Ep. 1.5 - Back to the Breach - (Closed)
Feb 7, 2013 11:45:15 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 7, 2013 11:45:15 GMT -5
<< OOC note - set two days after Shiftlock is released from the medical ward! >>
Smokescreen frowned at the letter that was not going out of its way to write itself.
The light from the screen of his tablet glowed back against his face, a gentle and pale blue light. The holographic monitor shone steadily. It was cluttered with tabbed windows. Personnel files lay scattered in the background, while the letter he was currently typing loomed obnoxiously large in front of them. His fingers hovered over the keys.
The cursor hovered at the end of the last word he had typed. That damn word.
His frown deepened as he leaned his chin on his palm and eyed the screen. A letter. Ha. That implied a friendly correspondence between colleagues, or a professional epistle between like-minded mechs of business. What he was writing was anything but.
Smokescreen made a face and closed the window, which lingered briefly to auto-save itself before vanishing from his sight. Ah. If only he could rid himself of its recipient so handily.
He sat back in his seat and rubbed his thumb against one optic. He looked around his office, which over the past few weeks had transformed from a humble place of rest to a rather tidy working space. The artifacts from his personal life still sat neatly about upon what shelves he could make of the cables and antiquated bulkheads that plated the walls, which were still stained with rust and ancient water damage, but he had a desk at least, all metal sheeting and weld. And two chairs. Also heavily welded.
He kind of liked the overall effect. Sort of a modern minimalist-met-industrial style. Rave bars back on Cyberton had once paid architects a lot of shanix to achieve this salvaged utilitarian look.
He chuckled. All right. Time to get to work. Real work, this time.
Without thinking, Smokescreen checked his internal chronometre, then cursed to himself when he remembered. He glanced at the tablet instead. A little after noon. Good. He still had plenty of time to get ready.
He picked up an empty cube from the corner of his desk and threw it across the room. It smacked on the lights. Wow. He was really batting a hundred today when it came to professional decorum.
The room brightened and he sat forward. Banishing the last of his unnecessary windows with a touch of his finger, he brought the one he really wanted forward. Another tap enlarged it. Autobot Shiftlock. Hmm. Smokescreen pursed his mouth and leaned forward onto his elbows. He studied the photo attached to the corresponding file. A Wrecker, and one of their most recent arrivals. Ratchet had already forwarded him her most recent medical files, along with a warning. It was enough to go by for now. It was his job to take it from here.
The day before he had sent her a inter-comm memo, a friendly invitation to join at thirteen-hundred hours in his office. Smokescreen was honest enough to admit to himself that he did not know if she would show up. Wreckers were notoriously unpredictable. And frankly most Autobots tended to run for the hills rather than voluntarily submit themselves to any meeting that even carried a hint of a psychological evaluation about it. Smokescreen was not offended by this. It was a fairly normal reaction.
And really, when you got right down to it he was not a formal psychiatrist. Not really. His specialty lay only in field work. Get an unstable Autobot stable enough to return to the front. That was his job description. It was not one he always enjoyed, but he took it seriously.
Smokescreen sat back in his chair and settled in to wait.
Smokescreen frowned at the letter that was not going out of its way to write itself.
The light from the screen of his tablet glowed back against his face, a gentle and pale blue light. The holographic monitor shone steadily. It was cluttered with tabbed windows. Personnel files lay scattered in the background, while the letter he was currently typing loomed obnoxiously large in front of them. His fingers hovered over the keys.
The cursor hovered at the end of the last word he had typed. That damn word.
His frown deepened as he leaned his chin on his palm and eyed the screen. A letter. Ha. That implied a friendly correspondence between colleagues, or a professional epistle between like-minded mechs of business. What he was writing was anything but.
Smokescreen made a face and closed the window, which lingered briefly to auto-save itself before vanishing from his sight. Ah. If only he could rid himself of its recipient so handily.
He sat back in his seat and rubbed his thumb against one optic. He looked around his office, which over the past few weeks had transformed from a humble place of rest to a rather tidy working space. The artifacts from his personal life still sat neatly about upon what shelves he could make of the cables and antiquated bulkheads that plated the walls, which were still stained with rust and ancient water damage, but he had a desk at least, all metal sheeting and weld. And two chairs. Also heavily welded.
He kind of liked the overall effect. Sort of a modern minimalist-met-industrial style. Rave bars back on Cyberton had once paid architects a lot of shanix to achieve this salvaged utilitarian look.
He chuckled. All right. Time to get to work. Real work, this time.
Without thinking, Smokescreen checked his internal chronometre, then cursed to himself when he remembered. He glanced at the tablet instead. A little after noon. Good. He still had plenty of time to get ready.
He picked up an empty cube from the corner of his desk and threw it across the room. It smacked on the lights. Wow. He was really batting a hundred today when it came to professional decorum.
The room brightened and he sat forward. Banishing the last of his unnecessary windows with a touch of his finger, he brought the one he really wanted forward. Another tap enlarged it. Autobot Shiftlock. Hmm. Smokescreen pursed his mouth and leaned forward onto his elbows. He studied the photo attached to the corresponding file. A Wrecker, and one of their most recent arrivals. Ratchet had already forwarded him her most recent medical files, along with a warning. It was enough to go by for now. It was his job to take it from here.
The day before he had sent her a inter-comm memo, a friendly invitation to join at thirteen-hundred hours in his office. Smokescreen was honest enough to admit to himself that he did not know if she would show up. Wreckers were notoriously unpredictable. And frankly most Autobots tended to run for the hills rather than voluntarily submit themselves to any meeting that even carried a hint of a psychological evaluation about it. Smokescreen was not offended by this. It was a fairly normal reaction.
And really, when you got right down to it he was not a formal psychiatrist. Not really. His specialty lay only in field work. Get an unstable Autobot stable enough to return to the front. That was his job description. It was not one he always enjoyed, but he took it seriously.
Smokescreen sat back in his chair and settled in to wait.