[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Home is Where the Hate is. [OPEN]

[Onomatopoeia]

Episode 3.5, Week 1, Day 2, Evening

Mess Hall, Blackridge

It had been maybe a month by the native calendar. A month since the drowning of the Nemesis – the spearhead of the Decepticon forces on Earth – and home said force. A month since the crescendo of the Cruor outbreak. A month since Onomatopoeia had felt comfortable enough to accept the risk of troop density in the claustrophobic, unsanitary, degrading halls of the hewn out cave called Blackridge.

Different sized tabled coupled with dissimilar chairs. Each individual mixed and matched to their specific build from what was available. Onomatopoeia utilised the smallest of both sets. As far as she knew, she was the smallest bipedal frame on base. The irony that she wearing the largest frame her meagre spark could animate was not lost on her. The volume of her personal space however countered her unimpressive appearance. She detested that appearances could be deceiving. Hence why she spent so much of her energy on cracking the deception of Autobots in disguise.

By posture, she seemed to languish in her chosen spot in the mess hall. And physically languish she did. Her calm, confident demeanour was no façade. But her focus, solid as steel, was upon the holographs floating freely in front of her. She controlled them by thought alone and not a single gesture to mar the scene. The only exclusion to the nigh perfect sight was a half drunk fishbowl of energon.

One graph was displaying the known earth disguise altmodes her hated Autobot enemies employed. Another was replaying traffic footage. Two graphs were understandable to Ono only – and maybe Soundwave with his prodigious intellect for exactly the data dissection Onomatopoeia was performing.

[Starkrieger]

Today was not the day.

The Seeker that entered the mess was far from Starkrieger’s usual choice in presentation. Mostly black and white colorations were marred by light tan dustings of sentiment left by rain that had evaporated off the plating. Thankfully he didn’t spot any of the mecha that knew him to note this deviation from normalcy… at least not yet.

With gritted denta, and wings held high in agitation, he’d crossed the room, to retrieve his rations.

Low energy warnings flashed in a corner of the display of his flight visor, unseen from the other side. With little ceremony, the flier reached up to manually flip the tech up, terminating the display’s readout well before glances of the active feed could be stolen.

He didn't need to recharge, as he waited for his turn at the dispenser; technically he should, but unrest and frustration permeated every fiber of his being. His spark might have been false, but it didn’t lack for strength, or maybe he didn't have the sense to quit. Either way, he had not wished to return to base, but his frame had betrayed him.

Entering his code, his processor cycled through events, thoughts, and emotions over the past couple days, and beyond. It was an endless stream of patterns, memories, reflections… regrets… all culminating into predictions of what was most likely to be true.

Knock Out… was probably gone.

It wasn’t the failure of the initial search, or those that followed. The soldier hadn’t yet given up on his drive to find the medic, nor was he discouraged per say…. However… The war had taught him to expect the worst, mecha rarely returned in these scenarios. The Bots hadn’t reached out for a trade, as far as he was aware, which should have happened by now. It didn’t mean they didn’t have him, but … the longer he was missing, the more likely that was the case… and the increased possibility that efforts to recover the CMO would start to dwindle under the weight of Megatron’s ambitions.

Wings bristled in warning at whatever Vehicon had mistakenly gotten too close in the jostle for refueling, before selecting a seat. Seekers liked space, and they did not like being pressed from behind. Krieg was not in the mood to be tolerant of ignorance.

Without any particular purpose, he had made his way towards a two-wheeler, perhaps he had not noticed her, caught up in his own introspection and… well she was rather small, her output low enough that he would have already selected his course without registering her presence. Not that he would be hard to notice, his field matched his general disposition, prickly, on edge, as he had no interest in bothering to contain it.

Today was a good day for an old fashion mess hall brawl, and seated right near the diminutive femme was a potential powder keg to set off just such an explosion.

[Onomatopoeia]

Onomatopoeia was adept at splitting her attention. She wouldn’t have survived as long as she had otherwise. The only outward change to her shift in primary focus from her screens was in the white iris’ of her black eyes. The Decepticons as a collective tended towards rowdy rather than civilised. In her own demand for respect, she often had to watch where she treaded – or what treaded towards her.

Though she wasn’t in particular sensitive to fields, she read rooms and body language alike with practiced ease. From a gap in her screens, she watched an irritated seeker grab some ration and stomp his way over to her little corner of the universe. Little corner she decided was exactly the right description since it seemed the looming flier had not noticed her. The complete lack of acknowledgement pinged a smidgen of her ire. Though she had no desire to draw another’s ire either, especially not of some weaponised skylord, her indignation would not be dismissed.

With but a thought, her screens shrunk and withdrew – but were not dismissed. Now without obscured view she spoke up. “A filthy flier with a dour disposition yet lacking lacerations? Did your prey escape?”

Her desire for respect and data combined in one easy ice-breaker. If there had been some combat, even an ill-fated chased, she wanted the intel. She used data as a weapon as much as she could.

[Megatron]

Some would think the Lord of the Decepticons to be above mixing with the "common rabble", yet few of them would remember the times that he himself was once nothing more than common rabble. Megatron has seen his fair share of mess halls. As a miner, as a guerrilla, and even as an upstart leader inspecting his new outposts in the far reaches. Though his interest in the well-being of his troops was often spurious at best, he did have some new-old faces at Blackridge he wished to...assess, faces he had neglected to some extent in the past.

With his recent return, their master's presence would be known—personally.

In contradiction to any suppositions of dinnertime brawls that may or may not have come to occur in his absence, Megatron entered the mess hall with a familiar, heavy-footed strut that would scare the thought out of any half-loyal Decepticon. Indeed, many would know him just by the sound of his footfalls echoing down the hallway. The smaller one, perhaps. She was there all along. In the petrichor-scented streets and in the wings of endless highways, searching... His observer, a monitor, a pair of eyes out in the open. He knew of her but he did not know her, yet she would surely know him just by that sound.

The other one may have known him from propaganda posters and public events, from fleeting encounters on the field of battle, and from passingly locking optics in the half-forgotten corridors of their warship, perhaps not enough to recognize his presence through mere footfalls. He was gone so often, after all... They both were, curiously. However, he would surely recognize Megatron all the same when his mountainous silhouette appeared in the door.

Provided that either of them paid even the smallest modicum of attention, it would be impossible not to notice the room change with the Warlord's entrance. Hopefully, the Seeker was not so deep in the pits of despair as to ignore the encroaching figure. It stopped just short of that corner of the universe which was contentiously Onomatopoeia's, and suddenly it was not so anymore, nor did it belong to Starkrieger.

It was his domain now.

It always has been, and his appearance merely served to illustrate the fact. He stood there in an appropriately-long silence, overhearing the small one's jab. He did not seem amused. Perhaps the remark was ill-timed? Still, he did not seem upset, either. His scarred features paid more attention to the Seeker instead. Crimson-eyed, burning with old passions.

This was the face of the conqueror of Vos... and his leader.

The tyrant's voice cut sharp into the nascent conversation: "It is my understanding that it was not prey he sought, Onomatopoeia, but rather one of our own."

This was partly conjecture on Megatron's part, but given the circumstances, few other options presented themselves. He spoke with a truthful confidence and a rough edge. A reminder that the Lord knew more and cared more for the minutiae of their circumstances than some would think. Yet, in spite of his fortuitous appearance, he was clearly not here to assuage Starkrieger's worries, doubts, and sorrows—nor to lecture Onomatopoeia. His indirect mention of Knock Out was mere coincidence born out of today's meeting with the High Command... And yet, it provided an opportunity.

[Starkrieger]

To say Starkrieger was desensitized to the presence of large mecha would be fair. Between heavy armor Seekers, and the brawlers accounting for much of the military grounders, he virtually lost notice of size differences, until they mattered. Even a shift in the atmosphere to the ominous stillness that befell the mess hall wasn’t exactly exciting. There’d been more than one occasion some sociopath bearing the Decepticon sigil would send the lesser mecha scattering. Dangerous individuals warranted vigilance, but that didn’t mean they were entitled to full acknowledgement.

As Megatron entered, his presence was massive, in size and sheer atmosphere. The strength of his field easily caught the attention of Krieg’s ever alert sensors. As such, while the Seeker paid no immediate mind to ‘giant murderous mech X’, his wings angled, subtle shifts tracking his progression, in case it became his problem. In the meantime, he had more important matters to attend to.

Pacing himself, he sampled his rations, already anticipating the next search. He remained 'transfixed' by the energon, as if he were deep in thought. A distinct possibility, if not for irritation making it difficult to ignore that ‘mech X’ was heading his way.

Frag, he did not have time for this.

Despite the bristling of those wings, the Seeker projected detachment, indifference. If he didn’t look Mr. Sociopath in the optic, the guy would find someone more interesting to bother.  It was only as Megatron came closer that his optics darted up. Their true focus would have been hidden behind the veil of the monochrome red glow, if not for the marginal need to lift his helm to get a look at just who he was about to ‘deal with’. Before he could fully grasp who had approached, the Seeker’s early training bashed his processor into a wall of inexcusable fact.


He was seated while his better stood.

In an instant the soldier was up, the cube abandoned on the table. His wings shot to stand ‘at attention’, but it was not enough to immediately school his expression. Optics had widened, as he took in the fact that the Warlord was standing right there.

Why was Megatron here? What could he possibly want?

As in the assembly, he was struck by how commanding the Decepticon lord was. The fire in those optics seized his focus. Even a tyrant instilled order, possessing a strength of will he was naturally drawn to. His expression calmed, not because he was comforted, but from the demands of discipline. There was an appropriate way to present one’s self in front of command, and ‘green recruit overwhelmed by a war hero's presence' wasn’t it.

The warlord’s words returned the femme's jab to relevance. No, he hadn't missed it. If he would have been annoyed would remain unknown; particularly, as a part of his processor was busy picking apart what wasn't strictly stated. Megatron was, in some way, aware of him, and his activities? His chin lifted, gaze never leaving the ruler’s, as he tried to gauge the other mech’s disposition.

Why was the faction leader aware of him? As quickly as possibilities flitted through his processor they were dismissed. He wasn’t so self absorbed to believe the officers he'd interacted with would feel the need to bring him up to the warlord.

“It is, as his Lordship says”, he confirmed calmly, his voice even. What hesitation he had in knowing how to address the leader was played off as social propriety. He would not call this mech ‘My Lord’, as he did Starscream. What he offered, though genuine, was detached, impersonal.

“Though… I’d settle for an Autobot or whatever organic filth might have news about our missing medic.” Ice slipped into his tone. Usually he didn't take what happened in war personally, but if the hard edge in his vocals were any indication; for this, he was making an exception.

That the warlord had chosen to engage them in conversation suggested that he could consider himself free of the confines of strict discipline. Without the safety net of those demands, his wings gave in to pulling back minutely. It was awkward, not knowing what was wanted of him by this mech who was more of a threat than any other. After all, the risk was not his alone; every word, every action had the potential to reflect upon the Air Commander. He owed Starscream the security of knowing that he could conduct himself properly before Megatron.  But how did one approach a former miner, turned revolutionary that became the leader of a conflict driven faction?  

“... Is there a way that I may be of service?”

[Onomatopoeia]

Onomatopoeia, despite her holographic screens previously occupying her ocular space, was wary enough, always, to be aware of the room. So as the tyrant king himself entered, her surprise was inward only with no outward tic. Though his indecent stride covered ground quickly, Ono nevertheless had time to stand on her chair without inelegant haste, and salute.

She did not adore her leader. She did not pine or simp or rush to his every command. She was not a puppet nor canon fodder. There was only one living person whose directive she willingly followed, and that was her own. Onomatopoeia viewed Megatron as a hypocrite – an oil thirsty warlord with delusions of grandeur.

But she did respect him.

On the balance of all traits, he was undeniably the most capable person she knew of; strong, durable, quick and skilled, charismatic, and supremely deadly. Onomatopoeia saluted because even she dared not otherwise. Her thoughts might betray her utter lack of loyalty but not her actions.

Thankfully, Starkrieger’s quick response saved her from being betrayed by her tongue. In this instance silence was a virtue she elected to utilize. And in her silence, she listened to what was said, and what wasn't. So the rumor was true. Knock Out was missing. Onomatopoeia was not entirely surprised. The medic was said to be loyal to his own whims rather than anyone else. So be it. Now where was the angle she could benefit from here she wondered.

[Megatron]

"I have discussed the matter thoroughly with Starscream. He will oversee the search alongside some of our less... respectable... assets. — You may join them, if you wish, and I shall not oppose," Megatron said with little importance which was nonetheless made somewhat greater by the mere quality of his voice alone. Indeed, his daunting tone was among his most well-renowned qualities and it had a way of emphasizing his meaning without much effort. Granted, not everything Megatron ever said was a matter of great poetry or historic pertinence, but few could allow themselves tell the difference when faced with the entirety of his being in person.

He then turned to Onomatopoeia.

"Your participation, however, is not optional. I have selected you."

She was independent, perhaps too much so, but it was a strength in this case.

"I trust you will be able to scour urban areas otherwise inaccessible to some of our more conspicuous patrols."

She had yet to speak, but Megatron stared her down in a manner that would make the thought of continuing her silence synonymous with no lesser horror than facing his aggravation. For all intents and purposes, the Megatron that stood before them now was a relatively sunny individual compared to the Decepticon he would be had any altercations occurred in the mess hall or were he to be met with continuous silence from someone other than Soundwave.

Simply put, this was a calling that could not be refused.

[Starkrieger]

His optics continued to hold Megatron's, a succinct nod indicating he was following along and accepted his word on the matter. Megatron seemed unbothered, but Krieg was sure he was issuing… not orders exactly, but a decree of sorts? He allowed his compliance to serve as acknowledgement, likely the only thing the warlord was interested in at this juncture. However, his processor wasn't limited to appeasing the faction leader.

‘Starscream’. The lack of formality referencing the Air Commander before one of his soldiers was an interesting decision. Krieg didn't get the impression he was given to familiarity. Perhaps a result of a lack of formal training? If there was more to it had yet to be seen; just as any conclusions he might make as to what assets were considered 'less respectable'.

More importantly, the actual message had a direct impact on him in the present. The assembly had revealed Megatron's current aims, to build his super weapon, and to recover the Nemesis. He'd been clear that sacrifice would be demanded of each of them. He wouldn't be deterred from continuing his efforts to find his medic... but there was an obvious choice, to do so on his 'off hours', or to risk Megatron's ire. With Megatron's passive blessing, it was only a question of whether the Air Commander would decide he needed him elsewhere.

The warlord shifting his focus to the femme might have made many mecha jealous, for Starkrieger it was a relief. This absolved him of the responsibility of engaging, freeing him to better observe. A subtle tip of his helm indicated his attention remained on the pair, absorbing, assessing.

The depth of his voice didn’t bother him. While the Seeker’s mentor hadn’t been so, inherently domineering, when displeased he'd spoken with a severity that would have cowed a weaker spark. His training in Vos’ Military prepared him to accept in stride commands issued with the clout needed to cut through the heat of battle. Seekers were always moving and position was everything. Unlike the treadrollers, their commanders didn't have the opportunity to use presence or physical touch to stop subordinates from getting themselves senselessly killed by their own stupidity... and those subordinates had to remain strong under that strictness.

No... it was the glare.. the way he stood over the small femme.

Where the behemoth's size hadn't previously mattered, it became significant compared to the two-wheeler he was attempting to intimidate. It was possible there was history there. A chronically problematic 'soldier' that required a firmer hand. One never knew how a single piece would fit into the larger picture. However, he recalled the signs of his Lord's distress after he had returned from the mines. He'd surmised the Decepticon leader was a major factor. For now? Neither of them seemed to be under threat of anything beyond a display of dominance. Derma pressed firmly, his wings settled. He could continue to watch and see what caliber of leadership this Megatron truly boasted.

[Onomatopoeia]

Onomatopoeia matched optic with optic. For six million years, mechs had tried to cow her with their brute size and she had stood resolute. Presence alone, even the mighty Megatron’s, was vastly insufficient to bend her will. She would be ill prepared to kick Optimus in the hubcaps if his mere size melted her volition.

“It shall be done, Warlord Megatron!” Her voice crisp and sharp as a soldier’s should be when accepting orders. Onomatopoeia had no desire to continue anything that might be misconstrued as conversation with her de-facto leader. At some other point she might have happily discussed philosophy with the mech before her, but she knew this was not the time. There were plans in motion, and undoubtedly more she did not know of and she severely doubted Megatron was in a mood for reflection. The flier was a far more interesting quarry.

And as for those orders? They irked simply because she was already planning further urban scouring. The biker was set on another scout of Jasper’s streets tomorrow morning in an effort to find an Autobot in the wild. Megatron’s call for her action was, as far as Onomatopoeia was concerned, a waste of time. He might as well command the Sun to shine.

Now if the warlord would hurry off…

[Megatron]

"Your enthusiasm is most welcome," the old warmonger responded at once, though his posture did not loosen. Instead, he simply chose to abandon Onomatopoeia's personal space, turning around with a great motion. To Starkrieger, he paid little heed. Observant as he was, Megatron would not burden him with the weight of his attention unnecessarily.

Until...

Taking a few short steps ahead, perhaps amidst an attempt to leave the conversation as both of the other two Decepticons certainly hoped, Megatron turned his head over a jagged shoulder and briefly focused on Starkrieger once more. His gaze was not particularly malevolent—not more so than before, not more so than his usual.

"I trust you will conduct yourselves with propriety in these halls."

There was an odd implication in the plurality of the Warlord's stern words. Yourselves. It was as if though he held Starkrieger squarely responsible for both his conduct and that of the much more direct soldier. Perhaps it was a quiet encouragement to not let her previous jabs escalate.

Or, were one to be less charitable, Megatron maintained some suspicion of the mech. The last Seeker to arrive under Starscream's supervision, after all, earned a well-deserved grave out in the wilds of this planet. Maybe, and just maybe, there was also the hope that Starkrieger wouldn't follow in those footsteps.

Regardless, whatever may have been the Warlord's true intentions, he would set off. He would leave, let the two Decepticons posture among themselves—should they not hold him back with their words or actions. And he would make his way towards the exit in slow, dignified motions, with an effortlessly powerful stride.

Now, they were not out of the waters just yet—not until his loud, rhythmic footsteps faded down the tunnels, not until Megatron was well and truly gone.

[Starkrieger]

Megatron’s massive frame required a wide swing, one that the mech pulled off with a quiet dignity that outmatched many of his weight class. Probably due to the way it was distributed in the armor. Yes he noticed, as readily as he had noticed the power in that chassis, boasted in equal measure by the vocals he had used. What he hadn’t sufficiently observed was his qualities as a leader. Hints of revealed personality were few, and subject to loose interpretation. Onomatopoeia's response may have placated a madman, or may have simply assured a superior she had previously disappointed. Megatron might have been threatening her, or was oblivious to the difference in his overt dominance being directed at such a small model rather than those that shared his stature.

Starkriger’s optics followed his exit, no more sure of him than he had been moments ago. As his processor had started to review the brief interaction among the three of them, he caught the movement from the warlord. Though it was only through the sideways glance of a single optic, the Seeker didn’t fail to meet that gaze, as best as their positions allowed.

The words, however, were met with his helm tipping faintly to the side, an easy twitch of his wings that betrayed no real concern or worry. What precisely Megatron meant was lost on him. Starkrieger knew he had an open field, perhaps the older mech had picked up on his earlier agitation, or had assumed that two wheeler’s verbal jabs had provoked him…He was the military mech, it was possible that was the reason to single him out as the model bearing a greater burden of responsibility, or was there something else at play?

Fractions of a click, if even that, for the Seeker to draw his chassis and wings back to an ‘at attention’ state. Whether the simplest explanation was the correct one or not, it did serve to remind him that he should be above starting conflicts. This was particularly true of fights resulting from nothing beyond failure to exert control over his emotions. He was supposed to be better than that.

“You should expect nothing less.” It was as much a reminder to himself, as it was compliance with the Warlord’s implied instruction, regardless of the meaning behind it. Not that he was pleased, a part of him remained rebellious, wanting to blow off steam. A brawl would accomplish that... still, it was improper. The Air Commander would probably be no more impressed than Megatron.

If Megatron continued forward, Starkriger's derma would pull into a tightline, as he tried to place what had felt so off about the final exchange. Perhaps he'd imagined it, but it had seemed like implications were veiled behind the mech's words . However, word on Wingblade's existence had never reached him, and having a limited understanding of the estrangement between the warlord and Lord Starscream, he had little to speculate with. Still in thought, he would reach for his cube, to savor a sip of rations. The mystery of the Decepticon lord would hardly be solved in a day, and he needed to tend to his frame if he was going to keep looking for his medic.

[Onomatopoeia]

Onomatopoeia watched as the looming figure of Megatron went off to loom somewhere else. Despite his impressive bulk, there was a functional grace to him which belied the equally massive strength under the thick armor. His parting words, together with his taking of leave left Ono with a thin smile, barely there but more than what had been before. For now she was amused and curious. There was an unsaid implication in those words. Was Megatron warning Starkrieger against giving in to his frustration, warning her against taunting the seeker, or perhaps a generic warning due to preexisting history of impropriety within Blackridge?

Whatever misgivings Onomatopoeia harbored about the Decepticon leadership, fair or otherwise, she still believed Megatron to be shrewd. Possibly insane, but shrewd nonetheless. The exact meaning of Megatron’s implicit warning was probably every scenario she imagined.

But Onomatopoeia didn't only watch Megatron leave. She also watched how Starkriger watched him. She pondered what the seeker might be thinking too. Slowly with deliberate precision, she resumed sitting on her chair. Again she jabbed at the seeker, but more playfully this time, a hint of jest among comrades brighter than the common riff raff. “Enjoying the view? Or pondering elusive answers to heretical questions?” She had noted that Starkriger didn't pander his words to the warlord, there was no pining for praise and the offer of help seemed to be more just going through the motions. Was the seeker part of Starscream’s would-be armada, or was the seeker smarter yet?

[Starkrieger]

An optic ridge raised, as Starkrieger removed the cube from his derma.

“Why not both?”, the dry response might have hit completely seriously, if not for the quirking of his derma. Whatever her desired ends, whether innocent comradery and banter, or fishing for information, the Seeker was confident in the protection of making light of otherwise incriminating topics. Though, her question was an interesting one. Should he have been enjoying the view?

Carefully returning to his own place at the table, the Seeker took another deliberate sampling of his rations, pondering the warlord through her criteria, if only because she had asked. Megatron did share an indisputable characteristic with his Lord, and that was that the mech in question was outside his station to actually consider in either carnal or romantic terms. Despite what he often projected outward, he did have a set of rules that he followed, regarding what was appropriate, with whom, and under which circumstances. Still… he could entertain the notion of Megatron apart from the Decepticon warlord. .

“I suppose his frame’s symmetry has a certain… appeal.” It was supposed to be a beginning, as he weighed just how he wanted to play the game. Instead, his wings pulled back. Having no reason to school his expression, small tells likely signaling to observant mecha his inner conflict, a tightening in his jawline that translated into tension in his faceplate . There was someone else that should have been present for this kind of game.

“.. But, if you were angling to see if you have competition? The ‘prize’ is all yours.” Despite a bitter twinge in his spark, his vocals adopted the same teasing she had leveled at him moments ago. Many wouldn’t care to have it turned back on them, but what outcome did he hope for?

“Try not to -break- him. We do have a war to win.“ A jab at her size? Or perhaps at the ferocity of femmes going after what they want? Whatever the case, he pushed, tone teasing in a way that mocked sultry suggestions. Annoying, that was precisely how he planned on coming across, though whether in retribution for what she’d caused him to feel, or in an effort to force her to retreat he wasn’t sure.

What did it matter? So long as it brought that initial game to a close quickly, it would seem less like betrayal.

[Onomatopoeia]

“Ambiguous. Non-committal. Obtuse. Vexatious.” With each pointed word, Ono drew one line of a square in the air, which glowed white with holographic power. When the square was complete, she splayed her fingers to stretch the square into a circle and pushed it towards the flier just for it to vanish into motes of light as it got close. “Smart.”

Onomatopoeia leaned back on her seat, a gentle lackadaisical air about her. She didn't think she could turn this seeker into a tool of her own good. It was far from impossible but the effort required would be less than the return. She calculated that her best chance was simply shared goals and that a seeker like the one present would be beneficial without her presence in any way. The arrow could loose itself, and let it fly she would.

Perhaps the best peg for Starkrieger was straightforward intellectual stimulation, something heavily lacking in the dark tunnels of stone masquerading as the base for the Warlord’s army.

“So what is your educated guess, 'ave Mech mishandled our missing medic? Or ‘bots brokered a balance?” One for one, misplaced medics were now trading stock - or resources to be squeezed dry.

That Knock Out had let himself be taken was more enraging than whoever had made the most of the opportunity. The anger she felt at this incident however was a mote in the maelstrom of her spark, though that fire which fuelled her was iron shackled. Few saw the adamantite will behind white optics, as she intended.

[Starkrieger]

Veiled optics followed along as the femme projected a holographic image, specifically drawing sides of a figure. While Krieg wasn’t unaware of such an ability in some Cybertronians, he couldn’t recall knowing any that were capable of it… or perhaps it was a gift they weren’t willing to show off in front of a mix of military models, hard laborers, and dangerous criminals. Regardless, there were more important matters to consider. The descriptors she casually offered, corresponding with each side of the square, were obviously aimed at him. The straightforward evaluation of his nature one that he was analyzing in turn, considering if he cared for her conclusions. While her final decree seemed to suggest that she believed there was more to his abrasiveness, Starkrieger was content with the assessment.

What concern was it of his if she suspected that his behavior was a strategy? She had allowed him to divert the direction of their interaction, which was exactly what he'd wanted.

“It was the Autobots.” He felt that in his spark, the conviction was firm but lacking anger, at least for the moment. Focus shifted to his cube, wings oddly still despite natural shifts in his frame continued. “We haven’t proven it. “ Another twitch at the corner of his derma, pulling in displeasure. A part of him knew that so long as it wasn’t factually proven, everything was mere speculation. Just because he wasn't aware of a possibility, didn’t mean it wasn’t out there. Still, intuition afforded the Seeker no other conclusion, prompting him to give greater weight to those facts which supported his theory. It was information he saw no need to hide from the two wheeler. Megatron assigned her the task of helping look for Knock Out; therefore, anything Krieg had to offer would be available for her to acquaint herself with, regardless.

“There wasn’t enough time between loss of contact and the alert that he’d ‘gone missing’ for an elaborate cover up. The Spymaster calculated his last known coordinates. All sectors have been scoured since. There’s no evidence of a hideout, if it was MECH…we should have caught them transporting him. “ The idea that the humans could so effectively pull one over on Soundwave, when his efforts would be directed on the location of a potential base, was laughable (but not necessarily impossible). It had to be someone with access to bridging technology? From there the Autobots were the most likely culprits; yet, they weren't the only possible abductors…

“You have any thoughts on the situation?” Turning the question back on her, he was more giving her an opening to explore her own reasoning than looking for validation. It would take considerable evidence to convince Starkrieger he might be wrong, beyond the irritating detail that they didn't actually know.