Episode 2: Is this your cat? [Closed, Soundwave]

[Deleted]

<<OOC: Week 3 Day 1>>

Landfall was rarely a comfortable operation, particularly when one often had to make use of stolen or derelict ships that really shouldn’t be used in such a manner. It also is vastly unhelpful that steering on this particular drop ship cannot be done manually, the small piloting controls made for mechs with some form of hand to grasp with. Batting at the joysticks with her wings just won’t cut it, and standing on the control panel to awkwardly foot at them would get her more crashed than it looks like she is going to be.

The view outside the tiny window is not encouraging, white hot with hints of orange and red as the outer fringes of the atmosphere try to burn the ship to a cinder. The angle of approach is off slightly, her speed too high, and there is nothing she can do. Well, nothing to save the ship.

Scooting back from the console blaring warnings about the being on fire and ground coming up much too fast, Airlia tucks her long neck down, folding it flush to her body, wings mantling forward for a bit more protection. She is not properly fueled, and hasn’t been in too long, she’s going to need every bit of buffer she can get. It also means she cannot see that moment of impact, only the claxon’s screaming giving her the necessary warning to flicker a shield to life just before impact.

It’s a peculiar feeling, if one felt like being vastly underdescriptive. Pressure and a flash of heat that should be hotter, energy crackling and feeding back as her shield buckles and falls after a moment, too underfuelled to hold against the whole impact. Metal denting and bending, the tank churning lurch of gravity reasserting itself after tumble-rolling.

Definitely not a good landing.

She takes a long moment of self indulgence, since she currently isn’t on fire, before struggling out of the warped cocoon of her wings. The feather-like blades are bent and melted a bit along the edges, protesting the movement, but she cannot stay here. Someone or something will be investigating that spectacular of a crash, and chances are it won’t be the femme she’s been hunting for. And yet… Tentative kicking reveals she still possesses her legs, and they are functional, but flight systems are all coming up red. Walking away is deeply unappealing, and not a suitable option for this situation. Drat, she is going to have to seek assistance.

Fortunately, comms still seem to be working. She can only hope she is retrieved by Decepticon forces before the Autobots that are likely monitoring the last Decepticon frequency she knows show up and claim her.

::Decepticon Airlia requesting immediate assistance and extraction.::

[Deleted]

Soundwave was, at the moment enjoying one of his rare off-shifts; even more unusual, he'd launched himself off the Decepticon warship's flight deck not even a breem ago, and had found much-needed relaxation in simply cruising through the higher cloud layer, well out of sight of both the 'Nemesis' and the ground. The solitude and silence were their own kind of balm, for all that he had a weather comm. turned towards the Nemesis chatter, just in case.

As a matter of habit, the 3IC lurked in old channels, both Decepticon frequencies and any known Autobot numbers, whenever he had the time for it. It was astonishing, how many mecha actually used such old lines, believing them forgotten the older they were. It was also useful when you had troops scattered across the vast and highly inimical universe, troops that might show up not knowing the day's new numbers, or passwords - but troops that nonetheless were needed in the fold.

::Decepticon Airlia requesting immediate assistance and extraction.::

Case in point. Had he been able to at the moment, Soundwave would have blown a long sigh. The mech, however, was not in the habit of such pointed demonstrations. The thought did flit through his mind, though.

This is why I never get time off.

He banked towards the signal. It had not gone far, and triangulating might prove to be something of a chore. His mind was running through the usual probabilities: either it was a Decepticon, or a trap. The trap could belong to MECH, or be one last hurray from a rogue Autobot. It could even be a Decepticon trap; the 3IC would never discount the likelihood that someone would take a potshot at him, if only to see if it could be done. But if it were exactly what it sounded like - a distress call, then it had to be answered. Those very same enemies that might set a trap with such bait would not hesitate to close in on such a heaven-sent gift.

The Reaper banked, checking on the local ether to see if it would be of any help pinpointing the signal, but the sparsely populated locale proved of no help; simultaneously he sent a single data-ping in response to the call, a single glyph to acknowledge the signal, another to ID himself as a responding Decepticon rescue party, and a third requesting precise coordinates. It was the automated response, copied glyph-by-glyph, from any aerial-type Unawakened sent on the standard pick-up rescue. No need to offer aught else. Yet.

[Deleted]

The quick response to her call is not entirely reassuring, and not simply because she has been rather AWOL for a vast stretch of time. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that the response, as impersonalized as it is, is part of a trap. Yet even if it is, she is in no position to allow paranoia to get the better of her. A trap can be reacted to. Wandering, ground bound, on a foreign world until an Autobot or native finds her is not an option.

That said, she is small enough to hide herself well enough in the scrub brush a short distance from the crash site. No sense in standing right out in the open where anyone can swoop down on her. The coordinates she provides in response to the ping are those of the still flaming wreckage that was once a ship, no words wasted to bid the rescuing party to hurry, or any other sort of deviation from that which was requested. She’s not the sort to waste words, nor can the cassette see anyone giving only single glyph pings appreciating a lot of chattering getting in the way of the actual point.

Now to wait, and see what manner of creature comes to her rescue.

[Deleted]

Crash-landings are always absurdly easy to locate, and not just from the air. The plume of dust and smoke lingers in all but the most wind-battered locations, and life-forms around the area, if they can be found, are usually found moving directly away from the loud, crashing, non-native thing.

It is much easier, of course, when one is airborne and the geographic scar left by the crash is summarized blatantly by the plume of smoke rising from one end. There's not a lot of deduction needed at that point, where fire equals crash equals distress signal. The coordinates matched, too, which was a good sign. Or a very stupid trap.

The Reaper circled once at a steady altitude, all but silent except for the unusual, whistling hum his alt-mode produced in flight. It was both an opportunity to map out the terrain and its potential hazards, as well as a chance to provoke more trigger-happy foes into a likely mistake. When no attack manifested itself the Decepticon 3IC hemorrhaged height in a sharp dive, ducking behind the smoke column as he went. By the time he circled back out from behind that cover he was exceedingly low to the ground and had dropped further speed, changing approach vectors once again.

With smooth grace Soundwave transformed and dropped to a crouch, missing not a bit and already battle ready. He straightened up slowly, part of his attention on the wreckage and the spitting fire that was consuming it; that would have to be put out and whatever could be salvaged removed to the 'Nemesis', though he doubted anything but raw materials would be worth the effort.

Most of his attention, however, strayed to his surroundings, tracing thermal paths and wind currents, marking sources of motion and overall trying to figure out where and when any trap and ambush might be sprung. Only when such calculations were finished did he drop those long arms to his sides, the very image of casual calm, as if he dropped in from the sky on the African landscape every other day of the week. Over the original line he sent a brief, meaningless tone, pitched to rise at the end as a spoken question might.

[Deleted]

The cassette makes no move to reveal herself until her rescuer has landed, and his posture drops into acceptably calm ranges. The decepticon glyph stamped on those oddly shaped arms is not proof, but still a very likely sign that this is in fact the rescue she’s after, and though she cannot be sure for having never met the mech, that slender, non standardly proportioned body and facelessness suggests that she has the dubious honor of being rescued by no less than the Decepticon 3IC.

Should this in fact be Soundwave, then certainly it is not Autobot trap. However, the fact she has been more than a little AWOL cannot have her in good standing with the command crew, but that is assuming that she was important enough to miss in the first place. Or, that she wasn’t simply marked down as presumed dead when she disappeared so very long ago. Cassettes are rarely valued as highly as a ‘real’ mech or femme, and she is not a battle asset beyond her limited shield making ability. Chances are good that she was not missed, and thus her record won’t come back to bite her. If not though… She requested aid, and that’s a chance she will have to take.

The tone is answered by and acknowledging but equally meaningless ‘squonk’ of a noise, both audibly and over the original line as she abandons her meager shrub hiding place, and waddles for the mech with as much grace as a slightly melted and dinged up swan cassette may have.

[Deleted]

Soundwave turned towards the motion and sound at once, and his head tilted slightly. Until he and whoever he were rescuing were back onboard the 'Nemesis', he would not, could not, discount the possibility of a trap. To use a cassette, battered and weary, would simply mean it was a trap set by someone who knew him.

Nonetheless, when he saw the swan he pivoted to face her more fully and dropped to one knee, the better to have them looking each other levelly; too few cassettes were accorded that small dignity.

His blank faceplate lit up with diagnostics as he ran the most basic of scans over her, pinpointing damage. He was no medic, but things like energon pumping out or cascades of sparks were not hard to recognize as Very Bad indeed. She looked slightly less battered than the craft that had brought her planet-side, but it was entirely too obvious she had not gotten away unscathed. At least none of the damage looked critical.

The flickering images cleared from his faceplate, replaced instead with a cog. It split in two equal halves along a zigzag line, one turning into a flashing question glyph. One needle-long talon tapped it lightly, and that hand swept back towards the wreckage, the Decepticon 3IC's head tilting slightly in an unspoken question for the avian.

[Deleted]

Indeed, Airlia could not recall the last time someone had made an effort to approach her level. Why should they, when she clearly could hear them just fine from her vantage point? The gesture was appreciated though, gratitude flickering across her rather more wobbly and unrefined then normal EM field.

Her particularly static face, and dull little red optics were useful in not giving away how little attention the paid to the diagnostics flashing across the mech’s faceplate, the information either available to her via her own internal systems, or beyond her usage anyway. She was no medic, and lacking in both hands or highly mobile talons she could not and wouldn’t pretend otherwise. At best, she could clamp a solitary line with her bill. But it would be unseemly to be seen as unattentive by her rescue, and even in her condition she wouldn’t be so terribly crass.

Abstract thinking had never been her strongest suite, and it took a long moment for the cassette to puzzle out just what the cog symbol was to mean. She knew it wasn’t meant to be taken literally, that would be silly, but what then? She was simply going to have to guess. Asking for clarification would likely only result in a similar pictograph to decipher.

Her gaze followed the sweep of that long, sharp digit, coming to rest upon the flaming wreckage that had been her ship. “Master: not upon vessel.”

[Deleted]

“Master: not upon vessel.”

The answer was both comforting and worrisome. There was nothing to be argued with the good news that there was no dead frame in the ship, or a mech with unknown levels of unconsciousness and injury to be pried from it.

It also brought up the obvious question. If not there, with their cassette... where were they?

Despite rumors to the contrary, Soundwave did not hoard cassettes, nor covet them automatically. They came to him because he would welcome them not as tools, or pets, or drones, but on their own terms. That did mean that occasionally others would find him somewhat... buried in cassettes, but by no means did that make them all his own.

Thus his first concern was the lack of a readily available master; the thought of claiming the errant cassette for his own was not even a blip on the radar, for all that he knew too many mechs would accuse him otherwise. Ah, well.

He tapped his talons lightly on one hip, considering his options. The delay in response from the swan-cassette told him he was dealing with either a very literal processor, or an overly wary one. Regardless, he would not press her to provide overmuch information until she could, or would.

The basics would have to do; as she had already figured out what the half-cog meant, he displaced that to one side of his faceplate, and pointed an arrow from it to the simplest of inquiry glyphs. Was there anything at all she could tell him, then, of her missing master?

[Deleted]

Now this was a quandary. If anyone on the planet was going to know if Roulette was still alive, and in the area, it would be Soundwave. The communication specialist was rumored to have all sorts of information on everyone and anyone, Autobots included.

However, revealing that she was searching for an Autobot femme as her master was surely the best was to be detained immediately. And reassigned a new master not of her choosing, or worse, reprogrammed first, and then reassigned. Being terminated as a traitor was less of a concern, in her processor.

Perhaps…. She didn’t have to outright name a faction? Roulette was not the most esoteric name, and if the silent mech revealed that the femme she was after was here under the Prime’s banner, then she could claim she searched for someone else. Perhaps. She wasn’t a particularly adept creature at deceit.

In any case, she had to say something. There was no escaping the situation, and she still required medical aid. “Location: unknown. Airlia: searching for Master Roulette. Separated since the Great Exodus.” Well, it had been a bit before that, but it was a close enough time frame.