[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Push-Button (Fort Max/Prowl - Closed)
Aug 7, 2020 3:02:13 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Aug 7, 2020 3:02:13 GMT -5
Week 2 Day 4 – Time: 0945
Location: R-4809
----
In retrospect, the weekend marathon had been a baaad idea.
“Look,” said Peter. He held his hands apart with the patient air of a man about to bring down wisdom from the mountain. “You cannot tell me that, at it’s heart, the whole thing wasn't about a healthy sadomasochistic relationship.”
His fellow agent snorted.
“They were both just acting according to their nature,” said Novak. “Don’t look into it too deeply.”
“I’m telling you, they’re friends! Several episodes implicitly suggested as much! It’s the thrill of the chase, man! They just got way too into it.”
Major Pauline Silvia stood back in her perfectly polished shoes and her perfectly pressed uniform and perfectly pinned hair and looked up from her phone in amusement and said, “I can’t wait to tell the Colonel that this is what you DoD boys talk about when you’re outside of meetings.”
Peter gracefully ignored that.
Novak meanwhile was not to be denied. Relentlessly, he said, “Cats chase mice. That’s all there is to it.”
“They teamed up to get rid of another cat sent in to replace Tom! They sat on train tracks to die together! Tell me that isn’t true love right there.”
“And they went right back to hitting each other with anvils the following episode.”
All in all, Peter thought ruefully, it was probably a good thing that Fort Max had stepped away from the hangar for a moment to assist with an ailing fuel truck. When an eighty ton alien murder machine space robot with guns in his legs rolled his optics at the dumb shit coming out of your mouth, it resonated. Like. It was hurtful, man. It hurt in your soul. It made you question your weekend choices.
Peter sighed.
“Well, at least we can both probably agree that Spike was the world’s worst guard dog,” he said. He rolled over his wrist to check a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Anyway, uh... when is the Autobot supposed to get here?”
Agent Novak relaxed by suspicious increments and grudgingly pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“I heard ten,” he said. “Major?”
The Major was on her phone again. “You heard correctly. Given our current inaccessibility we’re flexible, though. You don’t have anywhere else to be this morning, do you?”
Peter did not.
This was his life now.
Agent Fowler, and the orders from his direct superiors, had been vague. New Autobot officer on the planet; arrange a meeting to get a feel for the guy. Find out how he thinks, how he ticks. Pray for someone sensible. Pray to god for someone with a goddamn lick of common sense in his shiny metal robot head. Please, Señor Primus. Send poor old Planet Earth a competent Autobot officer. Hallelujah, amen. End transmission. Over and out?
Peter shifted on his uncomfortable seat on top of an old tool trolley and wished Agent Fowler was here with them now. Fowler knew far more about Cybertronians and Autobots than anyone else out there. And boy howdy, could that man work up into a fine temper over space robot antics when he wanted too. Peter lived for his outbursts. He craved them. That was some almighty fun! You could all but see the star-spangled eagles screeching against a backdrop of flags and fireworks as he ranted. He was a former Army Ranger! Why did he put up with this shit! What the hell were the rest of them getting paid for! Roargh! Good times.
He glanced over at his partner. No-Fun Novak stood frowning at his phone. In his black suit and sunglasses, with his curly black hair and thinning widow’s peak, he looked the part of a tall, cool government agent. Peter on the other hand, in hangover shades and dishevelled rolled-up shirtsleeves, looked like he was two speedballs shy of OD’ing in his own rockstar pool. But Novak had never met an Autobot before, and Peter had. So this would be a learning experience for him.
All three of them, the Major included, stood in the nice cool shade of an old stripped-out transient hangar on the far south side of the airfield. The hangar doors were open at either end of the building to invite in the sunshine and a northwest desert breeze. Something with massive turbines was taking off from runway three-two, but the noise was distant and the smell was faint. The Major had deliberately chosen this location due to its remoteness from the main field. Once, they’d stored mothballed F-117As in this row of hangars, their wings long removed. No clue where those aircraft were now.
A winding dirt path ran from the desert access road beyond the airbase fence-line, where visitors were admitted at a well-guarded gate, all the way to the cracked and pitted old ramp and the old hangar row. Peter guessed they’d see the dust cloud long before they saw the Autobot himself. Max probably would too, wherever he was. Doing moody Max things.
So Peter picked a broken cotter pin out of his ass and settled in to wait.
Location: R-4809
----
In retrospect, the weekend marathon had been a baaad idea.
“Look,” said Peter. He held his hands apart with the patient air of a man about to bring down wisdom from the mountain. “You cannot tell me that, at it’s heart, the whole thing wasn't about a healthy sadomasochistic relationship.”
His fellow agent snorted.
“They were both just acting according to their nature,” said Novak. “Don’t look into it too deeply.”
“I’m telling you, they’re friends! Several episodes implicitly suggested as much! It’s the thrill of the chase, man! They just got way too into it.”
Major Pauline Silvia stood back in her perfectly polished shoes and her perfectly pressed uniform and perfectly pinned hair and looked up from her phone in amusement and said, “I can’t wait to tell the Colonel that this is what you DoD boys talk about when you’re outside of meetings.”
Peter gracefully ignored that.
Novak meanwhile was not to be denied. Relentlessly, he said, “Cats chase mice. That’s all there is to it.”
“They teamed up to get rid of another cat sent in to replace Tom! They sat on train tracks to die together! Tell me that isn’t true love right there.”
“And they went right back to hitting each other with anvils the following episode.”
All in all, Peter thought ruefully, it was probably a good thing that Fort Max had stepped away from the hangar for a moment to assist with an ailing fuel truck. When an eighty ton alien murder machine space robot with guns in his legs rolled his optics at the dumb shit coming out of your mouth, it resonated. Like. It was hurtful, man. It hurt in your soul. It made you question your weekend choices.
Peter sighed.
“Well, at least we can both probably agree that Spike was the world’s worst guard dog,” he said. He rolled over his wrist to check a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Anyway, uh... when is the Autobot supposed to get here?”
Agent Novak relaxed by suspicious increments and grudgingly pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“I heard ten,” he said. “Major?”
The Major was on her phone again. “You heard correctly. Given our current inaccessibility we’re flexible, though. You don’t have anywhere else to be this morning, do you?”
Peter did not.
This was his life now.
Agent Fowler, and the orders from his direct superiors, had been vague. New Autobot officer on the planet; arrange a meeting to get a feel for the guy. Find out how he thinks, how he ticks. Pray for someone sensible. Pray to god for someone with a goddamn lick of common sense in his shiny metal robot head. Please, Señor Primus. Send poor old Planet Earth a competent Autobot officer. Hallelujah, amen. End transmission. Over and out?
Peter shifted on his uncomfortable seat on top of an old tool trolley and wished Agent Fowler was here with them now. Fowler knew far more about Cybertronians and Autobots than anyone else out there. And boy howdy, could that man work up into a fine temper over space robot antics when he wanted too. Peter lived for his outbursts. He craved them. That was some almighty fun! You could all but see the star-spangled eagles screeching against a backdrop of flags and fireworks as he ranted. He was a former Army Ranger! Why did he put up with this shit! What the hell were the rest of them getting paid for! Roargh! Good times.
He glanced over at his partner. No-Fun Novak stood frowning at his phone. In his black suit and sunglasses, with his curly black hair and thinning widow’s peak, he looked the part of a tall, cool government agent. Peter on the other hand, in hangover shades and dishevelled rolled-up shirtsleeves, looked like he was two speedballs shy of OD’ing in his own rockstar pool. But Novak had never met an Autobot before, and Peter had. So this would be a learning experience for him.
All three of them, the Major included, stood in the nice cool shade of an old stripped-out transient hangar on the far south side of the airfield. The hangar doors were open at either end of the building to invite in the sunshine and a northwest desert breeze. Something with massive turbines was taking off from runway three-two, but the noise was distant and the smell was faint. The Major had deliberately chosen this location due to its remoteness from the main field. Once, they’d stored mothballed F-117As in this row of hangars, their wings long removed. No clue where those aircraft were now.
A winding dirt path ran from the desert access road beyond the airbase fence-line, where visitors were admitted at a well-guarded gate, all the way to the cracked and pitted old ramp and the old hangar row. Peter guessed they’d see the dust cloud long before they saw the Autobot himself. Max probably would too, wherever he was. Doing moody Max things.
So Peter picked a broken cotter pin out of his ass and settled in to wait.
