Ep0/1 - Middle of Fragging Nowhere - 'Dig' Closed

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"Too fragging old for this slag - stupid slagging scraplet too small to hold a scragging pickaxe so the stupid half-junkered, archaic femme has to go and dig in the slagging organic muck..."

Logically, Cleaver knew that running her vocaliser non-stop whilst clawing bits of red earth up and out was costing her energy as much as it was stoking her anger, and thus will to keep mining. It didn't help that Reflector had been right - they had been too short on Energon to help the mech they'd found a week ago. The one she'd insisted they bring back to the ship and help. She'd forgotten just how much power she burned through conducting such extensive repairs with an umbilical line attached for every cycle.

She had a good enough grasp of chemistry to process raw energon, but until now they'd been avoiding mining it. Collecting bodies after a battle garnered far less attention then raiding mines or messing with the planet's crust, and the medic still wanted to stay out of this war.

In the interest of staying below radar, she'd gone for a shallow vein on the one landmass that no Cybertonian had set pede on in the forty years she and Reflector had been here. To keep her energy signal minimal, she'd also forgone any of the tech that would have made ploughing up the caked soil easier and was digging manually with the blades of her arms. The only thing she hadn't been able to avoid, that could get noticed if anyone were to be watching, was the space-bridge. But there had been no way in the Primus forsaken Pit that she'd fly in alt. form to Australia.

So she just had to be quick about this and get gone before anyone noticed.

[Deleted]

Of any regular duty rotation on any base it had ever been his misfortune to serve on, the one thing that was always necessary and everyone hated was monitor duty. It was an unfortunate fact that AIs weren't reliable enough for military grade base monitoring - they could only react to what they were programmed to, and the lag between a computer generated alarm and whoever responded to it could cost valuable time and lives in a crisis. Better to keep a 'Bot, no matter how bored out of his processor, on the hot seat spot - sparked optics caught things AI routines didn't, and a sparked processor could respond faster, with more variables, than predetermined AI responses.

Assuming the mech on monitor duty could stay awake through processor dulling breems of staring at the same displays, over and over.

Monitor duty. Pheagh.

Ironhide shifted restlessly. Everyone took a shift, that was the rule - when even Prime was known to sit a turn for a spell no one else could claim an exemption. It didn't make it any less boring for being an organic planet; they had already filtered out most of the organic variables from the monitor scans, which left him with precious little to pay attention to beyond the routes of the 'Bots on patrol and keeping an optic on any potential flickers anywhere else. Nothing, so far, and he wasn't expecting it to change.

He consoled himself that it counted towards the "rest" and "taking it easy" Ratchet had ordered, and which Bluestreak had backed up with a more blunt "sit down and rest that leg or I'll shoot your other one". It made Ironhide grin, the expression softening his facial plates when there was no one watching. Ou had learned that little gem from Chromia, no doubt about it, and Ironhide was more than willing to bet that their sparklet took after his femme more than enough to make the threat no idle gesture. (That had been one memorable round of furious Ratchet, and for once it hadn't been Ironhide under the gun - Chromia had taken the brunt, and gotten into it at top volume with the medic when her no-nonsense version of berthside care had not only made sure that Ironhide couldn't have gotten up if he tried, but had landed him right back in medical again.)

Monitor duty, he reminded himself, was a step up from confined medical. He'd be back on patrols soon enough - all the damage he'd taken was patched up, good as new, strut unbent and welds solid. Another few days and the lingering ache should fade out. Despite what Ratchet harped on about, his wheels were solid and transforming didn't hurt any more or less than walking did, which to Ironhide's judgement meant he was fine - if they felt the slagging same then there was no reason to do one and avoid the other.

He had half an eye on the patrol schedules - he could slot himself in a nice quiet late night drive, later on, and be in and out before Ratchet noticed - when a blip on the monitor caught his optic.

Tiny blip. Out in the middle of fragging nowhere, aft end of the planet. He had to replay the display to make sure, but it was there. Might be nothing.

Might not be.

Ironhide hesitated a few nano-kliks, venting. Frag it. What would the medic do, strip him down again? Been there, done that, repeatedly, until he could practically predict the words out of Ratchet's mouth. And if Blue did shoot him... well, that was the prerogative of kin. He'd deal with it then, and in the meantime it'd get him up and out of this Pit slagging chair.

::Bulkhead? Yer up next. Ah've got a tick on th' monitor that needs checkin'.::

The younger mech's reply indicated he was on the way. Grinning, Ironhide shoved himself to his pedes and went to feed coordinates to the groundbridge - a blip that small was either really nothing, or else a tiny 'Con presence. Nothing he couldn't deal with, but frag it'd be nice to get out of the base for awhile, even if it was to the aft end of nowhere. He logged destination and reason, brought up the bridge, and stepped through.

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Though not a combat medic outside being a medic who had been following in the wake of combat (behind, never in), Cleaver knew that the unexpected whine of a spacebridge was something to fall into a defensive stance about. Or at least hide. It definitely wasn't her ship's 'bridge irising open - the harmonics were wrong. So it was someone new, and with perilously unknown intentions. They'd bridged in a little way off, at least - would take a minute to drive or fly over, and longer to walk.

As there was nothing but brittle trees for hundreds of miles, and a Sea King helicopter sitting innocently in the Outback would look as innocent as Reflector when he'd glued something to her aft, hiding was out of the question. A younger femme would have done something fancy like tuck and roll with blasters raised, or drop down into a low-centre, wide-base stance with fists raised. Too old, tired and caked in dirt to exert any more energy than necessary, Cleaver decided to rely on the fact that she wasn't doing anything remotely aggressive, hadn't torqued off anyone yet, and that medic sigals usually still carried some peaceful weight.

She kept on digging.

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Dry heat, scrubby organic growth, bare rock - if the local GPS signal hadn't pinged correct, and the rock hadn't been the wrong color, Ironhide could have mistaken it for the landscape outside the base all over again. Some mechs went on about the variety and beauty in organic worlds - Ironhide, thus far, was finding it involved a lot of gritty dirt.

He had come through weapons hot, but there was nothing in immediate visual. A sensor sweep told a different story, however - one Cybertonian signature, and...

...huh.

Ironhide wasn't made for stealth. On pedes or wheels there was nothing stealthy about him, so given zero chance of sneaking up on anyone he opted for speed instead, dropping into alt and pouring on a little bit of speed across the rough ground to reach his target. He pulled up and back onto his pedes as he reached it, cannons spinning out, but there didn't seem to be much need.

Blocky orange mech - femme? - with an older style frame. Rotary, by the look of the flight blades. Large but... unarmed, at least by Ironhide's standards of "armed". Medical signal, no faction.

Digging.

Ironhide kept his cannons hot but aimed down. "Ye out here by yerself?"

[Deleted]

"Uh huh."

Cleaver continued hacking and chucking out dirt for another thirty seconds before looking up. If she hadn't been sunk in a fifteen-foot hole in the ground, they'd be about the same height. The mech was a walking armory, cycled up but safeties on, and looked to have been in the care of her profession more times than was normal even by wartime standards. Bright blue optics, old and rich with personality, scrutinized her through a scarred frown.

When he didn't say anything further, she transformed one blade into a hand and pressed down on an aching shoulder joint as she flexed the lines. "What?" she barked, already irritated before the Autobot turned up. "You gonna stand there gawping, or are you gonna give me a hand like the big strong mech you are?"

[Deleted]

Ironhide barely heard the words - the tone alone was so familiar it had him taking a step forward before he reigned himself in, weapons cycling fitfully from conflicting impulses. He settled for spinning all but the smallest of his caliber firearms down, taking another few steps forward with a wary optic locked on the femme.

The hole was a decent size - for a hole. Ironhide narrowed his optics, surveying it, then nodded shortly. "Energon?" he asked, not really needing to hear the answer. His processor clicked over the possibilities - neutral femme, out on her own. 'Cons had used neutrals as bait before, but his furthest reaching sensors couldn't find scrap if it was a trap and she was sturdy enough to weather it on her own if she had to. Old enough to have been around a bit, too, by the dim edges of the field that was just at the limit of his own. It'd been awhile since he'd last felt someone in the range of a contemporary.

Neutral living was hard, most barely eeking out an existance on scraps. He should be radioing this in, let Prime know, but instead he put a hand to the ground, pulsing a low level scan through it. He didn't have the right kind of scanners, but he could feel a bit. "Yeh know how big a vein, how far down?" he asked. "Could loosen this up a little easier than diggin'."

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Hefting herself out of the hole - and Primus strike her down if the big lug didn't twitch to offer a hand, Cleaver dumped her aft down and sat with her legs dangling into the cavity. Softening a little at the quietly-endearing mech, she nodded to the jagged bottom. "Another eighten feet, shallow vein, but it's good quality. Not a lot around here - figured it'd be safe to mine it up without bothering anyone."

A thick brow twitched upwards, and she felt her mouthplates crease a little into a smile. "You planning to blow the continent to Pit with those beaut's?"

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Ironhide couldn't quite help the pleased little flare of plate and field - they were 'beauts' and he'd spent enough vorn perfecting them to take some justifiable pride in every caliber he carried. He spun one of the larger arm mounts out, cocking an amused glance at the femme. "Energon vein, this'd blow th' continent an' us halfway t' the' Pit."

He cycled his guns away and reached down to offer the femme a hand up to her pedes. "Ironhide," he rumbled. "Autobot weapon specialist. An' if yeh trust meh t' know mah job, then Ah need ya to step back while Ah set some charges."

[Deleted]

Cleaver accepted the extended hand with a rough smile, taking it by the wrist and getting herself back upright. "Cleaver," she replied in turn. "Neutral medic. And if you bust my energon vein, I'm gonna bust your helm. We clear, soldier?"

[Deleted]

Ironhide gave her a loose semblance of an offhand salute, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Clear as glass, ma'hm."

He escorted her back a handful of yards, running a localized surface scan while he was beside her. Her internals matched her ID, medical mods and precious little weaponry - either she was telling the truth or he was going to get blindsided by something he couldn't see. The femme didn't blink an optic at the unavoidable tickle of the scan but she did quirk a brow ridge at him. Ironhide half twitched a shoulder plate in answer. "Can't be too careful," he mumbled, field flickering an apology.

He left her at a generously safe limit, then jogged back to the hole she had been excavating. Eighteen feet; he did some quick calculations and drew a padded fist sized case from his subspace, snapping it open to collect a handful of tiny charges. They were barely big enough to be dangerous - he used them mostly as the ignition for larger charges - but the should do the trick.

Dropping into the hole, he made short work of placing them, each one stuck neatly to the rock wall of the hole right at base level, tiny timers synched in a cascade chain to drive the force against the weakest points. Satisfied, he caught the lip of the hole, hefting himself out in a smooth jump.

...almost smooth. Fraggit. The ache in his strut caught at him, stuttering through two steps before he pushed it back out again and resumed his usual stride, the charge countdown ticking off faithfully in the corner of his HUD.

Arriving back at the femme's side, he nodded. "Tiny things. Should be just enough t' loosen all that up. Natives have something similar - firecrackers? Somethin' like that. Should go off right about..."

It was like the videos he'd seen of human firecrackers, a chain reaction of sharp pops and cracks and tiny bursts of dirt plumes that built into a larger rumble, over in less than a klik. Pleased, Ironhide nodded. "...now. There we go."

[Deleted]

Cleaver hadn't watched the series of small explosions, far more interested in sweeping critical optics up and down Ironhide's backstrut, noting the irregularities in balance and posture. Small things that conveyed massive amounts of information to a trained optic about what hurt, how bad and if it was healing wrong.

Her own scan was far from surface, but it wasn't the full diagnostic comb-through she could have performed. Satisfied that the repairs were good - suggestive of a pretty well equipped Medbay, in fact - she gave Ironhide a nod. "Your medic's sound, but you'd do well to lay off the acrobatics for another joor and give that strut a break."

[Deleted]

The itch of a medical scan made his plates clamp tighter, tucking in around his systems in a vain attempt to escape the sensation. Medics - never could leave well enough alone, and the next words out of her vocalizer could have been a repeat of everything Ratchet had been railing at him every time he was in medbay. Exventing, he waved it away, forcing himself up a little straighter. "It's solid enough," he told her a bit gruffly. "Ah'm not fightin' on it." Which wasn't to say that he couldn't, but he'd been cleared for walking, for Pit's sake.

His comm flickered up for his attention, a query glyph from base. Scowling, Ironhide sent a hold back, shooting a measured glance at the femme. "We picked up yer signal," he told her. "Ah'm supposed t' be investigatin'. Yeh want this above board, or are yeh just stoppin' for a refuel and breakin' atmo after?"

[Deleted]

Cleaver folded her arms, considering. Technically their entire species were refugees, but Neutrals put themselves in a particularly difficult position when it came to territory for refusing to kill their own. They weren't contributing to the war effort for either side, so anything that could be defined as a 'priority military resource' or a 'tactically significant location' were strictly off-limits, even if they'd gotten there first, and they were moved along. By the Autobots, at least. The Decepticons just shot Neutrals who wouldn't see the light and bend to Megatron's rule.

The mystery mech back on her buried ship was in no state to be moved (though she was becoming quietly convinced that the slagging mechanism just wouldn't die), and Reflector had no idea of what was happening. They'd hunkered down off-radar because it was the safest thing to do, and like Pit was she giving up the fact that her ship was parked and where just because this mech had been nice to her.

Finally, she tipped her head towards the newly excavated energon deposit. "Depends. Would you let me run that through your crew's refinery if we did this proper?" A dry smile with a soft grunt of a laugh. "Mine's working on Will, right now."

[Deleted]

Ironhide cycled a vent, considering. "Ah would," he said at last, "but's not mah call t' make. Ah'd need t' ask Prahm." He flicked another series of glyphs back to base - wait/further reconnaissance/no danger - and signed off. "Let's make sure Ah didn't miscalculate first."

The hole was shallower than it was, filled with rubble, but it was loose and lifted out easily when Ironhide slid - more carefully - into the depression. "Think yer good," he told her, satisfied. "May have t' chip out the last inch, but mostly it's just shovelin'." He leaned on the edge of the hole, looking up at her. "Ah stay an' help, they're gonna need t' know why Ah'm out here. Other'n just playing hookey. Personally, Ah don't see any reason why Prahm'd say no - never hurts t' trade favors with a medic." He let truth and a shade of amusement color his field, taking the sting out of the words.

[Deleted]

"And of all mechs still functioning, I doubt that the Prime would see a Neutral starve," Cleaver affirmed as she slid back down into the hole, beginning to scuff her pedes through the rubble. It was less work, but it was still a lot of work to get the energon up and separated from the rocks. Then her 'you will keep working or Primus help you' refiner would take twice as long as a decent one to turn into something like fuel.

And her tank was pinging in at 12% already from how much she'd dumped literally and through running her own equipment into her patient. No good turning down help to protect a mech in her care if she was going to drop into stasis lock from a lack of fuel. Between a rock and a heap a molten slag.

"Alright, we do it your way, Ironhide. By the book, cross the glyphs, because this ain't a small thing for me," she ultimately confessed, squatting to begin picking over the largest boulders. "Thanks for this, even if the refiner is outta the question. Saved me a lot of labour these old struts don't need to be doing."