[ti]Ep 2[/ti] - Similar Interests - [Closed]

[Flatline]

Episode 2 | Week 4 | Day 4

Free time was a rare commodity.

TRUE free time was even rarer.

With everything that was asked of him seemingly caught up, it left Flatline with a seldom experienced opportunity to exploit one of his leaves down to the planet. It was something that many on the Warship had access too, a few restricted outings to make sure the occupants didn’t lose their collective mind cooped up. Many exploited this to a fault, and others pushed their privileges to go out more than they should ((AKA Knock Out, the slacker)). Flatline however, hadn't really felt the need to do so particularly often.

The only times he really felt an overwhelming urge to leave, had been the times that he needed more raw metal and other materials for his side projects. This was however joined today by a new urge, one brought on by being trapped inside a metal cage hovering precariously in the air for a long time.

The Nemesis itself hadn't bothered Flatline too terribly much. He trusted the ship to stay aloft, and it was so technologically advanced that its movements were essentially invisible even to his heightened balance sensors. He only really became aware they were flying, when it had to bank a harder turn to get on a new course, or when he was in the process of working on something so minutely finicky and tiny that he had to compensate for the low rumble. Alas, Skywarp ruined this some.

Being atop the flight deck, convinced your about to fall to your death, can bring a new desire to set foot on solid ground. He had fought this for awhile, ignored the need to just... escape for a bit... but it was too much, and this is where Flatline was now. Trying to escape from the ship, and to unwind from a busy and frustrating week while still doing some work because OF COURSE... What is real relaxation?


Mounds upon mounds of metal were piled high, the mangled shrapnel and decrepit remains of objects that once were, creating silver and rust dunes that stretched across the immense lot. Some even spilled out into the neighboring areas, too much waste and far too much loss for the meager establishment to properly keep up with. There was but once piece of heavy equipment that wasn't part of the graveyard of machines and building supplies, its orange painted frame inert for the night, with hooked claws spread open and waiting for morning when it would be tasked to move thousands of pounds of the scrap metal to be processed and recycled. Beside it were some cars, stacked up atop one another, so damaged and battered their make was hardly recognizable any longer beyond the absolute basics, and what an occasional glimpse of an emblem could betray.

Flatline had to give the humans credit for something, and that was the fact they tended to pile things up in themes. Need to find some electronics? Well, there was some recycling plant that focused on exactly that. Needed raw metal to melt down to new uses? Well, places like this absolutely had the answer to that.

Calmly, the black and red Decepticon strolled into the vacant lot, his digitigrade legs cutting in front of one another with a careful stride edged in confidence. As far as he was aware, there was no one in sight, and no humans anywhere around. This wasn't going to be a repeat like the night he got his Alt-Mode, and he wasn't going to get looped into a brawl. All he had to do to protect the identity of his species was activate a transmitter he brought once he entered the vicinity.

The small device attached temporarily to his hip, sent out a pulse that should ideally fry any human cameras that could be acting as sentinel over the small treasure trove of metals. While the pulses where harmless to Cybertronian and most of their technology, the far more... primitive... and fragile earth components would find themselves shorting out before ever getting a clear view of the medic. This meant he would have all the time he needed, and not need to sneak around.

Now came the fun part.

Flatline's primary hand reached up, and curled beneath his jaw, clicking a forefinger down to tap over one of the protruding spikes in thought.

Where to start...

[Pyrotech]

The smell of rotting oil oozed up from underfoot. So many vehicles had come to rest here after terrible accidents. Front ends crushed completely to the point where the tires splayed out to the sides. Fluids mingling; bright green of antifreeze with the blue of wiper solution, intermixed with the sloppy, viscous red liquids of brakes and transmission. Tiny bits of safety glass cubed along the ground, sprayed from shattered windows.

A headlight hung out of an old truck on a thin cable. It swayed in the wind; back and forth, back and forth as if it were a ruined optic unable to bear the necropolis around it. Washing machines, old computer monitors, paint cans full of perfumed cat litter and drying latex paint lay around it. A ruined flat screen television lay face down, splaying itself towards that orange crane. It seemed to be in worship of a deity that would someday take it to the final destination. Peace, where the speakers would lie forever silenced under a mound of greasy un-recyclable bits.

This was not a place that most mechs would have considered that Pyrotech would ever, ever go.

Yet here the architect was, pulling smoothly up to the old wire fence that surrounded the junkyard. Like the electric car he'd taken the form of, his engine was practically silent; a low whisper hush. No ticking, no deep grumble and thud of a vehicle resting after long hours on the road. His tires made more noise; crunching on the gravel as he eased off the paved road and settled next to the fencing. Dry grass rubbed along the underside of his bumper, and the car twitched, lifting a bit up on his wheels so he could get over it without it touching him. His side mirrors flattened sourly down. Sometimes he couldn't stand that sort of thing. One more organic moment rubbing along him and he'd had enough of that to last him a damned lifetime. Two in fact.

Maybe the planet felt the same way. Even the road dust didn't seem to want to stick to him much. It haloed around his fenders, a light touch of tan feathering up his front doors. The ladder across the top of the Peugeot was as shiny as ever; but in one tiny space, a battered moth wing fluttered. The insect had been struck at speed, drawn into the fatal light of the Decepticon's headlamps.

Somehow though, A this fragile little bit of it still remained; mangled at the delicate edges by wind and distance.

The mech sat in the silence and enjoyed it for a long moment.

Mostly because his thoughts this entire journey had been loud.

Truce. A truce, ugh. Disgusting. We bring ourselves down to the levels of those weakling Autobots- no, we agree to their foolish terms. Hide ourselves from these disgusting organic creatures these blind, simple, stupid humans. We should just either choose to leave this rock to them - there are better places in space to find fuel - or we treat them like the vermin they are and eradicate them in their poor excuses for cities. The Decepticon army has brought the Autobots to their knees, the humans would have been nothing to us had we just wiped them off the map.

How dare they have even become a bit of a threat - things have changed since I was last here, and not for the better.

It made him furious. That low, roiling sort of fury that turned cold the more he thought about it. He respected the need for stealth. Understood that the expense of what it would cost them to wipe these creatures off the map. It was a ridiculous waste of resources to do it and yet...

It would have felt damn good. Wonderful, in fact.

When it came down to it though, Pyrotech was not the sort of mech to go against the decisions of his superior officers. They were there for a reason, and if he couldn't lift himself above them and take their position then they deserved his respect.

He didn't have to like those higher up than him, no. Nor did he have to socialize with them; he saved those moments for those he actually cared to listen to outside of a control room or a mission statement.

Like Roulette. She was someone he could contentedly be around for hours and hours. He was patient with things he wanted. Incredibly patient. Good things took time. You savored every bit of it.

With a sigh, he shifted his weight back. There were the soft sounds of transformation. Seconds later, Pyrotech stood, eyeing the junkyard. He absently brushed a bit of dust off his forearm. This place he knew well. Minimal cameras. No scrapyard dogs barking at strange sounds. Easy to get through if you knew what you were doing.

He'd been here many times before. Humans threw out useful things and since arriving on Earth, the architect had learned to use whatever resources he could get his hands on.

[Flatline]

After a moment of careful consideration, Flatline chose a particular direction, and just began to roam. He didn't fully know what he was looking for, only that he needed to get something that could be properly melted down and re-formed. This could come in any varying shapes and sizes, and there was also the possibility that he could find something else that he 'needed' as well. Humans could have any number of other materials and products he could steal, things to cut corners or adapt into what he required. While he didn't want to do things SLOPPY, and he of course would clean it up, getting a head start meant he could get to the finish line where his greatest hurdle was, and start plotting how to navigate that rather than fetching strut materials.

If he could traverse that hurdle? Then the second rendition could be constructed with far more care.

So lost in thought, Flatline almost missed the sounds of transformation and the soft footfalls of a Cybertronian taking a step forward. His processor didn't fully even latch onto it at first, too entrapped in some mangled rebar that was twisted together into a tangled mess. When it did click though he instantly hushed, his ventilation growing softer and near nonexistent, while a calm gaze took on a far more predatory look.

The last time he had been in a yard like this, tinkering around, minding his own business, an Autobot had decided to happen by, and caused a huge heap of trouble for him. The ordeal was stressful, painful, paired with rotary saws, explosions, and a collapsing parking garage. There was enough action packed into those couple hours to last him a few years in this war plagued existence they were all forced to share. But no... here he was, and there was what sounded like the unmistakable footfalls of another somewhere in his immediate vicinity beyond the mass of debris he was currently behind.

He remembered the truce, he did, he knew that even if it was some war hungry Autobot that they wouldn't be permitted to attack him. This said, if it was a huge brute of an Autobot that KNEW they would be able to snuff him out and no Decepticon would be the wiser to what happened... would they take that risk?... Flatline liked to pretend he would know better than to do that to a small feeble Autobot he knew he could kill, but... at the same time temptations could be high, but the threat of Megatron's wrath could be much worse. Or would their Lord be secretly pleased? Another Autobot clipped away to make the other feeble pathetic team that much weaker, his anger only a show to keep the Autobots in line under his thumb while MECH is being dealt with.

For a moment Flatline just listened, trying to figure out how big the other individual was, and try to size up if it even was an Autobot ((as if sounds alone could tell that)). He knew there were neutrals on this planet, and possibly some freelance individuals that didn't play by the rules of either faction that could be a threat. Really, he could think about this all day, and he honestly just needed to face them and see firsthand if this was a flight situation or not. For all he knew he was overreacting from previous bad experiences.

Slowly, gently curled hands hooked out and flared, long talons baring to the open air in nervous preparation. He knew better than to prepare any real weaponry, since statistics show it would be an Autobot or Decepticon other than a Neutral, but he didn't want to be caught completely unprepared. With these meager preparations made, he finally moved, his frame lowering down softly to take a few uneven steps forward before he leaned to the side to try to view who was there.

[Pyrotech]

Pyrotech surveyed the area, his crimson optics taking in the situation around him for a long moment. Nothing had changed since he'd last been here. Perhaps the accumulation of garbage; paper wrappers rustling restlessly, slithering over each other in a twisted pile. Or the flapping of greasy plastic bags caught against the pointed edges of the chain link fence.

It really didn't bother him though. It was like all the roadsides. Human beings were disgusting things. They wallowed in their organic filth, left it wherever they happened to be. The crude little beasts couldn't even bother to keep their machines clean. No wonder half the things on this planet were in danger of breaking down at any moment. Even many of their structures made him wince to himself; poor designs, poor maintenance,

Absentmindedly, he brushed out his scanners for a quick sweep of the area as he stepped easily over the fence. He was confident in his abilities and that there was no one for miles. However, confidence didn't mean he was stupid. No sense in walking straight into some human going through the garbage. If they saw him, he could take care of it of course, but he truly disliked the idea of touching what was left of them after.

Pyrotech truly had not expected a single ping back of anything but garbage and metal. When the relay came back that there was someone - NOT a human, but a Cybertronian - out here in this garbage heap, he paused in mid stride. Immediately his doors sourly flattened behind his shoulders and the mech's mouth flattened into a straight line. His optics brightened under the brim of his helm and then The cannon on his shoulder flicked back and forth, questing towards the received signal like the tongue of a snake.

Who was it? What was it?

Autobot?

The thought made his jaws grind together. Go figure, an Autobot in the middle of nowhere, and under the circumstances, he couldn't even lay a hand on it. Of course, it would be like this His fingers curled together into a fist by his side. A tiny wisp of heat roiled off of his fingertips as the ladder on his shoulder quivered.

Maybe not, maybe it was a neutral.

Hmmm, well, there had been no decree about those, had there. No one ever missed the scavenging rotters anyway.

The mech relaxed his fingers and dropped his hands to his sides. He tipped his shoulders back, standing quietly and calmly within the dirt of the wrecking yard. The dim lighting gleamed off his sleek and glossy finish.

"I know you're here," he called out, his dry, clipped accent curling distinctly across the junkyard. "No doubt you know I am as well. If you are an Autobot, rest assured that I'm honoring the truce that's been called between our leaders."

[Flatline]

Flatline only really got a glance of the Cybertronian in question before he ducked back as if he were going to get his helm blasted off by being spotted. The individual was of average height, and donned red plating that was slick and glinted in the night's light. At first thought, Flatline believed it to be Knock Out, the kneejerk response of seeing such a pristine finish, but upon consideration many of the variables did not line up. This individual was taller, and had doors mounted upon his dorsal plating. There also appeared to be some kind of weapon on his shoulder, and while Flatline only saw a glance it reminded him of the rocket launcher Red Alert had.

The individual then spoke, the accent familiar... strangely so, and Flatline's processor instantly spun trying to attach it to someone's face. While that in itself was frustrating, it was paired with relief to know he was among one of his kind, and not some Autobot that could go rogue, or a Neutral. It is because of this, Flatline straightened up his posture, and started to walk around the mass of debris and scrap metal.

No longer caring about masking his presence, he let his pronged peds fall wherever they would, not avoiding the smaller bits of metal that crackled beneath his weight with a buckling warble. Despite the uneven flooring however, he didn't bob or stumble, his frame steadied well by the gyroscopes that twitched within his torso with tiny whirs. It was a far leap from the near drunk appearing idiot Pyro would remember from their first meeting, his hands lifting in a half sarcastic placating gesture to expose his palms to the one who had the heavier shoulder artillery.

"No honoring of the truce needed."

Now in full view, Flatline got to actually look at the other Cybertronian for more than a fleeting moment. It was only then that the pieces fell together, and the hazy visuals played back through his processor. It was like a chopped up memory file, or a dream that somehow got filtered into the active memory section of his processor. He recalled hanging off of this individual, and some kind of conversation... a femme... a lot of ocean and seaweed and fowl...

"Ah, so you are real... I half assumed you were a hallucination in my... less than ideal state..."

Droned out, there was a bit of disappointment laced in his words at having found someone that'd recall that time. That particular day just needed to be folded under the radar, and politely forgotten thankyouverymuch. Alas, he was not so lucky, and had to own up to reality. While Flatline no longer actively worked for towerlings, and didn’t have to maintain that clean cut edge to himself to appeal to his customers, he still had some of that pride of appearances rub off on him, and he knew he botched his first impression with this mech.

No... botched was too light...

He OBLITERATED it.

[Pyrotech]

It was the change of the mech's stride that told Pyrotech that whatever mech was in this junkyard was no longer trying to hide their presence. The snap and crack of metal on metal; whomever it was no longer concerned about being discovered. Which meant that it was not an Autobot or even one of the sulking, cowering neutrals that tried to scrape out an existence on this planet. Even with the knowledge of the truce in place, an Autobot would have been more cautious. Well, a smart one, and there were plenty of stupid ones out there. Most of them, in fact.

When Flatline stepped out between the rusting heaps and into full view, Pyrotech raised his browplate in quiet surprise. It was the posture and frame of the mech that immediately registered in his mind; the very top heavy long torso supported by surprisingly delicate digitigrade legs. The way he walked forward, curled in slightly on himself, the second set of tiny spindly limbs tucked up tightly against his body.

The last time he'd seen this mech had been months ago on an Oregon beach. An archaic distress beacon, signaling a downed Decepticon. He'd tottered out of that ocean, reeking of rotting organic muck, retching up-

Oh yes, the retching.

That charming, oh so lovely retching.

There was no way Pyrotech would ever possibly forget that.

"Ah. You."

The red mech's optics narrowed slightly at that memory. The cannon on the architect's shoulder twitched slightly as if it had to be reminded not to lock on a target. Under any other circumstances, a lower ranking mech who had so casually laid hands on him would have been reminded of their place, if not killed outright. Pyrotech did not suffer fools and idiots who pushed into his personal space, and he certainly did not wish to be gripped and clambered on. To top off the evening, the other mech had actually regurgitated a vile stream of seawater and muck all down his finish. It had taken days to scrub out of his joints and the spaces where his plates shifted during transformation.

At least this time the mech seemed a bit more in control of himself. He wasn't speaking to himself in random tongues and tottering around like someone who'd been on a five day bender. Pyrotech was thankful for this fact; no doubt if the mech in front of of him had been addled beyond repair, he would have ended up somehow in Pyrotech's employ.

At least the idiot dump truck they'd assigned to him would have had someone his own mental speed to talk to if that had happened.

"I assure you, I am quite real, Flatline." Pyrotech replied dryly.

"It is Flatline, is it not? It has been a while."

[Flatline]

Well this was awkward. Neither Flatline nor Pyrotech seemed particularly thrilled to see the other, both for their own colorful reasons that varied as drastically as their differing frame types. Alas, here they were and nothing really could be done to change it. Oh no, there was always an option to just walk away, but that was tasteless, rude, and frankly there were too many things in this lot that were far too valuable to be simply cast aside. It wasn't like he could get the Space Bridge to drop him off somewhere else. For that was a good amount of fuel, and he really only had one excursion down here available to him off business.

Oh well. Nothing left to do than embrace the fact he had screwed up, and accept the damages. Though, he could try to propose a do-over if the other Cybertronian was willing.

"Indeed it has, though I would prefer to consider this a first meeting since I was rather... hindered..."

Flatline's maw peeled back in distaste at the last word into a grimace, the statement not even remotely conveying the full extent of truth. He had been so disjointed and pulled apart mentally that he didn't even feel like himself, and the other person had to deal with that.

The memories of the event were still dream like, and recalling all the details were impossible, but no no... the more he dwelled, and picked through them, the more Flatline was reminded. His embarrassing near drunken stumbling, the way he vomited a rancid stew of seawater and suspension matter down the other mech's front... Oh, and don’t forget demanding information out of him when it wasn't his place to do so, or the way he insinuated the femme and him were a couple. In hindsight, considering the expression on the Red mech's features, that last one was probably a heinous insult like saying Megatron would belittle himself to have a vehicon walk at his side as more than a pawn.

"I want to go out on a limb and say you are Pyrotech? You must understand my lack of full clarity on this."

Calm, collected, the distress that this other individual could be a rogue Autobot or a Neutral Cybertronian was smoothed away and quelled, leaving behind the normal bit of apprehension that comes into play when working with a fellow Decepticon. No matter how much you may know a person, you can never FULLY trust another con.

Survival of the fittest after all...

[Pyrotech]

A crumpled up bit of food wrapper caught the breeze. Grease stained and ripped, it rolled end over end until it came to rest against the architect's foot. Pyrotech's slight noise of distaste grumbled out of the depths of his glossy chest. He shifted his weight just enough to let the wrapper blow away off into the junkyard. Behind him on the other side of the fence, a small yellow metal sign warning people to keep out twisted back and forth on a set of mismatched chains. It lifted with the slight puffs of wind, rattling and chiming against the rusting chain link.

Flatline's comment, along with his expression of distaste was not lost on Pyrotech.

The architect raised a brow-ridge slightly and eyed the other mech. He slowly inclined his chin and dropped his hands to his glossy hips, curling his fingers around the plating there.

An apology - well at least an explanation - for Flatline's earlier behavior? How interesting.

Usually among the Decepticons, there was little to no regret for any behavior. In a way he had figured that the medic that the ocean had regurgitated back out of that encrusted pod was that sort, based on how he'd reacted that evening to him. That he was one of the uncouth, loudmouthed Decepticons that frankly seemed to dominate the ranks lately. The only reason Pyrotech hadn't had enough of him and thrown him right back into the depths where he'd crawled out of was that he had no idea of the other's value to Lord Megatron. Medics were few and far between, and every one was needed lately.

Also, you never knew if they might be assigned to your own team. Or if one of these days you might end up on their table.

Pyrotech weighed his options. Then his doors slowly relaxed down an inch or two.

"Yes," he said after a moment with a slow nod. "You remember correctly. You certainly look much better than the last time we met. It looks to me though as if your time on the Nemesis so far has helped you immensely. How is Commander Shockwave? Well, I hope? I'm rather surprised to see you in a place like--"

He lifted his hand back up and gestured around them, at the rusting cars, the dirt, the ruined appliances.

"Like this. I have to admit, you're the last mech I rather expected to run into again. You would think that after your last lovely experience with this disgusting little planet, you'd be loathe to leave the comfort of the Nemesis to return to it...?"

[Flatline]

Oh don't get him wrong, Flatline could be a loudmouth, he could be uncivilized, and he could lash out and argue with the arrogance and brashness of any other Decepticon, but he often had to be pushed there or to have a special kind of distaste for an individual to warrant that kind of behavior. Primarily he liked to hold himself in line, carrying himself above most others with a sharp edge of blunt honestly when the situation called for it. This right here? Called for politics.

Pyrotech definitely carried himself as a more refined individual, screaming of his past that Flatline could only assume was of a higher place in society. It reminded him of older days, when he worked with the rich of the rich that could afford to throw what amounted to a lifetime salary for most into the creation of a life for FUN. While Pyro didn't seem as... entitled... as those obnoxious individuals were, Flatline knew how to act and used that knowledge here in vague strokes.

While Pyrotech referenced their prior interaction, he didn’t seem to grind it in his face or hold it over his head readily in the moment. But... this meant nothing for a 'towerling'. Passive aggressive, subtle jabs, manipulations, Flatline knew how it worked, and he took note in the way that the crash and his state of being was mentioned, but not directly used as a weapon.

Little slag...

"It has, and he is doing well. I am stationed to work under him with Roulette, a position both rewarding and infuriating given my working partner."

Flatline had mixed views on Roulette, and was still a bit bitter at her very presence there. She didn’t DESERVE to work under someone so prestigious! She didn't have the skills! Yet... she did well enough to remain? He had thought it would be because she was a test subject... something to use things on and experiment, a guinea pig... but... he had never witnessed such things occur. Never saw her pushed to try something out, or get some chemical injected into her. The frustrating thoughts made the quills on his back bristle a bit, flicking up on their own and remaining hiked despite willing them to flatten down and not show anger.

"While I have no intention to get acquainted with this planets ocean again, I cannot deny the sheer abundance of raw material that is simply cast away as trash. Wasteful, but convenient."

Smirking a bit, he tried to channel the energy from his frustrations into amusement and delight at the large amount of metals available to him. This lot was absolutely filthy, and everything would need to be sanded and cleaned with degreaser and other acids before they could even begin to be melted down, but it was all a project to look forward to.

"I Need to make some steel blanks and obtain some copper. Wouldn't be opposed to aluminum alloys and other essentials... or anything else of value I happen find."

A pause, a moment's hesitation as a thought finally hit him.

"...why are you here?"

This was no place for a polished mech like Pyro.

[Pyrotech]

"Good to hear, good to hear. Well that seems like a rather pleasant arrangement. Gives you access to what you need for repairs and certainly you don't have to wait to get your hands on certain needed materials," the red mech mused, "I know they have been heavy on troops and short on repairs- ah, wait? Roulette?"

Interesting tidbit of information, he thought, before he realized of course she would be working with him. She was Shockwave's proxy - that hadn't changed at all. She might have a casette now, but that was no doubt to boost her own capabilites and keep her protected from outside threats. Pyrotech could appreciate those sort of tactical choices; those mechs that were important to your way of work you kept close and you kept in good shape.

The rest of them you kept around as bullet catchers, because that was incredibly useful as well.

Flatline's flick of quills did not go un-noticed, nor did his careful choice of words. Pyrotech took that and gently tucked it away somewhere. Obviously the two of them weren't exactly wonderful lab partners, but again, not surprising. Roulette had a bit of a flippant note at times to her words - and while he personally enjoyed listening to her slight bites at the situations around her? Someone like this medic (now that he was not staggering and vomiting half the ocean up on himself) would find it rather challenging to work with.

Not to say he might also find it challenging to work with. Pyrotech did not approve of being poked by an underling for any reason. Yet he had a feeling Roulette was fairly careful around those of higher rank than her; he doubted she was flippant to Shockwave himself.

"I know Roulette," he said thoughtfully, and left it at that.

He settled his fingers a bit more on his hips and looked around them at the junkyard. Then he chuckled softly. "No, I wouldn't think anyone in their right mind would want anything to do with this planet's ocean. Absolutely dreadful if you are like us; the fliers think nothing of it, but ah, that's to be expected from them."

One of his doors twitched and then settled back smoothly.

"You know, I think we are here for the same reason," he admitted. "You know how it is, it seems. We need far more materials, and requesting them from the ship can be frustrating in the wait time it takes for a supply order to be processed. Human junkyards and trash heaps are excellent - the humans waste a lot of what I can re-purpose and no one is even the wiser."

"Although, I must admit, I rarely see anyone from the ship with that sort of drive to go find what they need instead of having it handed to them..."

A smile. "I'm rather impressed by that."

[Flatline]

"Then you are aware of how challenging she can be..."

Flatline replied this simply at a lower tone, dropping the subject of Roulette just as quickly as Pyrotech had. He had no intention of starting an entire discussion on the femme, and while digging for dirt on her could be fun, or information on why she was a proxy to such a brilliant scientist, he could always backtrack to it later. There were more pressing questions and discussions at hand, like the reasoning why this clean cut individual was in such a place.

Start at the basics; start with the broad strokes, then get more detailed and precise in time. Flatline wanted to know what was going on here that actually landed these two meeting up in the first place, but he needed to lead into it.

"I would like to see a flyer that retains such indifference after having to wake up beneath the waves. Arrogant creatures."

Flatline was mostly uncaring when it came to the things that individuals transform into, but he was still harboring a bit of resentment against Skywarp at the moment. The jet had used his flying and secondary talents to absolutely terrify him to a point he thought he was going to topple off of the Nemesis. That idea of dropping to his death wasn't a fun one and he would be plenty amused to see the brute fall into the water and have to hike to the surface. Alas, Pyro spoke then about his proactive approach, and Flatline's helm raised some.

He wasn't sure of Pyro's placement at this time. If he resided on the Nemesis, he was a ghost, a shadow like Soundwave, but that revealed nothing of where he stood on the hierarchy. For all he knew the proper mech was forced to work down in mechanics to keep the ship running and just took extra care to remain so clean cut. Low ranking. Flatline could never assume anything though since his earlier interactions with those he didn't believe earned rank, so he played it safe and respectful, his helm inclining subtly in a nod of gratitude at the words.

"Many seem complacent with stagnation if that is what you mean. I have not met many outside my lab, though I can easily see how that is true..."

He twisted his jaw a bit then, a bitter tang suddenly tasted that didn't really bode well. He lifted his right primary then, using the curve of his palm to smear against the side of his mouth to wipe away the offending element as best he could. After Flatline made such a motion, he placed his own hand against his hip, the thumb hooked over the scrambling device that kept them from prying eyes of any nearby cameras on the premises. His gaze shifted over then, looking over at a car beside them that looked like it had been through a blender already.

"If you wait for it to be handed to you, your projects will take three times as long and you may not even get the materials you need."

Grumbled out, Flatline didn't seem too amused by the idea. He wanted what he needed, and while he expected protocol and a few hurdles, if he could just fetch what he needed to keep on track? Then he would be a happy scientist. He would rather spend three days refining and cleaning up poor quality metals into something of value, than waiting a week to get a perfect array delivered to his door. He could fend for himself, and while some things he did need to file for, basic steel and aluminum were not something that should hinder him.

Looking back at Pyrotech, he spoke again.

"So, pray tell, what is it you are manufacturing? If you were on the medic or scientist side of the spectrum, I would think I would have seen you around the halls."

[Pyrotech]

"I'm aware." Pyrotech replied, and then like Flatline, he let the subject of the femme slip away.

He stood quietly in the scrapyard. Their dim lights were drawing moths; tiny creatures that fluttered against their plating. Their wings beat frantically for a second as they landed here and there, leaving the palest smudges of powder from their wings. It wasn't even enough of a touch to be bothered with as they swooped away towards the other sources of lighting in the yard.

"They don't," the red mech agreed. "Fliers have their issues about being grounded for any length of time. At least most of the ones I have met do."

His doors lifted slightly. Pyrotech had worked with many fliers since Cybertron. He had never received any of the elite fliers under his command, of course. That wasn't what they gave him to work with - then again, what he required wasn't flashy, full-weaponed recruits. He needed the fliers that blended in to the environment, that didn't attract attention to themselves as they flew. Regardless, when they were forced to stay out of the skies for a long period of time, they often became sullen and difficult to deal with. Or downright unhinged. Not that Thermal hadn't been unhinged already; but being forced down for months at a time because of weather hadn't helped his sanity any.

"That's exactly what it is," he offered with a nod. His accent slipped dryly across each word. "It's one thing to be in a lab - I understand how projects trap you and consume you. Architecture is the same; you can spend weeks drafting plans, and no one understands how important it is that every single diagram is correct. Science and medical work is no different.

"That said, It's another to sit there and simply expect everything to be handed to you day in and day out and expect that it will always be like that. When things happen, you are simply at a loss of what to do in the scenarios."

Pyrotech shrugged and shook his head. A low huff escaped his intakes. The gleaming ladder behind his shoulder tapped softly against his plating. "Ah well," he murmured, looking around them at the ruined vehicles and junk. "I see we both understand these matters and take them into our own hands..."

The mech inclined his head. "Me? Ah, no. Not medical or science I'm afraid. Architecture. I work here, not on the ship. At the moment, I am looking for building materials at the moment. I have part of a project I'm working on that needs conduit lines run for a generator, as well as some shoring up and flooring."

He lifted his hand and waved his fingers. "I'm certainly not about to waste what little I have of Cybetronian alloy to to it. If I was building it to last for eons, I would do it different, of course-- but this is only temporary. It will have to just work with what I can get."

"Copper?"

The mech looked thoughtful. "A scrapyard is not going to be the easiest place to search for that if I may be honest. It's worth too much to the humans right now, to the point where they steal wire off of power lines if they can get their hands on it. They've taken to armed guards at some power substations because of it."

"There are sources though," he told Flatline. "Railroads. Underground utility stations."

[Flatline]

Flatline did not have any bio-lights on his frame, and fell back into the shadows well with only sleek edges of red to break up the dark armor. The only lights that did shine out into the darkness where those of his eyes where the red illumination skirted and touched the edges of his features and helm. This meant that the moths that came to visit this night were drawn to the annoying position.

Flatline's white pinprick pupils flicked momentarily from their focus on Pyrotech, to glance at the movement that was then gone, tiny flutters of motion that he couldn't readily point out or identify. He looked back, intent to address Pyro then, but they had returned, it making him sneer momentarily, forcing him to lift a hand once more to swipe absently at the air. It was a quick motion, a single swipe, the current of air behind his larger hand blowing the tiny critters aside to clear them from his immediate vision for now.

"I was not aware our Lord had projects here on Earth."

A true comment. He thought that everything that the Decepticons were and all that they had was nestled within the safety of the Nemesis. It was such a powerful ship, that would go unchallenged by anything the Autobots or their human allies could bring to the table, and because of this there should be no fear of losing what lay within. However... that was folly. An arrogant path to take. It made sense for them to have a second place to call home, a backup storage or... whatever this thing was that was being spoken of. It just had never crossed Flatline's mind before, too focused on other dilemmas and concerns within the bowls of the vessel.

"He seems to like to keep things in reach, to keep everyone on task."

Flatline was sciences; he would likely always be sciences for however long Knock Out remained functional. The way the red mech ran his mouth however, Flatline could find himself on the path to a promotion, but at the same time he was making a good place for himself. Rooting down solidly within his personal lab and getting a few projects and jobs rolling that could benefit the Decepticon cause. He wasn't privy to other sectors in any way, focused on finding glory in one way or another where he was permitted, and needn't stick his nose in others tasks...

But curiosity was strong.

Flatline watched Pyrotech a moment, trying to judge how talkative he may be, and see if he would speak more about the base in question, or if it really was something he should keep away from poking. He debated asking more about the copper metals, such as where he could find some of those locations to poach from... but... curiosity was a powerful driver, and he did not wish for the subject to deviate away by a well placed diversion. He could find all the other metals here in this yard, and if he had to file for copper? He would. He only needed it for wiring anyway, and a couple patches, so it wasn’t like he required a substantial amount to progress at this time.

"I guess it was never my place to inquire either way."

Play passive, stay in line. Try to judge this Cybertronian's rank.

[Pyrotech]

Pyrotech didn't say anything for a long moment. Underneath their feet, the dirt of the junkyard was polluted by splotches of old oil and the green, sickly sheen of dried antifreeze. The chain link fence surrounding them rattled as a gust of wind shoved against it, chattering and shuttering up and down the entirety of the long length. Somewhere in the distance, there was the creaking mutter of a loose gate. The mech turned slightly to listen, his expression thoughtful.

"A few projects," he finally murmured. "Lord Megatron has always understood tactics and the need to keep all options open, holding the front line. There are several out there."

Which was true. He had built more than his share of them. He'd spent frigid, dark winters in Alaska, the only respite from having his vents freezing solid coming from the dim tunnels he'd bored into the jagged stones. Having never wanted to see one bit of snow again, he'd been delighted when his assigments took him to Australia, only to curse at the heat wavering off the salt flats. To this day he didn't know what was worse, the amount of damage that he'd done when he'd frozen the wires on some of his peripheral system... or the fact that the corrosion from the salt had gone deep and he'd had to replace more of the delicate filaments inside of his fingers in a year than he had in a lifetime on Cybertron.

Neither of them were at all appreciated.

Pyrotech rolled a shoulder. The gleam of his lights drifted across the car graveyard; he dimmed them down and strode forward. He was utterly confident in his rolling, long strides, but also careful not to directly come at Flatline. He left a gentleman's respectful space between them as he wandered to one of the stacks of of piled, rusting vehicles. He reached up a hand to test a hanging door; the hinges whined and groaned as he manipulated it, and then decided it was too far gone for his use.

"He does," he agreed. "But I feel it is a direct reaction to a lack of competent help here on Earth. Back on Cybertron, he had more capable soldiers than he does here. The Vehicons do help, of course, but they are simply drones or barely awakened mechs with the inability to think for themselves.

"Which is both a hinderance and a blessing," the sleek red mech offered, glancing back at Flatline. "Ah, see, there are other ways to inquire about things. Listen to the chatter of the lower ranking who come through your space; most of it is pure drivel but some of it is actually useful. I have no doubt that as a medic, there are many on your table who would say anything under some circumstances. Meeting death head on does make some want to chatter."

He chuckled at that. The fingers of his left hand flexed slightly as he meandered a few steps more. He stretched out a foot to nudge a precariously leaning stack of ancient washing machines. They shivered under his touch and settled deeper into the rust-flaked depression they were huddled in. The round portals of front loading doors sagged and fluttered like the wings of a game bird about to be flushed into the sky.

"If you stay on task, you are allowed a lot more freedom to do your job," Pyrotech offered. "Prove that you are competent and know your direction, and you are left alone to do things right. There's nothing worse than having those that know nothing of your work to get in the middle of it and try and tell you how things should be done."

Pyrotech curled his lip. There was a flash of bright mouthplate to echo his obvious contempt. It was obviously a pet peeve of his - those that knew nothing of a job shouldn't dare to try and tell you how to do it. He'd been in many arguments over the years as to where to place a support or hide a base. His absolute favorite had been a commander who threw a fit over where a light switch was to be placed in a supply bunker. That sort of thing he had no tolerance for; he himself would have never told a surgeon how to use a scalpel. It would likely end up slipping somewhere if you did.

Then he paused and looked over at Flatline. "How much copper are you looking to obtain?"

[Flatline]

The lull of quiet between words did not bother the Medic very much. It allowed him to contemplate and judge, while also taking into account that the same was being returned to him. This was a delicate game that was happening here, and Flatline knew the rules. It was almost refreshing in a way, while also being unnerving, since it had been so very long since he's done this with another. Those of higher stature that carry themselves in such ways were few and far between. They tended to be killed off early because of their inability to adapt to warfare, and those that survived seldom flourished. They had to find jobs behind scenes, out of the frontlines, and learn skills to cop and thrive. If they couldn't manage as much, they were culled. This meant this individual had to be good at building what he did, or was one of the few that could adapt to warfare.

The unrecognizable weapon on his shoulder was a bit of a clue.

Flatline did not follow when Pyrotech approached and moved past him to inspect some of the scrap in the yard, but he did turn his frame a bit in order to keep him in front of him. A light roll of his weight, only one of his spindly thin peds lifted off the rough ground plane to then plant in a new position, the other merely pivoting in place with a crackle of stones being ground down to smaller bits and compressed into the earth. He did however lift that foot after he was settled, flexing the two prongs of the toes a bit to shake out some ache and soreness there.

He did well to hold his tongue some at what was said next. Flatline wanted to comment how he didn’t have Vehicons under blade as much as a true Medic, not dealing with those that have had a brush with death, but rather those that needed some mundane thing repaired or fixed. Chattiness then was... not as liberal, and he didn’t often pry as much as he should. The gossip he did hear was so minimal, so bland, most seemed hesitant to even be there to begin with, a hesitancy spurred by the rumors surrounding him.

Flatline knew what others thought of him. They knew what they thought he was. He didn’t ever care to correct them though, as while it kept gossip out from his grasp, it also kept people scared of him. Made them not want to meddle with him. Other than Skywarp, but that was a subject for another time. Whatever the case, he didn’t focus on that for his replies, instead zeroing in upon the later topics.

"I have seen that firsthand."

He replied simply, helm inclining a bit to watch Pyro show distain at the idea of meddlers. While the red mech was turned away enough that Flatline could not see the sneer, the emotion was still able to be sensed, picked up on, trickling into the latter words of the statement. It was a sentiment he could get behind in full.

"I keep on task and am granted enough time to dabble in my own projects."

There was another topic change then, but this time back to a previous conversation. The question made the black Cybertronian pause momentarily, the fingers of his right hand sheering against one another as his thumb ran along their edge, not unlike scissors. He was doing some quick calculations in his processor.

"I need about thirty pounds to start out with. That would last me well enough to fabricate the tabs and filaments for sensory devices. Eventually I would need more, but I needn't have ALL from the front gate."

If he could get that amount it would last him a few weeks to a month depending on what other tasks are assigned to him.