[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Retirement and Old Stories. No, Not the Soap Operas [Open].
Mar 20, 2019 2:20:01 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 20, 2019 2:20:01 GMT -5
[Episode 2.5: Week 2: Day 4: 1320 Zulu Time: 01:30 PM Pacific Time]
[Location: Earth: North American Continent: United States of America: Southwestern Region: Nevada: Omega Outpost: Rec Room]
Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the arrival of the Old Warrior's arrival on the planet, but Kup hadn't quite managed to get used to the local time measurements despite his internal chronometer being synchronized to a place the locals had called Cheyenne Mountain somewhere in a region or state called Colorado. Humans had a truly bizarre trend in naming territories, but he'd known that even on Cybertron the names of places and locations had been equally as bizarre to foreign dignitaries and travelers that either visited or sought diplomatic discussions on Cybertron mega-cycles before the discovering of the Rust Plague, and the implementation of the Caste System. He'd mused that perhaps it had been the only other constant in the galaxy or galaxies where the names of places were bizarre to other cultures or species and that war -- that conflagration that had been as bad a problem as weeds working their way through concrete or steel on any planet he'd visited or had been assigned to.
Finding his way into the Rec Room, the Old Warrior had allowed his optics to have scanned across the adhoc furniture crafted to fit their size to the various board games on what he'd read humans called particle board or cardboard on a nearby table. The names of those board-games had been as bizarre and various as the names on the road maps he'd acquired from the glove box of a rusted out frame of an old Nineteen Fifty-Two Chevrolet Bel-Air that had been rotting and derelict for however long abandoned by the locals on this planet which at first he'd mistaken for a Cybertronian femme. At his age, he'd reasoned most Cybertronians would have simply overlooked that or for the more cruel would have found it a note of ridicule. Either way, he hadn't been worried about it.
A TV or rather a display screen had been re-purposed for entertainment displaying or at least what he'd had to assume had been local broadcasts. Every planet he'd been stationed on or visited, Kup had learned that local Garrisons tended to use those broadcasts to have gleaned information about the locals or the political rivalries or dramas that could at times be sappy enough to have clogged one's own internal drives with rather useless trivia. To each their own, he'd mused. Crossing over to one of the recliners or rather what could have passed as one fitted to their size, the old Mech reclined back feeling the rigid back of the recliner against his back plating. He'd managed to have snuck into the Rec Room at some point over the last forty-eight hours, and had found that particular recliner had been designed to cover two aspects he'd truly appreciated. The first, the recliner had been designed with comfort in mind which had been welcomed by his worn struts and if he'd pulled on a little lever built into the side of the chair the rigid back of the chair angled backwards while a front panel behind his legs and pedes swung outward propping them up. Following a little mischievous grin, he'd gripped the lever in his right hand before having pulled it back feeling the back of the chair angling backwards while his pedes rested on the foot-rest. The recliner seemed to move a little in the process, though the base remained stationary and it caused the Old Mech to have grinned before drawing a Ci-Gar from one of his belt-pouches.
“A mech could get used to this,” he'd say. He hadn't cared who had overheard him.
[Location: Earth: North American Continent: United States of America: Southwestern Region: Nevada: Omega Outpost: Rec Room]
Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the arrival of the Old Warrior's arrival on the planet, but Kup hadn't quite managed to get used to the local time measurements despite his internal chronometer being synchronized to a place the locals had called Cheyenne Mountain somewhere in a region or state called Colorado. Humans had a truly bizarre trend in naming territories, but he'd known that even on Cybertron the names of places and locations had been equally as bizarre to foreign dignitaries and travelers that either visited or sought diplomatic discussions on Cybertron mega-cycles before the discovering of the Rust Plague, and the implementation of the Caste System. He'd mused that perhaps it had been the only other constant in the galaxy or galaxies where the names of places were bizarre to other cultures or species and that war -- that conflagration that had been as bad a problem as weeds working their way through concrete or steel on any planet he'd visited or had been assigned to.
Finding his way into the Rec Room, the Old Warrior had allowed his optics to have scanned across the adhoc furniture crafted to fit their size to the various board games on what he'd read humans called particle board or cardboard on a nearby table. The names of those board-games had been as bizarre and various as the names on the road maps he'd acquired from the glove box of a rusted out frame of an old Nineteen Fifty-Two Chevrolet Bel-Air that had been rotting and derelict for however long abandoned by the locals on this planet which at first he'd mistaken for a Cybertronian femme. At his age, he'd reasoned most Cybertronians would have simply overlooked that or for the more cruel would have found it a note of ridicule. Either way, he hadn't been worried about it.
A TV or rather a display screen had been re-purposed for entertainment displaying or at least what he'd had to assume had been local broadcasts. Every planet he'd been stationed on or visited, Kup had learned that local Garrisons tended to use those broadcasts to have gleaned information about the locals or the political rivalries or dramas that could at times be sappy enough to have clogged one's own internal drives with rather useless trivia. To each their own, he'd mused. Crossing over to one of the recliners or rather what could have passed as one fitted to their size, the old Mech reclined back feeling the rigid back of the recliner against his back plating. He'd managed to have snuck into the Rec Room at some point over the last forty-eight hours, and had found that particular recliner had been designed to cover two aspects he'd truly appreciated. The first, the recliner had been designed with comfort in mind which had been welcomed by his worn struts and if he'd pulled on a little lever built into the side of the chair the rigid back of the chair angled backwards while a front panel behind his legs and pedes swung outward propping them up. Following a little mischievous grin, he'd gripped the lever in his right hand before having pulled it back feeling the back of the chair angling backwards while his pedes rested on the foot-rest. The recliner seemed to move a little in the process, though the base remained stationary and it caused the Old Mech to have grinned before drawing a Ci-Gar from one of his belt-pouches.
“A mech could get used to this,” he'd say. He hadn't cared who had overheard him.