Ep1.5 - 'Ain't Much, But It's Home ' - Closed

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<<Week 2, Day 4>>

It was, in Cleaver's opinion, a Primus-fragging miracle that Altruous had not disintegrated from the inside out from his deplorable lack of maintenance, let alone been upright and talking. She had made a point to tell the elderly mech this, in various phrasings, over the course of an hour spent scrutinizing his frame and topping up fluids. The medic had wanted to do some major overhauls, but had only managed to get him to consent to some minor replacements to linings and filters that were on the verge of complete redundancy. It was a short-term reprieve...

Beneath that bluster and curtness, however, Cleaver was genuinely pleased to have him safely inside of Haven. Altruous's arrival on this planet had been a fraught situation from what Layby and Cat had told her, and she'd yet to see Deuce to thank him for his assistance in keeping the old mech safe. The Vector himself was remarkably calm about the whole thing, and seemed a bottomless font of the patience and gentleness that she associated with his caste.

She'd never met a Vector before, and she was naturally curious about his path through the war. However, the habits of her profession were a significantly more powerful force.

Medical examinations did not leave much opportunity to talk - at least her's didn't, so it was only after Cleaver had grudgingly allowed Altruous to sit up on the berth that the clinical and diagnostic bent of her mind eased back.

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you wish, Altruous," she said as she took a step back from the berth. Her arms slid back into their default configuration, the tools vanishing into her hands before they too flattened and smoothed into the tips of her booms. It was as complete an assurance as she could give that she was done bothering his systems.

Cleaver gave a wry smile as she watched him move, eyeing his joints and the little tremors with a pinch of disapproval. "Honestly it'd be preferable if you did, if you were thinking of staying on Earth for the time being. We're in the middle of the front line, here, and there isn't another DMZ in the system."

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Unlike Cleaver, Altruous did not consider the fact that he was somehow still alive and functioning, despite his undeniably]pitiful[/i] physical condition, to be a miracle. Contrary to absolutely everything one would expect of a mech of the faith, Altruous did not believe much in miracles whatsoever. In his exceptionally long life he had seen more than his fair share of unexplainable events and unlikely circumstances which would suggest the intervention of some sort of divine or supernatural force, however, he was very much of the belief that Primus did not make a habit of meddling very often in mortal affairs. At least, not in any noticeable or direct fashion.

That he had managed to survive thus far as well as he had, in the body that he had - it was no miracle, as far as Altruous was concerned. To him, it was nothing more than the end result of a dash of luck, a spoonful of chance, a heaping helping of jury-rigged repairs, and just a pinch of Primus’ good graces.

It certainly helped that, no matter where he went, there seemed to be an endless supply of mecha who apparently could not resist the sympathy-induced compulsion to endlessly fuss over him as if he were only four steps away from Death’s door. Granted, he was, nearing the end of his days, he just didn’t see why people were so very adamant about delaying the inevitable. He would understand better if he had been a younger mech, one who had not yet lived a full life, but he wasn’t, and he had, and he did not grieve his own mortality in the slightest He was well assured that death would not be the end of his existence, and as such, he felt no overwhelming need to do whatever was necessary to prolong his life for as long as possible.

--Something Clever undoubtedly gathered during the very start of her examination, considering the vast majority of his systems showed harrowing signs of neglect and wear made possible only by having absolutely no means to tend to them, or by having their wears and tears be willfully ignored. Considering Altruous knew more than just a thing or two about medicine himself, the latter was far more likely than the former.

He would have kept right on ignoring them, too, if only Cleaver would have let him. As it was, the femme was having absolutely none of his mild-mannered protests, and he had been coaxed into accepting a few repairs and replacements that he truly didn’t feel were entirely necessary, though nearly anyone else would have certainly argued otherwise.

When he was finally allowed to sit upright, Altruous favored the medic with a faint, amused smile as he moved to gingerly swing his legs over the edge of the berth. His joints creaked just as they always did, though thanks to Cleaver’s ministrations, they didn’t make quite as much of a racket as they had earlier.

“Though I greatly appreciate the offer, I don’t wish to impose.” He replied, his hands coming forward to rest upon his knees, the fingers of his left tapping slowly and absently a patch of verdigris which painted his once pristine copper plating a quiet blue-green.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer in exchange for room and board, beyond my services as a chaplain, and I am well aware that that particular vocation, given the way the world is these days, tends not to be in very high demand.” His smile widened a bit, his optics crinkling with amusement.

“Unless, of course, you have an abundance of mecha who wish to purge their guilty consciences.” He added wryly, while favoring Cleaver a sly look, as if he had just told her some sort of private, secret joke.

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Cleaver grunted in an approximation of a laugh, her rotors shifting in a rapid series of metallic rasps. "Got a bar, so purging in the literal and figurative sense is accommodated. Layby tells me the countertop confessional is picking up."

The remark was close to a dismissive, but Cleaver knew that this needed to be raised - sooner rather than later. Altruous had cannily pinned down a potential problem in her invitation, and it was written in her own glyphs on the rules of the DMZ. Goods and services were not free, and shirking your bill was as bad as picking a fight.

Cleaver came to stand in front of the old preacher, placing the rounded point of one boom against the stone floor. She was quiet a moment, weighing up her words and considering the Vector with a critical optic. Finally, and as if she had been coerced into admitting some great secret, the helo stepped that little bit closer to the berth. Her voice was softer, quieter.

"We talk a tough line here, but honestly, I'm no mercenary, and neither's Layby. We're Neutrals because we don't want to fight our own, and we've gone through all the machinations of establishing and maintaining a demiliterized zone because we want to do more than just not kill our kind. Haven's an idealistic name, I know, but one I want to see us aim for."

Cleaver shook her head with a grimaced frown, and turned to lean back against the berth alongside the seated mech. Her elbow was close to the pronounced parts of his knee joint, their helms roughly equal in height. She folded her arms across the front, the booms crossing over her legs.

"Earn yer keep and trade fur yer fuel ," she went on in a mock-severe voice, "is the line for mecha who actually have something tangible they can trade. If we were as... forgive me, but altruistic as some philanthropist I've encountered, we'd be stripped clean in a matter of weeks. I don't want us to be taken advantage of."

Cleaver's vents chuffed a hot wave of air, her engine ticking over into a softer gear. "Similarly, I don't want us to take advantage.

A pause, and then Cleaver chanced touching a boom across the back of Altruous's shoulders. She placed absolutely no weight upon him through the limb, just skimming the thin remnants of his paint job.

"You've a home here so long as you want it, Vector." A conspiratorial smile edged at her mouth. "Though if you put a dust cloth around every once and a while, I wouldn't try to stop you."

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Altruous waited patiently as Cleaver studied him, unbothered by her critical stare. Whatever she had to say to him, whatever decision she seemed to be making, he was prepared to take in stride. If she chose to retract her offer, he would not fault her for it. If she chose to restate her offer with new conditions, he likewise would not hold it against her. He was well aware of the fact that, due to his age and health, he was more of a burden than a boon---he could not begrudge anyone for being reluctant to offer him a place in their home.

Particularly not when he was not lacking in a home of his own at the moment. So long as he had the Concordia, he had shelter from storm and a place to call his own.

That Cleaver re-offered her proposal in spite of all this….well, simply put, it did the old priest’s spark some good. It wasn’t often he found himself in the company of those who showed shades of his namesake virtue, and so he took heart in Cleaver’s words, comforted by the knowledge that the ravages of war had not yet robbed her of her sense of generosity and compassion, as it had done to countless others.

The quiet smile that seemed to be permanently fixed to his face grew faintly, something bordering on pride tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t suppose that would be terribly difficult.” He replied, carefully stepping one pede down upon the floor, then the other.

His weight settled unevenly as he stood, one hand resting on top of the berth to hold himself steady while he found his balance. He leaned heavily on his right leg, shifting his weight to the limb which could actually bear it without trembling or giving under the pressure.
Once settled, he looked back to Cleaver, his smile taking on an edge of humor.

“I hear antiques like myself are quite good at gathering dust.”

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Cleaver was blunt and vocal, but she was not one to laugh. Never had been. Initially it had been a point of propriety, then professionalism. After Cybertron went dark, everything else had dimmed too and it was hard to relax, let alone into humour.

Altruous' pun was so apt, and so smoothly delivered on a wave of warm tranquility, that she chuckled without restraint.

The mech outdated her by vorns, yet seemed in full possession of his good humour. It was like a fresh, cool breeze had come into the Medbay hewn straight out of the rock. Precious. Too precious to leave out alone when one Decepticon had already made an attack on him.

"I'll let you be the expert on that," she replied, and wasn't it pleasant not to be the oldest in the room... Cleaver stepped away so it wasn't quite so obvious that she was watching his movements as keenly as she was listening to the rhythm of his engine, and the squeaky groans of his joints. She gestured to a drawer in the counter nearest the entrance. "Cloths are in there; cleanser's underneath."

Once Altruous was steady against his staff, Cleaver tucked away the assorted bits and pieces from his tune-up back into their respective storage slots.

"Would you prefer to rest now, or get the dime tour?" she asked as she sorted, her rotors to the slender mech.

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Altruous did not consider himself to be an especially humourous mech, as his repertoire of comedy was limited mostly to awful, awful puns, but every once and a while he managed to come up with something humorous enough to garner a laugh or two. Such instances, while far and few between, were always welcomed. Given the state of the world they lived in, he felt everyone could do with a bit more laughter in their lives, even if it was born from incredulous, second-hand embarrassment rather than genuine amusement.

Hence why it did his spark good to hear Cleaver chuckle at his words, despite his joke not being the most humourous.

It took him a moment to fully right himself, his hand trading its grasp on the edge of the exam table for the middle of his staff, his weight shifting as he leaned against the trusty tool and found his balance once more.

His optics followed Cleaver’s movements as she gestured over towards the entrance, his gaze falling to the cabinets as they were pointed out to him. He made a mental note to make use of the cleaning supplies which resided within them later on, after he had the opportunity to settle himself into his new residence a little more. That, and it would probably help to know what areas needed a bit of dusting before picking up a cloth, lest he find himself wondering the halls aimlessly looking for a dust bunny or two to evict from the premises.

Looking back to Cleaver, he flashed another pleasant smile, his optics waning into crescents as the warmth of his amusement continued to linger long after his joke lost its humor.

“A tour would be lovely, thank you.” He replied, before raising his right hand and patting his left shoulder, as if to demonstrate something.

“As fond as I am of the expression, I cannot rightly say I am fit as a fiddle--” Oh, but he did love alliteration. “--but I would like to think I am not quite so far into my golden years that I lack the endurance to do a bit of exploring.”

He paused a moment as thought occurred to him, before smiling at Cleaver once more, amusement bubbling up in his field a second time.

“I suppose “exploring” is a bit too fanciful a word, isn’t it? You’ll have to forgive me. When you live a life as quiet as mine, everything seems like something of an adventure.”

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Cleaver smiled to herself at the allusion to age and the opinion that it ought not get in the way of adventure or independence. It was a sentiment she could closely relate to, though her date stamp was younger than the Vector's.

Which was a welcome little novelty, as it turned out.

She finished with the cupboards and turned back to Haven's newest lodger. Her arms dropped to her sides with a noisy series of whirrs and shunting clicks, reconfiguring into their default form. She turned an oar-like blade out towards the Medbay door as she approached the smaller mech, coming to stand at a respectful distance by his side.

"Quiet's easy to find here, thankfully," Cleaver said, with a shadow of fatigue that suggested that sometimes quiet was a damn near necessity for her.

She walked them out of the Medbay at a slow gait, just enjoying the foreign calm of Altruous's field. Layby was steady and solid like a lump of granite, but the Vector was still in a different way - like warm water.

The long cavern of the central Atrium was empty, though there was a quiet burble of noise from the television where someone had neglected to turn it off (Layby was the most likely culprit). Cleaver motioned to a gradually descending tunnel to their left, illuminated with strings of lights across the ceiling. "The mines stretch out deep enough that the private quarters are pretty soundproofed from the Atrium if we have rowdy company. As a functioning DMZ with a bar, we're starting to see more traffic from the factions. All social or just plain curious, so far."

Though a realist by nature, Cleaver still nursed an ember of hope that something more substantial might come out of this place. DMZs were spaces for negotiation, suspending hostilities for the sake of words and reason for even a short time.

She pointed straight across the room to a side cavern through which cobbled furniture, coloured lights and a neat bundle of piping on the floor could be seen. The noble pursuit of peace was least likely to be made in that room, but it was the bar that had thus far beckoned most of their visitors.

"Said bar is through there, and is Layby's ongoing labour of love. You can blame the dust on him as much as the mine itself."

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Though he did not say as much out loud, Altruous appreciated Cleaver’s consideration towards his faulty leg. She slowed her gait to match his own so that he would not have to hurry to keep pace with her, and he appreciated the gesture greatly. As much as he liked to think of himself as young in spirit, there was really no denying that he was old in body; he could hurry himself to match the average mech’s pace if he truly wanted to, but it was far from comfortable for him to do so. His joints just weren’t what they used to be, at least not those of his left leg - the streaks of patina spider-webbing across his knee and hip bore stark testament to their wear, marring his copper plating with cloudy swirls and scattered flecks of blue-green.

As they walked, Cleaver provided him with both descriptions of the rooms they visited, as well as directions to the one’s they had yet to explore. He listened closely, all the while constructing his own mental map of the layout of the base, so he would not become too terribly lost when he inevitably went exploring on his own.

Gesturing towards the colorfully lit, homey cavern to their right, Cleaver brought his attention to the bar, which he had little thought for, save that it was cozy looking, inviting despite its humble furnishings, which was an admirable feat in and of itself. Even with resources as scarce as they were, the inhabitants of Haven had somehow managed to cobble together a respectable-looking meeting place for mecha of all factions to stop in, relax, and take a brief reprieve from the war.

Such things were in low supply and desperate need, nowadays. Altruous couldn’t help but appreciate anything which could make life a bit easier for mecha in these trying times, regardless if he found it appealing to his own sensibilities.

Pausing behind Cleaver as she came to a stop, the old mech planted his staff solidly on the stone floor below him and shifted his weight, easing the pressure off his leg by leaning a bit more heavily on his makeshift crutch. He took a moment to peer into the cavern across the way, admiring the bar, even if it was a bit on the dusty side.

“Dust, you say?” He asked, as if this were a particularly interesting bit of information. “I may have to do a bit of meddling in there later on, then.”

He turned his head away from the cavern to look back to Cleaver, a faint smile already tugging the corner of his mouth upward.

“Unless of course this Layby of yours is fond of his dust. By the sound of things, he seems quite reluctant to rid himself of it.”

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Cleaver looked away from the Vector in favour of directing an arch look at the bar, hmm a low, gravelled note. Layby, had he been standing in the doorway, would have received exactly the same expression for all the mess he continued to stir up into their collective filters.

"You meddle away, Vector," she invited, straightening her baackstrut and raising her chin. Despite her outward appearance, there was a warm throb of affection in her field directed at the most lovingly crafted space in Haven.

She led them on again in the direction of the bar, since they were talking about it, their pace as slow and deliberate as before. Layby was working out back, and she knew that he would want to welcome the new arrival.

"Mind you don't get roped into working the taps whilst you're at it," Cleaver added. She looked the smaller mech over in profile, wondering. Though she'd known of Vectors and met a handful in passing in her travels (usually on missions of mercy and the like), she didn't actually know any and couldn't begin to speculate as to what they were like as people.

"Unless that appeals to you? I've heard a lot of venting happened and counsel sought over bartops of varying repute."

The medic allowed some of her inquisitiveness into her field so that Altruous may react or ignore it, as he liked.

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Cleaver was not alone in her speculations - Altruous could not recall how often he had, throughout the course of his life, found himself faced with mecha who were very much baffled by the revelation that he had both a personality and interests outside of his faith. It had been amusing, the first few hundred times, but now it was little more than a blip upon his old dusty radar - an expected response to his occupation, which was admittedly very peculiar in this day and age. There simply weren’t many representatives of his faith---or of any other Cybertronain religion for that matter---left for mecha to get to get to know.

For Altruous, this was all the more reason for him to mingle and flutter about from person to person like the social butterfly that he was. He had a duty to his fellow Vectors to prove that he and his did, in fact, have personalities. Some of them were really quite interesting, even, if Altruous could say so himself.

“I’m not much of a mixologist, I’m afraid.” He replied, with a slight shake of his head. “I’ve never been much for drinking - not out of any distaste for it, mind, unless of course we’re referring to the actual taste of the drink, in which case---”

He trailed off near the end, seeming to realize that he was a few words away from going off on a tangent. Clearing his throat, the old mech reeled himself back in, then returned to his original point.

“---Though that is not to say I would be opposed to learning, should someone be willing to suffer an old dog while he struggles to learn a new trick.”

Cracking a small smile, Altruous gestured towards the bar with his staff, easing it forward at a slight angle before setting it right once more.

“That said, I suppose I ought to be careful, heading in there. I’ve heard strange things have been known to happen to priests who walk into bars.”

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Cleaver snorted, rotors flexing with mirth. They flopped gently between her shoulders and down her backstrut as she walked, the thin tips whispering through the air. She had been intending to show Altruous the human quarter, but as he seemed quite interested in the bar and she was certain that Layby was tinkering out the back, the medic led them towards Haven's crowning jewel.

"Most of the patrons coming by aren't interested in more than strong, clean High Grade inside something to hold it." She nodded demonstrable towards the long bartop as they strpped through the arched gap that served as a doorway.

Layby was talking about installing swinging saloon shutters, a project Cleaver was already theorising how to sabotage. A door that relied on being struck to open eventually struck back, and cratered mecha tended to fall down with the slightest provocation. Hard.

"Laybye's the one who gets excited by mixology," she went on, her tone framing the word in inverted commas. She was dubious of elaborate methods of getting mecha smashed, at best. "No one asked him to line up cubes, pour a half a dozen chemicals across them and the bartop, set the lot on fire and stick a cherry on top. You leave mixology to him."

Cleaver pointed at two handles sticking up from the far side of the bartop. They looked like they'd once been party of a shuttle's steering assembly, now lovingly embellished in chrome. "Two taps: one's straight energon, other's High Grade. If you can tell left from right and keep a straight face around Deuce and... oh, the 'Con femme... Roulette. Then you'll do fine."

The helo took them to two stools at the bar, sitting up with a rough-edged sigh. She rested her blades in a cross between her thighs, the booms ending by the heels of her broad feet.

"Think you'll like Layby," Cleaver said, her optics turning fuzzy at the edges as she thought aloud. "Know he'd like you. Former soldier. No atheists in a foxhole, and that."

It was different for a medic. She didn't believe in Primus's will. She believed in her hands and her skills, and the bitter knowledge that they were machines that ultimately broke beyond repair. Layby believed that there was a higher power guiding them, and that the things he'd done and seen were a part of something beyond his understanding. Some nights, when his systems choked and twitched in flux, he invoked their Maker's name and clung to that belief.

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The old mech had not been walking long, but even so, the weathered joints of his left leg appreciated the brief reprieve they were granted once Cleaver pulled out a pair of stools and offered him a seat at the bar. Any time not spent bearing up his weight was a time his knee was happy, and Altruous supposed he really couldn’t fault it for that. Brittle and crumbling as his protomass was, it was really no wonder that his joints took issue with being made to perform any sort of mildly strenuous activity.

With a shift of creaky plating, Altruous set his elbow to rest against the bartop then turned in his seat to face Cleaver. He laced his fingers loosely together, his thumbs absently twiddling together as he listened to his hostess speak.

When she finished musing aloud, the smile he favored her with was nothing short of genuine.

“I’m sure we will get along just fine, theism, foxholes, or no.”

An amused huff escaped him as he leaned backwards a bit, adjusting his posture so that he was not quite so hunched over. He had to mind his back, lest he have that wear out on him prematurely as well.

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have interests outside my faith, though whether those interests are in and of themselves interesting is open to debate.”

He paused in order to allow Cleaver to fully appreciate his not-very-humorous self-mocking joke, before continuing.

“Rest assured, my beliefs are not all that I am. I would make for a rather boring person if that were the case, and I like to think of myself as at least marginally intriguing. In fact, you could go so far as to say I am vaguely fascinating, depending on how you feel about floristry and trinket-making.”

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A faint tartness crept into the edge of Cleaver's field, her systems flushing with embarrassment. Altruous had framed it in a self-depreciating way to spare her feelings, but that only seemed to make the faux pas worse.

"Of course - I'm sorry if I caused offence," she said, her expression verging on somber.

Of course there were more to the mech than his profession, as with anyone else in any other profession. From Cleaver's experience, Clerics tended to more fully embody their careers, and this was not the first time she'd failed to distinguish between the mecha and their vocation.

On a private channel, and knowing full well that her amica was in the back room - ::We've got company.::

:: Be out in a klik. Bertha's got one on'er today.::

Cleaver's rotors twitch, and the flat thin-armour plates along her arms flared and contracted. It was a relief that Altruous was nothing like the religious figures she'd known in the past - solemn creatures coming in to read last rites when she'd done all she could and had still fallen short; or fanatics filling up wards with incense and chanting in the delusion that Primus could do better than medicine for a loved one.

It put up a wall. Not a prejudice, precisely, but an unease when the topic of religion came up. It was one of the things she and Layby most differed on.

She exhaled with a small, tight smile, pushing the feeling down. Altruous was utterly affable and had been nothing but courteous and polite since he'd arrived. It was actually good to see a bit of spine in a frailer frame, and she'd been enjoying the conversation.

"So: trinket-making?" Cleaver said, and it sounded terribly forced to her own audios. Hopefully Layby would be out soon to cover her conversational shortcomings. "Does that cover jewelry and ornaments? The natives have this digital store called Etsy for hand-crafted goods."

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As far as the old priest was concerned, Cleaver had made no blunder which required an apology. He had viewed her comment as an earnest attempt to relate to the sole interest she knew him to have, and he could not fault her for the assumption that he would enjoy the company of similarly religious individuals.

Of course, he wasn’t about to further the medic’s embarrassment by pointing this out. Instead he simply let the moment slip on by, acknowledging it with little more than an amused hum.

“Oh, do they, now?” He asked, sounding mildly intrigued.

He hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of market this “Etsy” was, but he made a mental note to look into it a bit later on, if only to get a feel for what the natives of this strange new world had in terms of arts and crafts. It was as good a place to begin exploring the humans’ various cultures and interests as any, he supposed.

“I don’t suppose there is an untapped market for statuettes and engravings made from recycled alien scrap metal, is there?”

He grinned at his own joke, knowing full well that selling Cybertronian materials to unwitting humans would be a completely ill-advised decision.

“No, I can’t imagine there would be.” He added, answering his own question with a shake of his head. “Too niche a market, too little demand.”

His field bubbled with amusement, fizzy and light, before sobering a bit as he addressed Cleaver a bit more seriously.

“No harm in that, really. If I were making handicrafts for profit, as opposed to a means of passing the time, then I wouldn’t have so many in my possession.”

He paused, curling his fingers over his palm before holding his hand out to Cleaver in demonstration. When he opened his hand, the item he retrieved from his subspace was revealed.

It was a small statuette of a turbo-fox, made from what a discerning eye would recognize as a bit of shrapnel and a few ammunition casings. The statuette itself was very simple, more geometrically shaped than organic, with hard edges and a stylistically oversized head.

“I’ve had this little one here for nearly a century, now.”

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Cleaver did not reach out to pick up the statuette, much as the form of the model invited touch, and only leaned in to examine it. The metal was worked and worn smooth, dull with the weight of its history and the origins of its materials. It wouldn't have been so aesthetically appealing were it shiny or polished.

She smiled a little, reminded of the trinkets and ornaments she'd collected over the years aside items of potential trade and material value. Purely decorative items were rare and precious across their now-nomadic race, carried in subspace and representing something more than their form. They were a luxury without stigma - reminders of home, places visited, people known and perhaps lost.

It had been millennia since Cleaver had seen a live turbo-fox. To think they'd once been nothing more than vermin...

"It's beautiful." Her optics rotated, spiraling tighter as she increased their magnification. Through surgical-tunneled vision, she admired the smoothed seams and delicately welded joins. "Skilled work. Did you work from a reference image or purely from memory?"

There was a clatter and a muffled curse from the back room. Layby would be with them very shortly.