical shape, did hurl him forward a bit, and if he had been rested? He could have traveled very fast and put decent distance between them. But exhaustion and weakness caught up a fraction of a moment later as he unfolded with a spectacular display of failure.

The unraveling motion caused his lower body to slap down into the sand with a heavy impact on his back, sand spraying up on either side a short distance. The momentum he had made, kept his body skidding in the soft material for about ten feet, leaving a deep groove from the harpoons and spinal column of spikes. It is here he just somewhat gave up, is head craning back to lay flush against the ground so he could see the two behind him from an upside down perspective.

Flatline's Decepticon shield was blazoned on his shoulder, framed in a medic icon easily identifiable through the decades. However this icon was currently partly buried in the sand with the rest of him.

[Pyrotech]

Pyrotech did not move at all when the mech's gaze flashed up, burning through the darkness. He simply met the other's red optics with an appraising optic and waited to see what he would do. Ah, there. What he had expected. The filthy mech attempted to get back onto his feet; and Pyrotech eyed the trail he'd left behind him. His weight had tore the soft surface of the beach; there were scattered clumps of bull-kelp and slime, and it obviously led right back into the ocean. Interesting.

As the struggling mech roiled to his full height, the courier immediately flinched and backed up a step; accompanied by a nervous whoosh-snort of her intakes. Across her narrow shoulders, her spoiler chattered softly before she caught herself and glanced quickly over at Pyrotech.

For once, her commander was ignoring her nonsense and didn't even bother to correct it. His attention was fully on the mech. Well, that was an interesting build. Even from this distance, he appeared to be a bit smaller than both of them. However what caught Pyrotech's attention was that there appeared to be a distinct lack of anything Earth related- no airplane wing, no adjustments that signified that this mech transformed into anything on this planet. He'd met a lot of newcomers lately for some reason...

At least this one wasn't an Autobot stalking after him and demanding to know what he was doing out in the big wide world by his lonesome. That situation had ended well enough, though. No fuss, no trouble. Not even a struggle. Those were the encounters Pyrotech appreciated the most.

When the mech abruptly curled himself into a ball and rolled a few yards along the beach, Pyrotech raised a browplate. The architect in him did a bit of a double take; it reminded him of some of the wrecking crew he'd dealt with long ago. However the similarities ended there; this mech's frame was massively different. It was bulky and overdone to extremes on the shoulders and chest, narrowing off into spindly legs. There were sharp, long spines flaring across his shoulders. Pyrotech searched for a sigil, but so far there was nothing that he could pinpoint. The beacon still pinged though, and the architect could put the pieces together. Wherever he was, whoever he was, he'd gone down in the ocean and crawled out in mostly one piece. Lucky for him.

A thunk and a growl, the injured Cybertronian flailed and snarled and staggered. The sounds of his frustration clattered on the empty beach. It was a loud counterpoint to the soft rush and swish of the waves lapping along the shore. Sodden sand slopped up from around the mech's heavy frame as he fell again and plowed a furrow into the filth, coming to rest on his back like a stomped roach. He stared up at them from this angle.

The courier cautiously tipped forward; extending her nose to sniff again now that he'd stopped moving. A miasma rolled off of the mech's plating; a disgusting mix of both mechanical and organic stench. She winced.

"He- I think he's badly hurt, sir," the courier mumbled. She drew back a bit and tucked her hands nervously behind her back.

Pyrotech merely shrugged and inclined his head before he took a step forward. The cannon on his shoulder was lifted up and away from the mech. Immediately, the femme shook herself out and took her position back by his shoulder, trotting alongside as Pyrotech strolled down the beach towards the prone robot.

He made sure he was walking upwind, though. Enough was enough of that.

"Good evening," the sleek red mech called out, his accented voice smooth and utterly conversational. Pebbles crunched under his feet. His sigil was obvious, a sharp purple angle where the Peugeot's vehicle emblem would normally be.

"Your distress beacon, I assume...?"

[Flatline]

Laying as he was, he could see them approaching, see the way the two walked up towards him calmly. In a way? He was envious at this moment of their stability and dexterity. The way they just strolled across the sand like it was no issue at all, while he? He had sunk and stumbled through it like wading through mud. Granted if he was healthy and well, he may have done better, but alas... dwelling on system motions was solving nothing. He had to think on what they were possibly wanting, or what was even happening. Really? Logic wise this entire scenerio made sense, but the reboot from Stasis could do miraculous things to logic.

Hurt...?! HURT!?

A low rattle of a chuckle gradually slid forth from the mech's maw in response to the Courier's words. The sound was disjointed and broken, gurgled through what remained lodged in the systems. Despite the distortion, it had a low tone to it, an ominous aura that was just the tip of the iceberg for Flatline. If only she knew what he was going through, then perhaps she could have just shut up and given him some form of energy to fuel himself, but assuming they could understand such intricacies was pointless. Or so said his ego on medicine and treatments.

Sand crackled in-between joints and gears, as Flatline's form heaved over onto his side. There was a straining clicking sound as he did so, as if a gear was stripped, trying to gain enough traction to turn over. After a moment, it aligned enough to function, and gravity took him fully over onto his chest where he could manipulate his limbs better. His back was then covered in sand, but through it one could see the large cannons on each shoulder that appeared to have a metal rod lodged inside each one. Once turned over, his long forearms, planted down on either side, palm flattened and spread to 'grip' upon the giving earth as best as possible. He then pushed, and heaved up enough to dip a knee underneath for stability.

It was in this kneeling stance, he could see the details on the others better, now noticing the shield on the leading mech's chest. Upon realization that he had tried to flee from his own people? He let out another crackled chuckle as the secondary limbs reached up. The tiny arms clutched onto the front of Pyro's chest armor, the small needle like fingers getting a good grip on the grooves, while he tried to either pull himself up to meet the Decepitcon's eyes, or pull him down to meet his own. In tandem with this, his primary larger hands also raised, grabbing one on his knee and the other hip as if climbing a 'ladder' made of the other mech.

"Kkruutt vvttzzorn esis..."

The voice was ragged and gravely, still holding a gurgled overlay that made it difficult to decipher fully. After he said this, he let out an unceremonious hacking couch, which expelled another chunk of suspension matter and sand, this time likely onto Pyro's chest, if not his own faceplate due to the exceptionally close vicinity Flatline had taken. It was as if personal bubbles did not exist, and he was playing by his own rules at the moment. After this Expulsion, he spoke clearer, the gurgled tone gone. However one of his eyes were now squinting, the other wide as the inner mechanisms twisted and focused. The lip edge of his faceplate, pulled back, exposing the dark gray teeth that were a gnarled edge. A low snarl formed as he tried to speak again.

"What.... Vorn... is... this..."

It was a demanding tone, needing to know how long he was downed, NEEDING to know it like nothing else. Was it weeks? Months? Or YEARS?... for all he knew it was decades he had lost! For all he knew the war was over and he was living off of archaic concepts! OR What if medicine had advanced rapidly in his absence!? HE HAD SO MUCH TO LEARN! This panic was apparent, as he repeated his question not even a second later, not giving Pyro a chance to even try to respond properly as he screamed with a volume that was perhaps not the smartest decision.

"WHAT. VORN. IS. THIS."

It was now that he was in an upright stature, his shield was visible, the bright red blazing in stark contrast to his black and charcoal frame. While it was partly obscured by earthly materials, it was still recognizable as a Medic's Decepticon icon.

[Pyrotech]

At his deep, choking laugh, the dark femme skittered back a few steps; instantly getting out of range of the injured mech. This time there was a sharp snort from her intakes. Her spoiler tips splayed back and down. Her toe lifted up off the sand as she faced him and ducked her helm; the gesture was defensive as she warily watched him–

Put his hands on her commander.

Not good. So not good. Pyrotech did not let himself be manhandled under the best of circumstances.

When the hand clamped onto his leg, Pyrotech stiffened, his lip curling thinly back; his oh so controlled veneer breaking for a split second. The sleek red doors swept back and flattened; the cannon on his shoulder flicked and angled down. His hand started to raise, fingers curling in silent threat; a wisp of steam hissed off his fingers.

Instinct welled; to plunge his hand straight down through the wretch’s head and burn out his optics from the inside.

The only thing that stayed the architect was the fact that the Decepticon beacon was still chirping in his systems and the red optics that focused up on his sigil. If this mech turned out to be someone important to Lord Megatron, then heaving his filthy, retch-crusted dead corpse back into the ocean with burn holes in it might be considered less than prudent. Pyrotech frankly had his own business to attend to his, his work to do, and he had no time for that sort of dragged on nonsense that occurred when you killed one of your own side...

Without being told that they were expendable, of course.

Silently, he stood like a statue. His expression darkened further as the other Cybertronian latched on and the mech used him to heave himself out of the sand. His gleaming red plating started to streak with filth and go and the slimy ruins of kelp and slime; he kept his gaze level as if this was happening to someone else. There was the scrape of metal on metal; wax and polish curled away as the mech used - was that a tiny set of secondary limbs? It was. They were. Also, they were being jabbed into the creases of his impeccable armor. He did not bend or falter though as the mech grabbed and hauled himself upwards.

Nearby, the courier fretted; she raised her foot again as the injured mech began to speak. It was gurgled and rough- and then...

The meck hacked out a slimy glob that he spit onto Pyrotech’s gleaming armor.

“Oh geeze,” the femme breathed, ducking her helm with a flinch that rattled her from nose to toe. “Oh no. No no. No, um... don’t...”

The courier appeared horrified. Her spoiler flattened back; not out of fear of the new mech, but out of fear that the next order would be Pyrotech’s to attack. When that was done, he’d turn on her; she should have gone first, she should have stepped in front of him, you idiotic glitch, you worthless scrap.

Pyrotech never even twitched a finger, but... his optics had shuttered and narrowed. The foul goo slid down his chest, bubbling over his neat armor, licking at all the little crannies that would take him hours to re-clean. Chunks of beach detritus and suspension matter slurried down the curve of his hood. Worse were the flecks of viscous slime that had spattered up and were now oozing off the sharp lines of his pale chin.

He eyed the other mech, his expression unfathomable now as the mech unleashed a howl from somewhere in the deep pits of his internals.

There was a long silence where the waves lapped on the shore. Everything was still and quiet, the last echoes of the mech’s metallic scream drifting into the natural sounds of the long stretch of beach.

“Are you quite done?” Pyrotech asked, eyeing him. “If so... good.”

“As for what Vorn it is,” he offered, and then precisely gave the year.

The red mech’s accent was thick, his tone clipped and oh so perfect. He inclined his head, and a few drops of gunk dripped off his chin and spattered along his impeccable throat guard.

“I assume based on your condition, your state of mind, and the beacon that you have recently been brought back on line. Your name and rank and ident codes would be appreciated. There is a large Autobot presence on this backwater little planet, one can never be too sure."

A pause.

"Now. Unhand me, medic."

[Flatline]

The threatening motion was not lost to the disoriented mech. The sizzling on Pyro's fingers, caused the squinted optics of the medic to flick over and lock onto them for a fleeting moment of confusion and curiosity. He didn't really know why they would be sizzling, if not for weaponry purposes. Granted, upon a sober state of thinking? Such things of welting fingertips would be rather brilliant to the doctor. It would be so convenient, and so easy to manipulate with the same dexterity as one's own hands! But those were thoughts for another time, as his attention snapped back to the occupant of such a unique apparatus to make his demands.

The demands were barked, and as he did so Pyro was the only other living thing in the world to him at the moment. His sensors, his thoughts, everything was channeled in upon him, as if the female was no longer a player on the proverbial chess board. It was a bad habit of his, to zero in and become tunnel versioned in certain situations, and it definitely was in play now. But what made it even worse? Was the silence that followed after his demands. With his heightened awareness and panic, it was horrific.

The lapping of the waves, created a steady sound in the backdrop, the only breaking of otherwise pure stillness. It made Flatline wonder if he had said his demand aloud or not, if he had truly asked a question, or if he just THOUGHT he had. But his audio receptors had heard it! He knew he had! So why was it so silent!? Why did he ignore his question entirely!?

Red eyes flicked across Pyro's features, as if trying to read them to the best of his capability. Was he ignoring him to spite him? Was he- no no... there was the reply. The question that had fallen back on his shoulders, somewhat pulled the medic back into a more rooted sense of reality. It had a tone to it, that made him question just how he was acting, starting to come down to logic and normality.

Was he out of line? Had he crossed some barrier? What if this individual was a high commander and he had just demanded something of him? He had no concept of this mech's rank, and if they had a helper?... Flatline's head turned some, peering over Pyro's shoulder at the female, just now remembering that they were even there. He stared flatly at her with that hollow glare like he was trying to read into her more than her physical form told. He was only pulled back to reality, when he heard what year it had been.

The year floored him.

While it was not long enough to be completely out of the loop and need to make huge leaps and strides in catching up, it still was long enough to cause him to let out a stressed gag of frustration.

Using the other Mech as a handhold for just a moment longer, his hand on his knee broke off, and gripped onto his shoulder. With this grasp, he pulled his legs up from a kneeling stance, to a proper standing posture. He would normally cap out at a rather reasonable height at near eye level with Pyro with his hunched stature, but because of the way his post like limbs made him sink into the ground? He was a bit shorter, having to crane his head up to peer at him intently. With this newfound balance with his feet rooted down, he finally let go upon the other's demand.

Long limbs, slid off of the other to hold in front of himself, the spindly fingers flexing gradually while he started to make actual checks on his system. One by one he tapped the tip of his finger against his palms, from pinky, to pointer, making sure they were nimble. At the same time, the secondary limbs stretched down, sliding the small palms against the upper 'arm' of the other to remove seaweed and suspension material that may remain in cracks.

"Yes... yes... just come online..."

He sputtered this out in a lower tone, his head craning down to look upon himself more. The secondary right limb, pulled away from its current task then, to grab onto the last cable from his side, twisting it off with a hissing pop as it was properly disconnected.

"I did not have a proper boot up, I should have been awakened many vorns ago, I have no idea how my...that... ship... got where it is now."

He squinted near the water, recalling what brief things he could on the state of the ship.

"I am deemed Flatline, Tertiary Care Medic and Protoform Fabricator."

He grumbled this out in dismay, as his left hand grabbed his right hand, forcing the joint of the wrist to bend to stretch it out and try to gain some motion back. He continued to speak as if he were doing so from a recording, more so than actively thinking about what he was saying. His mind was more on trying to properly boot up and catch up to his processors.

"I also have experience in Hatchling fabrication and maintenance... Primary last command to assemble applicable warriors to serve under Lord Megatron's domain."

After this droned relay of what he was, he eyed Pyro again, trying to look for emblems or anything of a rank on his frame. It was hard to tell though with all the grime he had unintentionally smeared on him. But at least he wasn't adding more any longer yes? No longer hanging off of him. But that seemed to start to go bad, as Flatline wobbled a bit. It was apparent his weakened state made him a bit unstable.

"My indent... codes...?"

He trailed off, really not sure what to say, or even what the heck was being asked for. Indent? You didn’t put codes on for every ding and scratch one got. You didn’t record injuries THAT extensively, there was no point! Unless... no wait... yes he meant something else... As such Flatline made a bit of an awful sound, almost an 'uh' in inner thought, before it clicked. Once he realized, he stated his code parameters.

The codes were old, and rather simplistic. They would verify his status and words, but also reveal that he had not really had any real combat experience that would have been a second trail of codes pasted on to the first. This was entirely true on paper, if it weren't for the mini war he had to endure on the escape ship. However other than that? Which was untrained engineer against engineer? He hadn't really fought.

"What is the current state of things?... Autobots?... you said they are around?... I... I am so far out of recent events..."

He wobbled a bit more, before his dog like limbs eased down, so that he sat on the sand instead of continuing to try to stand. This was all just alarming and disorienting. It was then a thought occurred to him. How did he know this individual WAS a Decepticon?

"...and... what proof do I have that your shield is true?..."

[Dart]

When Flatline glanced back over his shoulder, the femme was standing, rocking from foot to foot. Wet sand pressed up from the edges of her toes, water welled up under her weight.

She was a tall Cybertronian, easily as tall as the medic if not taller; a running build that appeared mostly leg and a long slope of flank. Unlike most of them, her blue optics were the only real lit glow on her. Her black and grey finish was hazed and dull, marred by scratches, pine pitch, and deep nasty gashes. Even the silvery lightning bolt across her chest was muted with grime and road dust.

In the middle of that marking was her Decepticon sigil. It was marred with four deep marks that were obvious burn lines, scored deep into her plating.

Dart's optics met the medic's cold, flat stare, but only for the briefest of seconds. The edge of her spoiler twitched and rattled; the tips quickly lowered and splayed. She immediately looked away and turned her chin, to look not at the mech's red gaze, but to the waves lapping along the curve of the shore. There were faint cold green lines of phosphorescence, bright at the edge of the tumbling foam before they faded back into the dark.

The courier could smell it. It wasn't just the scent of the ocean or the slime still oozing off of both mechs. No, it was the odors of tight confined spaces, recycled things; he had been down in wherever he was a long, long time and even the icy salt waters of the Pacific Ocean couldn't scrub those eons clean.

The mech's body language betrayed his frustration, his anger. Even more, the line of his shoulders and the curl of his mid-section; a silent shout to her who was so keyed into that far more than words. Flatline was practically radiating his exhaustion and pain and- maybe, just maybe- a smattering of fear.

Out of place. When you had no idea of what had gone on around you and were suddenly thrust into it. She- she understood that. It was an awful feeling, and as was Dart's way; she had honest sympathy for Flatline's situation. At least he had calmed down, and Pyrotech as well...

Then again, that might have been just wishful thinking on her part. She politely kept herself turned away from their conversation and did not say one more thing to intrude on it. Instead, she tucked her hands at the small of her back and simply, quietly hoped they would be leaving soon.

Sooner was better, actually.

[Pyrotech]

The red mech eyed Flatline. He bore no outward sign of rank on his frame. In fact, even though he was sleek and well cared for, turned out with absolute polish (well, where he hadn't been coughed on or climbed up) his Decepticon sigil was just the one where his vehicle emblem would have been. He didn't have flashy brands on his shoulders or doors or anywhere else. Nothing obvious at all.

"I didn't immediately kill you," he murmured. "That's how you know."

Now that the medic had taken a step back and had slowly sunk to the sand, Pyrotech could not wait any longer. The feel of the substance trickling down his jaw was as if brought up his hand to wipe the spattered goo off his chin. With a disdainful huff he flicked it aside and onto the sand, and then turned his attention back to the mech before him. The mess on the rest of him would have to simply wait until they returned to the outpost. Not that this amused him in the slightest, but his choices were wait, or go scrub off in the ocean. Neither were excellent choices, but the ocean he found far worse. It was full of organic, floating things.

"All humor aside," he said with a small smile, drawing himself back up again. His doors smoothed behind him, swinging silently on their hinges. The cannon on his shoulder had tipped aside once more. The red mech casually reached out to Flatline his own codes in a quick, oh so polite ping that was more suited to a well lit tower upper-class greeting back on Cybertron. Not standing in filthy sand next to a beach that reeked of rotting seaweed.

"I am Pyrotech, Decepticon Architect."

He left it at that - really, he could have called himself a strike team leader, but at the moment his strike team consisted of, well, himself and a courier.

"I gathered as much about your situation," he murmured. "You are obviously out of place and disorientated. The beacon is an older code as well. Still viable. But nothing I've heard in quite a while."

A faint frown crossed his face as he glanced back down at Flatline. A medic and a fabricator? With experience in...

Ah.

Well, Lord Megatron would want this one back, no doubt. Medics were always useful; in fact, he'd already made a note to himself to make sure that Flatline had even the slightest reason to be in debt to him. Medics were few and far between lately, and good ones even less so. Assuming this mech was a good one. Pyrotech didn't dwell too much on that. Instead, he was busy mulling over the possibility that with this situation, he might be able to get his hands on a decent desk to match that one good chair Starscream had procured for him after all.

Tonight wasn't proving to be as much of a waste of his time as he thought.

"The current state of things is this," he told the seated mech. "You are on a backwater little planet called Earth by the natives. It is an organic slop of a world, however it does seem to have some decent resources. Lord Megatron is here, and our cause goes on - we will get back to Cybertron and rejuvenate our home..."

Pyrotech trailed off and shook his head.

"As far as the Autobots go..." he murmured darkly, "they are here as well. Optimus Prime himself leads them. That is the situation in the most simple form, but I have a feeling you would much rather be briefed more fully after you've gotten some fuel and perhaps a look over by another medic?"

[Flatline]

A sort of uncouth snort of a scoff sounded out at the first words Pyro had replied with. This sound was paired with a roll of the eyes, and a look that simply showed how little he believed him.

"Autobots have too big of bleeding sparks to outright kill an injured foe that poses no immediate threat."

He huffed this out with a tone that showed he would take none of that nonsense. In his mind? It was some kind of sad attempt to make them seem more trustworthy somehow by demonizing the Autobots further. Then again, with the time in stases, perhaps the metaphorical gloves came off and the Autobots had grown some bearings to outright kill on sight. Now THAT would be the day.

Despite this turn of his attitude, he still seemed mostly interested and curious, keeping a sharp gaze on Pyro for any quirks or motions, anything to latch onto and learn with. The way he smeared the suspension matter off his face, showed easily that he was disgusted by it, if not uncomfortable with its presence. This paired with the rest of his framework being clean cut? And the type of codes that were thrown his way? It all painted him as a brightplate mechanism.

Oh great. He had been saved by a towerling snoody rich fussy bot that would rather sip their drink than do work!

Or so, that was Flatline's perspective on them, not really having firsthand experience with such individuals. Perhaps it was out of line for him to make such wild accusations, but it could not be helped, now viewing this individual in a different lighting. He had half a mind to sassily reply to some of the things he said in a 'holier than though' mocking tone with a pinky pushed out, but he didn’t know if he had that full range of dexterity back yet. He also knew better than to spit in the face of his one lead back to civilization... well... again. Maybbbeee he would consider it once safely in the base or ship or wherever they were tucked away, depending on how things went down.

"So... Mostly carbon based organic materials... meaning that coming across some of the basic chemical compounds prevalent upon cyberformed planets will be somewhat difficult..."

He was thinking aloud with those words, almost mumbling them as his left hand raised up to place upon his jaw. The blade like fingertip edged around the rectangular plate that capped over his chin, his optics casting down and to the side while viewing the sand below. He could see small pebbles and shells intertwined in the matter.

Coming across the chemical compounds to make certain mechanical parts, and grow Protoforms or anything else useful, would be very difficult starting with such rudimentary base materials. It was a stumbled step back from refined, to core, to basic, and then raw materials. So much extra work needed to start from the straight beginning rather than somewhere in-between. After a moment of inner thought, he looked back at Pyro, his one eye still partly squinting.

He was going to comment upon Optimus, to bark out a question how that bot was still alive. Seriously, for all logic in play he should have been mauled ten times over by now! But before he could? Before he could speak out his protest and alarm, the mention of fuel instantly triggered his full focus and attention. The mere mention of it almost seemed to change his personality for the moment, the starvation and desperation playing out so vigorously the mechanics within him churned in audible protest.

"...Yes yes... I need some fuel, anything, I have been on dwindled reserves for years even before Stases!"

He cried this out with some frantic frustration, now painfully aware of his physical condition. Now that the mental questions had been answered in their most rudimentary base parameters, his body now demanded some attention and repairs. Gears groaned and servos whirred as he pulled back up into a standing position, wobbling. If he were human? His physical state would be comparable to a dehydrated and emaciated individual. While the Cybertronian physique didn’t grow thin or frail like a human did, the inner mechanisms were not up to par from the lack oil that needed to be changed, among other failing components. The only boon was for their kind, it would just require a few days of repairs and then some movement rather than months like it would for a human.

"I don't want to talk anymore, I just need Energon, and oil, and... everything else... badly..."

He trailed off, his eyes squinting a bit further as he was realizing just how much maintenance his frame was in need of. Just not having the basic oil needed to go between parts? Meant that rods and rod bearings could be bent, gaskets dried and crumbling, to cylinder heads being scored from abrasions, which... this sand was not helping...

The medic slowly looked down at the sand, seeing now how it was imbedded into the gears on his legs. The haunting thought of having to actually walk far to get to a base came into play. There was also the fact he had no native transformation. At this current point and time? He would just turn into a Cybertronian vehicle. But to do so could cause further damage by pushing sand into the inner joints, and tangle the seaweed inside him.

"Tell me the base is near, tell me that you have at LEAST a class three lab."

He squawked this out pleadingly, a mix between desperation and frustrated rage again. His moods really were flying all over the place, but could one blame him? It was a miracle he was mostly... mostly... sane, and could communicate! They could handle some sporadic flip-flops of mood and temperament during his time of distress. But just as soon as he swapped back to some anger? He veered around and struck out a different way to reel his anger in a new direction.

"Looks like your silent Conjunx Endura over there could also use some medical help too she is so trashed..."

He flicked his hand out towards Dart in dismay, referring to her dull finish and scratches. A wicked grin then pulled back across his faceplate, the look gnarled and twisted with a cunning wit behind it as his optics locked back on Pyro's.

"Or do you like that."

[Pyrotech]

Pyrotech had quietly been processing all the information that the medic was relaying. Everything seemed in order. The mech needed fuel; he looked as if he was about to fall over in the sand. He needed repairs; his internals creaked and scraped against each other when even the thought of fuel had crossed his mind.

It was a sound Pyrotech had heard many times in his years here on Earth. He'd nearly lost crew in Alaska due to fuel issues. Fair enough, he could understand that the medic was in distress. He nodded thoughtfully, and was preparing to answer the series of questions that the medic had reeled out when Flatline's last statement slashed through the air between them.

Pyrotech stiffened. He stared down into the other mech's gaze.

Then the left corner of his lips curled up into a snarl.

His optics shuttered into seething slits. There was nothing in his face that was proper or genteel in the slightest. It was like scraping off a layer of chrome to reveal cold, barren steel underneath. The only thing that kept him from attacking this upstart fool and jamming his hand through his chest is was the thought that he had no intentions of being called up and sent back to damned Alaska to rot up in the snow again.

He did not even look at the femme, instead, he focused fully on Flatline.

"My--" he said, and revulsion thickened his accent even more. He moved his jaw, grinding it as if someone had suggested he swallow a mouthful of dirt.

"I shall assume the time under the ocean in a tiny box and the lack of fuel has addled your circuits. No. Absolutely not. A soldier under my command. Nothing more. As for the the repairs..."

"No."

The response was flat and to the point. "Now, I need to see if I can hail someone to get him picked up and out of here. No more time to waste, we are out in the open, and after last time..."

He trailed off.

"I will go arrange someone to get a bridge here," he said. Soundwave was always on duty, they could take care of Flatline. Personally, he just wanted him out of his sight for now. Ugh. What a thought. "Also, courier. Tell him." With that, Pyrotech stepped aside and strode a few meters away. Best to compose himself before speaking to anyone on board the ship. He flicked his toes over the sand as if he was a cat picking his way through wet grass.

[Dart]

The courier appeared baffled; there was no understanding at all in her optics. She had no idea what the word meant, except that it was in regards to her. Pyrotech's response told her that it was probably an insult on him. Not that this had started well. He'd already been in a bad mood, and this medic was disorientated and exhausted - the two of them were mixing like oil and water.

All she realized that whatever the mech had said had knifed right into her commander. Immediately she made a small, metallic whining noise somewhere in the back of her throat. Her spoiler tucked down on her back, the tips angling downward; her helm ducked.

At his request though, she turned back. Her chin lowered again. She brought up her hand to touch her sigil in salute; or perhaps it was to protect the deep gashes from any further injury. Quickly she averted her gaze to the beach, staring at the pebbled shore.

"Y-yes sir," she replied. Then she drew in a rattle of air past her intakes, tucked her hands behind her back and looked directly at Flatline.

“I failed my post, sir."

The courier repeated someone else's words, his inflection. It was something she'd said a hundred times “I allowed a Autobot spy to get through my watch-station. Our mission was compromised and the objective destroyed."

“My commander was merciful."

She was silent after that, her spoiler dropped low. Then she turned her nose to the ocean. Her intakes pulled at the briny air, cooling her systems. The salt tang of the water cleared her sensors of the reek of the mechanical goo strewn along the beach.

"He'll call someone for you, sir," she finally mumbled, as if she was unsure she should say anything further. "They are quick about recovering those important to the cause. Honest."

[Flatline]

The look.

Oh primus the look he had made.

It was absolutely priceless and the amusement of it? Took some of his mind off of the pain and discomfort his own body was undergoing. Flatline's lip line had pressed together into an angled array of trying to keep it completely flat, but it seemed to have its own intentions to want to peel back into a gnarled grin once more. This left it a choppy shape with a bit of a partial unintended sneer on one side showing the tooth plate.

There was only two logical ways that could explain his violent reaction. Well, maybe three. Either he was not interested in this female and found her absolutely appalling to the ultimate degree. He felt something for her and didn't want to admit it. Or insert some other assumption generated response for the moment at hand. Truly, Flatline didn't care, but he just had to say what he did just to see the response.

Once he was healthy? He probably couldn't get away with as much mischief.

A strained whirring came from Flatline's vocals, trying to hold back laughter as the lead bot retreated in a huff. The way he walked over the sand looked absolutely ridiculous, yet perhaps he should not judge. He probably would look even sillier due to his leg structure, prancing not like a cat on wet grass, but like one with little booties strapped on its paws.

It was then the female spoke up, actually drawing attention to herself more than just being a quiet meek little statue. The Decepticon's red optics focused in on her again, taking more note of her injuries, especially the one she seemed to be trying to hide on her chest, curious what had happened. But before he could get too focused on it, she started talking.

"I... do not see how that pertains to this moment."

He spoke flatly, the mirth and enjoyment gone from the sobering story of failure and a loss to their cause. His tone was flat, droned, not really amused at the revelation of what had happened. Perhaps it was explaining the injury? Explaining why he could not repair those? That made sense, a constant branding reminder of a worthlessness at a post.

Flatline let out a snorted huff then, as he eased forward. Once more his larger palms flayed out atop the surface of the sand, and he pushed down with a heaving pull. This pulled one leg out of the soft matter below, the post planting down, not spike first, but heel to 'toe' to try to keep himself from spearing into the substance. Once he had his lower limb laying like a bar or a rabbits foot, he heaved the other limb out with a struggled churn of gears.

"Tell me about the base and current happenings. We have the upper hand? We the underdogs? Are we scrounging scrap or have a stable environment."

He looked over at her as he spoke, trying to ease onto all fours. His arms were trembling some, but he ignored it. With a gradual motion, his head turned away, and he began walking awkwardly on all fours towards the train tracks in a straight line, trying to get somewhere sturdy. But while he had turned his back on her, he was not literally breaking conversation.

"And are all of them like him over there?"

One of the small secondary limbs curled into a thumbs up, in which he nudged in the direction Pyro had walked off moments prior. Flatline's words were low, meant only for her to hear and not to travel across the beach.

With a clicking scramble, he pulled himself up the ledge to the train tracks, heaving up onto solid ground before that sound of a stripped gear rang out again. Heavy clunking clicks of the gear chattered for a moment, his upper torso trembling, before he slammed face first onto the train tracks with a heavy thump. As if to not draw attention to his stripping of a gear in his abdomen, he continued to speak as if nothing had happened right into the gravel.

"...And my question of what level of a lab we have was never replied to..."

[Dart]

The tips of the femme's spoiler lifted slightly over her narrow shoulders. The left one swiveled ever so slightly as if she was still warily keeping an eye her commander; but other than that she didn't move much.

Really, she didn't see how it pertained to this moment either, except as always Pyrotech wanted to make it perfectly clear to anyone who even looked her way why repairs were not an option. Every single time someone asked, even indirectly, he had her answer. Humiliating, stressful, yes, and she cringed every single time - it drew too much attention to herself, and Dart... well, she preferred anything but that.

It was also to drill it into her head, she knew that. Don't make the mistake, ever ever again. You know the consequences. The courier knew perfectly well would happen to her when found out about-- and yet...

The courier quickly let go of those thoughts as Flatline moved forward. The sand was not conducive to good movement for a mech with his build. Down here in Oregon, the footing on the beach was mostly slick, water worn beach rock and unsteady sand. Farther north, that was where the rolling dunes stretched for miles. Even she disliked having trot across them at low speeds; it was a constant struggle to not sink in and waste time and energy with their builds and weight. The mech was having an issue with the ground, but he seemed determined to move out of the soft footing.

When he dropped to all fours, the courier inclined her head. She watched him resettle his bulk; adjust his body so that he could make headway. His body language told her he was far more comfortable supporting his weight like this. Gingerly, he began to pick his way up the beach, turning back towards the way they'd originally come.

A quick glance over her shoulder at Pyrotech; he was standing quietly with his back to them. She could smell the faint wisp of steam curling off his fingers. Honestly, she'd been downright shocked that he'd not hauled off and tossed Flatline right back into the ocean. Then again, Pyrotech could be utterly controlled if there was something he wanted; or thought he might be able to use later. This seemed like one of those moments to her- and she sure didn't like it, not one bit.

Quietly, the courier decided to pick her way after Flatline. She stepped off to his side, swinging in to a position that was obviously one she was used to taking. A little off his left shoulder, trailing a few steps behind him.

It caught her off guard to realize that he was actually talking to her. Oh.

"Sir?" she echoed, and then caught herself. "Oh. The base. I'm sorry, I- I'm afraid I'm not the one to ask on that. That's- I don't go there. Not assigned."

Also, it was in the air. Way up in the air. This was a place Dart avoided at all costs.

"I believe we do have the upper hand, sir," she offered. "At least that's what I've heard. I think it's fairly stable, but where we've personally been assigned we've had to scrounge."

She glanced over her shoulder again at the red mech, then padded quietly forward a few more steps. For how scuffed and dirty she was, she was oddly silent- obviously light framed - and she easily picked her way over the rocks, at ease with the awkward footing.

"Like - oh. No sir," she replied, equally low. "Not really."

A wince as he plowed face first into the gravel of the tracks. "Careful sir," she said, her spoiler flattening across her shoulders. She did a slight nervous paw of the ground with her foot and scattered a swath of tiny pebbles. However, she did not approach towards him, giving him polite, proper space to allow him to reset himself. Instead, she lifted her chin and sniffed the the air cautiously to reassure herself that the area was still safe for them to be here.

"The center of the track should be tamped and more stable, sir, if you stand there," she offered quietly.

"As for the lab, sir. No idea. I think it's- up to date?" A wince. "But I've never been in the one on base, I'm afraid. Er, if it might help, Commander Starscream has spoken of it, sir, and I've never heard him snarl that it's under-powered or needs upgrades."

[Flatline]

Flatline may be overly active when it comes to problem solving and such things, as already? He was somewhat considering alternate shaming methods that didn't involve leaving a scarring across the plate of armor. In his mind? Any structural flaws were a flaw to be exploited in combat, something that would make the fighter more a liability than a boon. In Megatron's army? There was no room for true faults, for a chain is only as good as its weakest link yes?

And boy what a weak link.

Structurally injured, meek little mouse, that had no idea even what home base was or even looked like? How could she not know? Home base was home base! Everyone should be welcome there to seek shelter from this organic planets weather, or whatever living creatures may reside on it. For all he knew the Earth was inhabited with large life forms that made them look like ants. Only logic here is if there were multiple bases? But no one said anything about that. There had not been a single word spoken about multiple points having been seized and controlled. How could she be so dense? How could she be so meek?

The withholding of information was starting to annoy him.

The only silver lining with all this so far, was the confirmation that most others were not like the fuming mass of rage and arrogance off to the side. If everyone was so high end maintenance? He would have to seriously re align his standards and try to find ways to cope to this new personality swap he would have to undertake to keep from getting slaughtered.

Long quills on his back, fanned up a moment, as he took in a huffed sort of breath into the ground he had been laying against. But while he seemed dismissing at first, he had taken heed of her words on the ground's stability. It was with this information, he reached his hands up and grabbed onto the metal railing, dragging his frame up and forward a bit more so that he could pull his legs onto the compressed medium. With a clicking grind of gears, he got his footing, and pulled up onto his feet again.

Now that he was on solid ground, he seemed a significant amount more stable. The posts planted down, and the gyros in his shoulders kept him balanced. While he did waver a bit from fatigue, he wasn't going to fall down. Just having the option to gently lift one of the post feet, in order to shift it a little amount to retain balance? Even if he didn’t need to? Almost seemed to improve him overall, a psychological effect.

"So you really are not kept up to speed on things going on are you."

A flat tone of his voice, he didn't seem too amused at the fact he got temporarily paired up with someone so ditzy and oblivious. Really, was he dense? Was he ignorant? Was it him that was stupid here? He would think everyone, even mindless drones would know the basics of home base and where things were.

"And is that because of that thing there hm?"

He motioned at her chest again and the injury there, referencing the act of failure she had committed. Perhaps she could not be trusted with any of this information at all, in which case why bother keeping her around? Why was she left ALIVE? What was the point? She sounded more a liability than any strength. Granted this was his kneejerk response, he didn't have the full picture, but that fact? Was annoying him.

"You have to have some kind of information."

He said this in an exacerbated tone, frustrated. He took a few paces to the side, the motion much slicker now on the solid packed grounding. His head raised some, eyes piercing into her in a judgmental look. He didn't even bother making eye contact now, more inspecting her like some kind of piece of meat, looking at injuries and scars that plagued the armor. He was not subtle in the way he inspected her.

For now he didn’t pry with any more questions, hoping to use the painful silence and his condemnatory gaze to get her to start spilling information on her own.