We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
They even spoke in a similar fashion - that same easy-going drawl. The crooked grin. The similar frames made sense now. Another Guardian, and an old acquaintance from the looks of it.
Fortress Maximus stood back and silently watched the scene unfold. Everyone seemed content. Smiling. Relaxed. It was good when old comrades were reunited after a long absence. After a long war. It was good. Good...
He realised he had stepped back only when he became aware of the wall behind him.
It was...
No one was looking his way. Unwilling to intrude upon the joyful reunion any longer like a dark cloud, Maximus drew back and wordlessly turned towards the door. He trudged from the Control room an into the corridor. He had- snow to rid himself of.
Bluestreak did have the decency to look a little embarrassed at the look Shadow gave hir. Ou's greeting for Legion had been a little more intense. It took another few moments to make any sense of the jangled mix of glyphs of their explanations. The little sniper could gather that they were close, something like cohort from a long time ago, a LONG time ago.
Getting in a bit closer to place a hand on the new mech and look him over properly. Beside him ou could see why he'd reminded hir of Ironhide so much. he build, the thick plating and the almost subconscious hum of power and safety in their filed.
Had a member of the Thirteen come through the ground bridge, miraculously alive and relatively unharmed, Shadow had no doubt they would have already retreated elsewhere. In their case, it would have been to regroup, to determine the boundaries of their loyalties, to determine how less-than-whole they were.
Shadow didn't think Ironhide's reunion with Dusk was likely to involve any of those complexities, but that didn't mean it was a time or place for outsiders, either.
She would have liked a nice long drive, but that wasn't an option with mecha clustered around the ground bridge. Instead, she simply slipped into the corridor after Fortress Maximus, letting Bluestreak's question provide all the distraction she needed.
Ironhide tracked sensors on Shadow's retreat, as well as on Jazz's more distant observation, even as he reached out to gather Blue in closer into the space saturated with the combined thrum of his own field and Dusk's. "Somethin' like that, yeah," he agreed, grinning. What he silently pinged to his fellow Guardian was location markers and designations - [Jazz - cohort - mate - 3IC - spec ops] and [bitlet2 - Shadowrunner - cohort - younger(found) - spec ops] - and a packaged file of the local organic languages, standard translation patches the Guard had used for everything outside of their own cant, where 'uncle' was linked to the purely Cybertronian brother-origin cohort and then cross referenced to several more familiar and varied but similar xeno concepts that indicated extended cohort, clade, and a general kin structure.
There was a part of him that wanted to just stay where they were, close enough for plates to touch, the hum of familiar systems a balm to his own, and to the scrap heap with outsider propriety or how much of a spectacle or obstruction they were making in the middle of the room. Another, older part was chirping things at his processor about not on the bridge or in control, or in the way of mecha on duty, and proper protocols for long-mission returns which only partially included a need for a safe space and mostly included making sure medical had their say first. Cupping his hand around the back of Dusk's helm, Ironhide tugged the other mech's head around to get a good look at him, his own optics narrowing as he studied the other's. "Looks like yer trackin'," he noted bluntly, "but yeh'd better let Ratchet look yeh over. Surprised he ain't out here bellowin' for yeh t' get yer aft in medbay yet."
<<ooc - feel free to move them along in that direction! Ratchet's prepped and waiting to see what Blue dragged home.>>
Just when he thought his processor could finally catch a break, rest and bask in the wonder of the last few kliks, Primus threw something else at him. But at least, it was pleasant. Wondering and tasting the feeling of everything was pleasant.
'Uncle'.
Kind of bitter sweet, he noted as he opened the files Ironhide sent him and examined. Sad but warm. For the moment, he tried his best to focus on the warmth. The nice feel of Bot contact, the way 'Hide's optics narrowed.
It made him grin, and he stood perfectly still and compliant in the process despite his own tracking on his systems. "I 'xpect you're right. Need t'speak wif 'im anyway." He took his own hand away from his chassis, patting 'Hide on the shoulder. "I'm followin' you, Big Red."
Not that it was difficult to find the Med Bay, or even a long distance from where they were. The downside of being on a base not meant for mecha their size… But that said, it was still noticeably a Med Bay, which meant it had equipment and supplies. Ah, and a certain red and white CMO. "…Th'one with the scowl etched in 'is faceplate, then?" He asked in a low voice to Ironhide, resembling someone who was studying a possibly hostile creature in its natural habitat. "…Looks a bit… inclined t'violence, doe'n 'e…?" He mused quietly again, his optics wide, but with curiosity rather than fear.
Bluestreak had followed along to the med bay. In part because ou was curious to learn more about hir newly acquired "crazy uncle" and another part wanted to see how Ratchet would react to the new and injured mech. It seemed not a single autobot could make land fall without damage. The sniper being no exception.
"Ah yes, the wild Hatchet in his native habitat." Let it never be said Bluestreak didn't have any self preservation instincts because even as ou began to speak the small sniper slipped between the two much larger targets. "He stalks his med bay in wait for injured prey to wander in. Already weakened and easy to feed upon."
"I heard that," Ratchet snapped - mildly, really, as the medic had one hip propped against his own medberth, arms folded over his chassis as he regarded the mecha in the door of his domain like particularly unwelcome guests. "Inaccurate and slanderous... unless by 'wander in' you mean 'meander in like there's nothing wrong' eighteen kliks AFTER I've been commed about a new arrival with potential injuries incoming."
And oh, Primus, what a new arrival. Cybertronian Guard, not one doubt about it, that had been obvious at first sight of the mech's frame. No visible injury in mesh or mass, which only left a looming question about things which couldn't be readily seen with the optics. Ratchet's optics flicked to Ironhide, standing at the new mech's side, as alike as frame brothers ever got. The red frontliner was steadier then he had been, passive scans showing stable autonomics and regulated EM which was a far cry better then before. There were times, however, when Ratchet felt he could almost see the glitches waiting to happen, like randomly timed explosives tied into the mech's neural net and processor, just waiting to go off.
He had spent a lot of time serving on base with Ironhide and knew the weapon specialist's triggers. This new mech was going to be a learning curve from the ground up, blank slate and a minefield all in one. Ratchet vented softly and tucked his EM down, crisp and professional, even if his vocalizer still had a habitually irritated bite to it. "You don't look like you're draining out, so I suppose that's something." He pushed away from the medberth, gesturing the new mech to it. "Up you get. And you and you," he added, leveling a finger first at Bluestreak and then at Ironhide, "OUT."
Last Edit: Apr 15, 2013 13:44:09 GMT -5 by Deleted
Dusk didn't turn directly towards Ironhide or his bitlet; in fact he didn't move at all from expression right down to pede. But his field did flare out though, and the plates around him did tighten by a fraction of a fraction for that fraction of a second. And it took him a quick glance back to realize it was this 'new spark' feeling of not wanting to let go. This thing that was immediately uncomfortable (and for that moment it showed), because it meant parting with this ghost-turned-reality. Brother of his past. It shouldn't have mattered, he reasoned. He was still going to be there. But there was that little uncertain voice looping in the back of his processor, whispering, 'what if he wasn't'? What if he did disappear?
But vorn of practice let him keep the worst of those doubts, those nagging thoughts, right where they started, in the back of his mind. Instead, he reacted just after that split second by setting a hand lazily on 'Hide's shoulder, somewhere under the surface sure that he above all would have picked up on the discomfort.
"No leaks, I'm sure; a few dents here'n there, really. Just a quick check of file 'n frame shouldn't take long at all." He grinned, and reached out to squeeze Bluestreak's shoulder fondly. "I'll be seein' you again real soon." And retracted that hand to smack against Ironhide's chassis. "Don't wander too far." Finally he turned towards Ratchet, stepping foreword with a friendly spread of his arms. "I'm all yours H-Ratchet. EHehehe."
Ironhide didn't so much as flicker an optic at the medic's sharp tone, and he also didn't move so much as one micron. "Like slag Ah'm leavin'," he snapped back, with the same firm denial that accompanied every time Bluestreak or Jazz had been the ones on the medberth. He had a hand up already to forestall Ratchet's immediate protest, order, or argument. "Ain't gonna get in yer way, Ah just ain't leavin'." The sharp vent he expelled held a touch of humor. "Ain't nothin' yeh can do t' Dusk Ah ain't seen, an' vice versa, so frag th' confidentiality scrap an' just get on with makin' sure he's ok."
His hand caught at Dusk's, reeling it back into touching space as the other mech stepped forward, until they stepped forward as one. Shouldering himself into the other Guardian's space - thoughtless, easy, habits he had unlearned and never entirely been able to give up - Ironhide nudged the other towards the berth. "Up yeh get, unless yer gyros are peggin' more'n Ah thought. Don't wanna make him tell yeh twice."
"Gettin' up, gettin' up." Dusk raised his hands in mock defense, moving with an over-exaggerated hop-skip at Ironhide's wee nudge. As much as he didn't want to piss off the CMO, Primus he was glad 'Hide decided to plant his pedes. "…He has a point, though." And as he hopped up on the berth, he flashed Ratchet a smile… smiles that somehow persisted through icy dagger stares. "As long as it won't hinder your work, of course."
He waited for the doors to hiss shut behind Bluestreak's retreating frame before he flopped himself back on the berth, venting heavily as his optics dimmed-- sifting through his processor for his own medical files. "Right, then. I'll fetch those files for you." Ahh, yes, there it is. His mouth twitched down in a slight frown, critiquing his own cataloguing. Funny, he remembered being satisfied with the way it was organized the last time he reorganized it. Ah well, he'd get started on it again when Ratchet was done.
"Here we are." With his peddles waving slightly to some tune that was bouncing around on his vocals, he pinged over the information to Ratchet. But once opened, the seemingly simple file package was probably anything but. All information and records were sorted from broad to small, going from standard medical record keeping regarding his own maintenance to any major damage, repair, recovery tracked up to a vorn, sometimes more, and all in chronological order. Perhaps more importantly were notes on what looked like a personal case study, logged to the earliest stages of war and including entries with no more than a few orn in between, even if the entries registered 'no change'.
Overall, the organization itself seemed organized, in someways so much so that it might have been difficult to decipher to anyone not in Dusk's own head. It might have been borderline… obsessive.
He tapped his fingers in time with his pedes this time, the tune most likely still playing in his head even if he wasn't singing along with it. "That's about everything. Satisfactory, I hope?" He raised his head to glance Ratchet briefly before dropping it back down. "S'a bit messy in some places, I know; busy, busy an' all that jazz." Fingers tap, tap, tapping away.
"Far be it from me to say otherwise if you actually want the overgrown sparkling underfoot," Ratchet snapped, his tone sharp, but he reigned it in immediately with a single pulse of brusque professional apology, no more personal then a 'sorry' for having stepped in front of someone's path in a corridor. Guardians, he reminded himself, with the feeling he would be doing so frequently for some time to come. Guardians who were all but welded to each other, but Primus knew it wouldn't be the first time he worked on a patient bodily connected in some fashion to Ironhide, be it a sparkling held in hand or a cohortmate that the frontliner wasn't letting go of short of removal of the limb in question.
He had already queued up scans that were flickering across the new mech's plating, data feeding back to him on a myriad of minor torques and dents, indicative of velocity impact damage, but far less then might have been expected from someone who had, apparently, planted his shuttle nose first into the planetary crust. Ratchet expelled a slow vent - Primus bless, the heavy archaic armor the Guard had used was a medic's worst nightmare when something went wrong, but it was blessedly good at keeping the lesser things from going wrong in the first place.
Ratchet had just had time to marvel at a Cybertronian system that was, for once, NOT reading back as haphazardly patched, gummed up, mis-aligned, jury-rigged, cobbled together, or hopelessly rearranged - Primus, the mech was almost in DECENT repair except for the newest collection of minor injuries - when an unusually large packet of files came in. He ran a scan on it automatically - clean, but that habit had kept him from more then a few mishap with pranksters and one memorable attempt at infiltration - and unpacked it...
...and stopped, hydraulic dead in surprise, as a beautifully detailed and organized to within a byte of its existence medical log unreeled through his processor. Ratchet cycled his optics once, then again, sorting quickly through the data and only pausing once to admire the catalog tree.
He was still parsing through it when he re-engaged his vocalizer, glyphs carefully uninflected with anything like hope. "...You're a medic, I take it."
<<ooc - back to dusk, feel free to skip Hide this round!>>
Last Edit: Jun 10, 2013 15:17:24 GMT -5 by Deleted
Dusk's mouthplates twitched in a full smile before relaxing to their default state (to be honest, the corners of his mouth seemed to be constantly quirked and at the ready for grinning). "I am. 2nd Class." He said, beginning to sift through his files again for dusty records of his training from millions and millions of years ago when he had been sent to Cybertron, and more recent examples of how he'd been assigned and served once the war began, to give Ratchet a vague idea at the least of how his experience had been shaped. In some ways, the new file package seemed like something that was readily put together, if a bit dusty; for the purpose of a quick exchange with other medics. A resume of sorts.
"Here you go," He said, offering over the new file package. "Been here and there, operating as whatever was needed at th' time, of course. But that should help clarify." He turned his head, angling his optics up at Ratchet. "All that t' say, if you c'n find a use for me I'm happy t' make myself useful."
Part of him felt guilty for already considering Earth a new place of dwelling (at least for a long, long while), almost digging his heels in, despite not even speaking with any of the Commanders on this base yet, above all the Prime. There wasn't any way to know the details. But medics and Med Bays tended to operate on their own rules, and CMOs as their Commanders, so it was easy, after millions of vorn, to look at a CMO and fall into a routine. Easy to look at the red white mech and automatically think of Ratchet as the one to report to. Not to mention, there was Ironhide here. Dusk turned his head slightly to observe the mech, part of him making sure he was still there. And easy as that, guilt gone.
There were flickers between them, simple familiar tells in the minute fluctuations of field, the automatic flex and shift of plating, the tone, rpm, and rev of engine and inner systems. Ironhide kept one hand on Dusk's shoulder, a solid, comforting press, though which of them the comfort was for was hard to say.
Home. It was a little like home, the distant memory of it, a place and time when he could have read everyone around him as easily as he did the flickers of guilt and relief and joy, the emotions behind the easy smile and distracted fidgeting. Ironhide leaned into the touch, adding another weight of pressure - here, right here - plates flicking to a wider spread that spoke of welcome and comfort and shelter, engine settling into a thrummed harmonic that said steady and at ease wreathed in concern and joy.
"He's good," Ironhide offered, and if most of him was basking in the familiar feel of Dusk's proximity there was a small sliver that was enjoying the stunned look on Ratchet's faceplates. "Ah'll vouch for him - he's th' one who did that bang up job on mah mid thoracic relay, th' one yeh went on about when yeh were diggin' shrapnel out after that one blowup outside Protihex, remember?" He rapped a knuckle lightly against Dusk's shoulder plating. "He liked th' weld yeh did," he confided to the other Guardian in a perfectly audible pseudo whisper.
Ratchet huffed slightly, the exvent trailing off without any real irritation to it despite Ironhide's unsubtle jab. "Well, then," was all he said. The moment stretched outwards for a klik, his processor combing over the records he had been offered, something long unfelt and almost unfamiliar trying to kindle in his spark.
"I guess I should be glad you arrived mostly in one piece," he said at last, but that tiny flicker wouldn't be put aside or firewalled off. Relief, it whispered to him. Relief when he had stopped looking for it long before, an easing of a weight he hadn't known he had. 2nd class was only a descriptor - there were too many squadrons out in the black operating with no medic at all, or with barely trained field techs who had learned out of necessity on the job. The primary difference between 1st and 2nd class lay in hardware and frame type; Dusk wouldn't have the fabrication or dedicated diagnostic systems that Ratchet had, but any medic who could hold a frontliner like Ironhide down and weld as neat and near invisible a seam as the one he remembered was a perfectly decent medic in Ratchet's book.
The Prime's team had warranted the best medic the Autobot forces had to offer. Ratchet had long ago stopped looking for a replacement for himself, with the acknowledgement - almost devoid of ego, an observation that felt more like despair than pride - that there were few medics left with either his background, skill, or ability to work under pressure and with flexible means. It hadn't stopped him hoping against hope that another squad would arrive as backup to Optimus' small team, one with proper support personnel including another medic, because trusting their last Prime's life to one medic alone was sheer folly.
He'd been grateful for Cleaver's help, but she was still a neutral and it still left him as the only medic at Outpost Omega. It was a precarious place to be and Ratchet was aware, peripherally, that half of his temper and general irritability came from the endless like of 'what if' scenarios that he couldn't quiet his processor from circling. Most of them centered around scenarios of more than one Autobot grievously wounded, of having to pick who lived and who died, because he was only one medic with one pair of hands and there was only so much he could DO.
Another medic, however trained - much less WELL trained - was a blessing straight from Primus that Ratchet had given up hoping for. The Guardian laid out on his table didn't seem entirely real, his processor scrambling to catch up to the idea that this, here, was a mech he could turn his medbay over to for an entire shift of recharge that wasn't hinged on alert protocols that would wake him at a moment's notice.
No. No, that was too much to really process. Downgrade to something smaller. This was a mech he could hand off to the tedious endless scan heavy maintenance preliminary checks that their soldiers needed, and a mech who could properly and accurately do his inventory. Yes, there, that he could process. That was good.
It put an unconscious little rev back into his step, and there was something honestly pleased and not at all forced in his field when he stepped in to nudge Ironhide out of the way, his hands coming up to begin playing scans over the scraped dents in Dusk's helm. "Let's just see about the rattling you gave yourself, shall we?"
It was easy to exvent and relax into that field and touch; relief in the reflex to fall in line with the unspoken word in the hums of his engine, and he gratefully latched onto it about as tight as he first latched on to Ironhide himself.
The spastic tap,tickity,tap of his fingers settled into something a little more rhythmic, and his responding smile was a little more sincere this time, less practiced.
"Ain't much in there t'rattle 'round, Doc." He said, a bit of laughter in the undertones of his voice the last few notes. Most of the damage that could have been was stayed if only by his heavy armor. Had he been a lighter frame… well, there'd probably be a lot more wrong than some denting. That said, the impact was still slamming into snowy rock and ice from entering atmo. And while he wasn't too concerned about his chassis, he knew there could still be possible neural damage.
The denting was mostly up and along the side of his helm where he'd turned his head to protect his face. Nothing abnormal… as far as injuries from backlash went.
He'd wait a few seconds in silence (except for the persisting tappa, tappa, tappa) before peering upwards. "What d'you think…? Lights in all th'right places, nothin' ruptured, fried or sparkin' that weren't already? Tell me true… am I still handsome?"