[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]A Hopeful Encounter [Optimus Prime][Closed]
Nov 18, 2017 20:24:00 GMT -5
Post by Skirmisher on Nov 18, 2017 20:24:00 GMT -5
[Week 2, Day 6, 1430 UTC/02:30 PM PT (Pacific Time)]
[Location: Earth: North American Continent: United States of America: Nevada: Jasper: Omega Outpost: Control Room]
A little over a week had passed since his arrival at the Omega Outpost with its rather eccentric garrison, and he'd attempted to have fit in. He'd been revived from a millennia old voluntary stasis-lock in the pilot's chair of the Autobot shuttle buried thousands of feet or so in an ice cavern beneath what had come to be known as Bouvetoya Island in the apparent Norwegian language or the commonly accepted name of Bouvet Island. He'd held a position of a scout -- a heavy hitting scout due to his past -- and medic in his old unit the previous Garrison that had been stationed on this planet to seed it with Energon, but with the new era he hadn't been able to have found that purpose yet. The new garrison at the Outpost had been welcoming, if not somewhat skeptical at first, and while he hadn't encountered anyone antagonistic outside of Carbine he'd felt ill-at-ease. At least on the highways of Praxus, his purpose as an Enforcer had been clear and even during the War he'd doubled as a field medic. Those roles hadn't seemed entirely feasible, or practical with the exception of the medical role in the current millennia or among the humans that had claimed most of the planet as theirs unchallenged. He hadn't been able to have enforced the local ordinances set down by the local enforcers or that the humans called the police or had he been able to have enforced Cybertronian ordinances on the carbon-based organisms either.
His medicinal knowledge focused entirely on Cybertronian anatomy rather than on the tender epidermis and chassis-less humans. Even the dinosaurs, the proto-avians with their other flight-capable cousins down to the quadruped mammalians that scurried about the place made more sense than the bipedal chassis-less homo sapiens that became a dominant life-form, though even the garrison's dedicated medical staff never attempted to utilize Cybertronian medical on the living creatures. He'd recalled a few of the scientists the garrison had been ordered to protect had opted to have studied the creatures in an attempt to find out what made them tick and why they differed from the sentient metallic life-forms that developed on Cybertron. There had been times he'd missed the mechs and the femmes, the scouts, warriors, and scientists ranging from grounders to fliers from that garrison, with the exception of Stein. The warrior-caste mech, that had remained in the military even after the Caste System had been discarded had left him marooned on this planet while he and those more capable of flight or those that had been far more fortunate than Skirmisher had vacated the planet. There had been a part of him that wondered if the older mech had survived, though there had been a greater part that wanted to know if someone had kicked the older mech in the aftplate.
Another matter lay on his mind, one that lay entirely in the uneasy Truce he'd heard Javelin explain on his first day in the converted missile silo. He'd lost his city, his home and his colleagues at the hands of the Decepticons in their quest to destroy anything that remained of the old ways – the Golden Age and even before – of Cybertronian society. The faction had struck at his city with extreme prejudice, and had reduced not only the city but most of its inhabitants to molten wreckage as part of a message to the rest of Cybertron that their 'holy crusade' wouldn't be swayed by diplomatic attempts. He'd fought hard to defend his city, but when the air raid klaxons had sounded he'd been listening to some of the other Praxian Enforcers at one of the outlying precincts situated on a nearby hill overlooking the neighborhoods of Towerlings they'd been charged with protecting as per their oath and programming. The entire precinct had emptied out with every Enforcer available grabbing standard issued blaster rifles, or other gear that many of the Enforcers had opted to have kept stored in some arms lockers while Skirmisher and more than a few others had opted to have kept their weapons on them as a precaution.
Dozens of Enforcers of all frames and purpose, with even quite a few Carrier-types raced out in or simply transformed into their altmodes in an attempt to have reached the city. Others had stood their ground to take aim with their own weapons or had manned triple-A flak batteries tearing swathes among the more unfortunate Seekers and other unfortunate Cons in an attempt to defend their assigned charges. He'd found himself confronted, though it might have been more accurate to have had it that a Decepticon Seeker had attempted to have gained the drop on him and would have if the Enforcer hadn't raised his shield in time. The rest had been history, if Praxus had remained.
The Truce he'd heard of irked him, left him uneasy and galled him. Why had the Decepticons so willingly proposed a Truce bringing a ceasefire and general understanding among both factions? He hadn't understood why, but in his experience a Decepticon never agreed to anything unless it benefited them solely. He hadn't been one to have questioned a Prime about their decision, and after having read further into the Truce had learned Optimus Prime had agreed to it after drafting it. He'd never been a religious sort, and while others might have placed a more heavy interpretation into the actions of a Prime he'd only seen that a Prime had been a mech and mech only. Most were thrust into positions of leadership, with their wisdom and tenacity, but he'd been on the streets too long to have been fooled into taking any document at face value. If an agreement or a thing, or an offer sounded too good to have been true, odds were it had been. He'd read that the Truce had been proposed out of a mutual protection, a mutual survival of all Cybertronians including everyone that had fled to this planet from their own and those that had remained to those that may arrive on Earth from the increasing depredations of a group of militant humans known as MECH. He'd questioned the need for it at first, since the moment he'd looked upon the charred smoking wreckage of his city he'd sworn to have seen each Decepticon to the smelting pit even if he had to gouge their optics out himself. Prior to the War, he hadn't been one for vendettas or even a grudge. How the times had changed. His experiences had changed him to become far different than what he'd originally been though only out of his Enforcer and medical professionalism had he largely kept those feelings hidden or at least so he'd thought.
Stepping out of his quarters into the corridor beyond, he'd turned his entire frame to the door panel and submitted the code he'd devised locking it. The only way he'd be able to ascertain the reasons why the Truce had been signed, and as to his new purpose in this new garrison had been in seeking out an audience or at least a word with the former data clerk turned Prime himself. He'd never been one to have sat or stood idle when there had been tasks to have overseen or completed, and the fact he hadn't been able to have found a purpose had bothered him. His pedes carried him down the corridor towards the main Control Room not knowing where he'd be able to have found the leader of the faction, but as the Outpost had been on the smaller end of the scale as far as Outposts had gone he'd be at least able to have narrowed down the possibilities.
[Location: Earth: North American Continent: United States of America: Nevada: Jasper: Omega Outpost: Control Room]
A little over a week had passed since his arrival at the Omega Outpost with its rather eccentric garrison, and he'd attempted to have fit in. He'd been revived from a millennia old voluntary stasis-lock in the pilot's chair of the Autobot shuttle buried thousands of feet or so in an ice cavern beneath what had come to be known as Bouvetoya Island in the apparent Norwegian language or the commonly accepted name of Bouvet Island. He'd held a position of a scout -- a heavy hitting scout due to his past -- and medic in his old unit the previous Garrison that had been stationed on this planet to seed it with Energon, but with the new era he hadn't been able to have found that purpose yet. The new garrison at the Outpost had been welcoming, if not somewhat skeptical at first, and while he hadn't encountered anyone antagonistic outside of Carbine he'd felt ill-at-ease. At least on the highways of Praxus, his purpose as an Enforcer had been clear and even during the War he'd doubled as a field medic. Those roles hadn't seemed entirely feasible, or practical with the exception of the medical role in the current millennia or among the humans that had claimed most of the planet as theirs unchallenged. He hadn't been able to have enforced the local ordinances set down by the local enforcers or that the humans called the police or had he been able to have enforced Cybertronian ordinances on the carbon-based organisms either.
His medicinal knowledge focused entirely on Cybertronian anatomy rather than on the tender epidermis and chassis-less humans. Even the dinosaurs, the proto-avians with their other flight-capable cousins down to the quadruped mammalians that scurried about the place made more sense than the bipedal chassis-less homo sapiens that became a dominant life-form, though even the garrison's dedicated medical staff never attempted to utilize Cybertronian medical on the living creatures. He'd recalled a few of the scientists the garrison had been ordered to protect had opted to have studied the creatures in an attempt to find out what made them tick and why they differed from the sentient metallic life-forms that developed on Cybertron. There had been times he'd missed the mechs and the femmes, the scouts, warriors, and scientists ranging from grounders to fliers from that garrison, with the exception of Stein. The warrior-caste mech, that had remained in the military even after the Caste System had been discarded had left him marooned on this planet while he and those more capable of flight or those that had been far more fortunate than Skirmisher had vacated the planet. There had been a part of him that wondered if the older mech had survived, though there had been a greater part that wanted to know if someone had kicked the older mech in the aftplate.
Another matter lay on his mind, one that lay entirely in the uneasy Truce he'd heard Javelin explain on his first day in the converted missile silo. He'd lost his city, his home and his colleagues at the hands of the Decepticons in their quest to destroy anything that remained of the old ways – the Golden Age and even before – of Cybertronian society. The faction had struck at his city with extreme prejudice, and had reduced not only the city but most of its inhabitants to molten wreckage as part of a message to the rest of Cybertron that their 'holy crusade' wouldn't be swayed by diplomatic attempts. He'd fought hard to defend his city, but when the air raid klaxons had sounded he'd been listening to some of the other Praxian Enforcers at one of the outlying precincts situated on a nearby hill overlooking the neighborhoods of Towerlings they'd been charged with protecting as per their oath and programming. The entire precinct had emptied out with every Enforcer available grabbing standard issued blaster rifles, or other gear that many of the Enforcers had opted to have kept stored in some arms lockers while Skirmisher and more than a few others had opted to have kept their weapons on them as a precaution.
Dozens of Enforcers of all frames and purpose, with even quite a few Carrier-types raced out in or simply transformed into their altmodes in an attempt to have reached the city. Others had stood their ground to take aim with their own weapons or had manned triple-A flak batteries tearing swathes among the more unfortunate Seekers and other unfortunate Cons in an attempt to defend their assigned charges. He'd found himself confronted, though it might have been more accurate to have had it that a Decepticon Seeker had attempted to have gained the drop on him and would have if the Enforcer hadn't raised his shield in time. The rest had been history, if Praxus had remained.
The Truce he'd heard of irked him, left him uneasy and galled him. Why had the Decepticons so willingly proposed a Truce bringing a ceasefire and general understanding among both factions? He hadn't understood why, but in his experience a Decepticon never agreed to anything unless it benefited them solely. He hadn't been one to have questioned a Prime about their decision, and after having read further into the Truce had learned Optimus Prime had agreed to it after drafting it. He'd never been a religious sort, and while others might have placed a more heavy interpretation into the actions of a Prime he'd only seen that a Prime had been a mech and mech only. Most were thrust into positions of leadership, with their wisdom and tenacity, but he'd been on the streets too long to have been fooled into taking any document at face value. If an agreement or a thing, or an offer sounded too good to have been true, odds were it had been. He'd read that the Truce had been proposed out of a mutual protection, a mutual survival of all Cybertronians including everyone that had fled to this planet from their own and those that had remained to those that may arrive on Earth from the increasing depredations of a group of militant humans known as MECH. He'd questioned the need for it at first, since the moment he'd looked upon the charred smoking wreckage of his city he'd sworn to have seen each Decepticon to the smelting pit even if he had to gouge their optics out himself. Prior to the War, he hadn't been one for vendettas or even a grudge. How the times had changed. His experiences had changed him to become far different than what he'd originally been though only out of his Enforcer and medical professionalism had he largely kept those feelings hidden or at least so he'd thought.
Stepping out of his quarters into the corridor beyond, he'd turned his entire frame to the door panel and submitted the code he'd devised locking it. The only way he'd be able to ascertain the reasons why the Truce had been signed, and as to his new purpose in this new garrison had been in seeking out an audience or at least a word with the former data clerk turned Prime himself. He'd never been one to have sat or stood idle when there had been tasks to have overseen or completed, and the fact he hadn't been able to have found a purpose had bothered him. His pedes carried him down the corridor towards the main Control Room not knowing where he'd be able to have found the leader of the faction, but as the Outpost had been on the smaller end of the scale as far as Outposts had gone he'd be at least able to have narrowed down the possibilities.