FLASHBACK - Chatter - Closed (Jazz)
Apr 27, 2015 18:02:58 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 27, 2015 18:02:58 GMT -5
<<OOC: Set after the Exodus from Cybertron, but long before Earth.>>
Hyperion Hub was the worst-kept secret in the black market that operated across the non-aligned ports and colonies across Cybertronian space. War was profitable, and centers for the business of profiting from war were solidly established, well defended and privately supported.
It was an irony that these areas that thrived off the dead and means of making more dead were also the safest places for faction-bearing mecha travelling alone. Couriers, convicts, refugees and infiltrators were watched over by looming mercenaries hired to maintain the peace. On Hyperion, the Order of Solus (a small but terrifying group of religious order warrior femmes) were also permanent fixtures, and in the business of 'resolving conflict'.
Fairwinds had gone out of her way to get to Hyperion for 'professional' and personal reasons, smuggling herself aboard an organic-run freighter and then a Cybertronian shuttle to get to the space station. It was, within the scope of her mission, a relatively small detour on her route back to Cybertron in search of 'Mech With Wanted Brain Module'.
The last few days had been highly enjoyable and semi-productive as she stocked up and caught up. She'd spent very little time in her rented room (a section of walled-off ventilation shafts dedicated to minis), lurking around the bar and canteen areas for gossip/intelligence instead.
Warm with mid-grade and rust sticks, the little avian-frame was snatching up some dropped credit chips from under a barstool when a familiar frame caught her optic. She cross-referenced automatically, but was already anticipating the results. Jazz's reputation as spec-ops -a mishmash of dubious fact and plausible fiction- preceded him.
Fairwinds subspaced the last coin and ducked out from under the stool, the gave her thrusters a short burst to propel herself up onto the neighbouring seat. It was late and most of the patrons had staggered off past the bouncers to their rooms for the night. Despite her small stature, Fairwinds had an unobstructed view of the white mech across the room.
She stood, staring with her usual obnoxious directness until she thought she'd caught his optic. Then she gave him a cheery nod and crest-flick. The gesture loosely translated to: 'S'up, mech?'.
Hyperion Hub was the worst-kept secret in the black market that operated across the non-aligned ports and colonies across Cybertronian space. War was profitable, and centers for the business of profiting from war were solidly established, well defended and privately supported.
It was an irony that these areas that thrived off the dead and means of making more dead were also the safest places for faction-bearing mecha travelling alone. Couriers, convicts, refugees and infiltrators were watched over by looming mercenaries hired to maintain the peace. On Hyperion, the Order of Solus (a small but terrifying group of religious order warrior femmes) were also permanent fixtures, and in the business of 'resolving conflict'.
Fairwinds had gone out of her way to get to Hyperion for 'professional' and personal reasons, smuggling herself aboard an organic-run freighter and then a Cybertronian shuttle to get to the space station. It was, within the scope of her mission, a relatively small detour on her route back to Cybertron in search of 'Mech With Wanted Brain Module'.
The last few days had been highly enjoyable and semi-productive as she stocked up and caught up. She'd spent very little time in her rented room (a section of walled-off ventilation shafts dedicated to minis), lurking around the bar and canteen areas for gossip/intelligence instead.
Warm with mid-grade and rust sticks, the little avian-frame was snatching up some dropped credit chips from under a barstool when a familiar frame caught her optic. She cross-referenced automatically, but was already anticipating the results. Jazz's reputation as spec-ops -a mishmash of dubious fact and plausible fiction- preceded him.
Fairwinds subspaced the last coin and ducked out from under the stool, the gave her thrusters a short burst to propel herself up onto the neighbouring seat. It was late and most of the patrons had staggered off past the bouncers to their rooms for the night. Despite her small stature, Fairwinds had an unobstructed view of the white mech across the room.
She stood, staring with her usual obnoxious directness until she thought she'd caught his optic. Then she gave him a cheery nod and crest-flick. The gesture loosely translated to: 'S'up, mech?'.