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.
Fairwinds had been losing interest in the whole affair. The 'bots had found MECH; MECH were disarmed and getting taped up into shiny plastic grub-coats; Soundwave had lots of video data to comb through; and there was lots of fire and smoke and destruction to call it a successful work shift.
The Autobots had performed for the camera and were now chit-chatting and exercising non-lethal force on the captured squishies. Boooring.
Then she was being comm.ed again, and she belayed the request for a 'bridge home. They wanted her to help some more? They thought she was, even temporarily, on their side? They were trusting her to be helpful to them and not, y'know, act like a Decepticon?
And that last sounded totally directed at her. She was getting asked to punch a squishie unconscious. Pit yes.
::Yeah, I can totally fit in the shack!:: she affirmed, swinging back around from a lazy withdrawal from the area and beginning to coast in low. ::'m coming in. Be warned: I'm gonna be sweeping through this black smoke and drifting embers all wicked-cool, like, but you've agreed to not fire on my shapely Decepticon aft right now, so don't get tempted when you're standing in quivering awe of my Winged Death mode. Kay? Kay.::
Post by Bluestreak on Sept 24, 2014 0:36:53 GMT -5
Bluestreak immediately took a polite step back at the old man's look and raised his hands apologetically. The tall silver mech just sort of looked helplessly around him for a second. His doors quirked out to the side ever so slightly. The man's gaze didn't waver.
Why the heck does everyone expect me to be able to talk at the drop of a- oh, that's right. Because I do. Well, okay, carry on, Blue, carry on, so how do you talk to a human in the middle of the desert, what do you say, you say, what the heck do you-
"Yeah," Bluestreak offered suddenly. "It's tough when they keep asking you about what sort of stuff you're taking to fix things, but really, it has nothing to do with what's actually going on around you, for sure." His shoulders sloped as much as his smile.
"A whole buried bus of guns?" he echoed. "I'm a gun guy, don't get me wrong, I like good guns, but er, burying all the ammo and just a few guns might be tough. I mean, you'll run out of ammo way before you might run out of guns, and- you know, I dunno why it's taken us this long to come see you. I'm not sure, but I don't know anything about a warning, either. I need to listen to the radio more I guess and not just the country music station. Which is good, but it's not entirely helpful for any warning moments except that that there's lots of places to get ticks apparently out in the woods."
"Also, if your girlfriend leaves you she's probably taking the dog."
He grinned sheepishly and ducked his chin. "Yeah, you probably know all that already though, sorry."
"So, er, hey, about all the other things you were saying..." the silver mech began. "All I can do is ask you- please. Any help or information you're willing to give us would be fantastic, thank you."
"I mean, we could really use the help right now and you seem like you know what's going on with these guys who have been watching us and watching you?"
"I sure don't, I'm the first to admit it." The expression on his face was utterly serious and concerned. "I just know these guys sure don't care who they hurt to try and get us."
He was about to ask him if he had somewhere else he could go when Matilda's response crackled over the comm. The silver mech startled, and then felt himself tense in an automatic, instant reaction. "Wait, just hold on a second, don't wreck his home..." he blurted back.
Last Edit: Sept 24, 2014 15:51:18 GMT -5 by Bluestreak
Standing quietly out of the way so as to not interrupt Bluestreak's negotiations, Wash choked back laughter.
"Copy that, Matilda," he said. "You're cleared to come in. We'll keep our guns holstered. And I agree with Silver. Let's not take any hasty actions unless our hermit friend here proves either hostile or unwilling to share whatever information he has. Keep him talking, Silver. You're doing good."
The old man scowled.
He put his hand to his ratty chin and walked back and forth in front of Bluestreak for a moment, deliberating. He stopped. He swept off his hat and squinted into the sky, his face wrinkled in thought.
"Hm," he said. "Hm. Tell you what, robot."
He boldly pointed a finger up at Bluestreak.
"You take these black-coat government men off my property, you leave me all of their weapons and their radios and just one of the cell phones that grey fella over there is busy stripping off their persons, and I'll give you the coordinates to their base," he said. "Their big base! Where they keep their black helicopters and jeeps and alien hostages. I've seen it! I've been all over this state, I know it like you know the back of your - whatever you aliens have backs of. I've walked it all. I've seen everything. And I sure saw that."
"And then I want ten jerry cans of gasoline," he added suddenly. "I'm all outta gasoline. My generator don't run itself."
Meanwhile, Rook's investigation of his prisoners would dig up two assault rifles, two pistols, two combat knives, four odd round magnetic discs roughly the size and thickness of a crushed pop can, two shoulder-mounted radios, and - yes, two small black unmarked cell phones.
Last Edit: Sept 24, 2014 15:07:01 GMT -5 by Deleted
Cell-phones, weapons and gas. Rook had to wonder just how long their luck could hold, because as thing stood the trade was cheap, it would have been cheap at twice the price.
Of course, knocking the guy out and ghosting away from the site with whatever info the shack held would be infinitely better, but Bluestreak was, unsurprisingly, tender on the crazy loon. Rook kept his sigh to himself.
Nonetheless, his answer came automatically. Fortunately Matilda agreed readily to have a peek into the cabin, which meant she'd be either triggering or disabling any traps on the way in. Someone with a capable holoform would have to follow her, but that Rook couldn't do: his holo was barely capable of passing muster long enough for a passing glance as he raced by other cars on the road.
His immediate response went instead to Bluestreak. ::Haggle, Silver. Haggling makes people feel like they've got the better deal even if they haven't. He can have the weapons, all but these...::
Rook weighted the flattened discs in his hands, rolled one lightly like a man might roll a coin over his knuckles. They had to be weapons, and he rather thought they were either explosives or concussives of some sort, but he could not readily ID them and he dare not divert his attention to a full scan to see what he could learn of their chemical composition. He scanned them nonetheless, trying to get what he could and filing it all away for later examination. ::He can have one radio, one phone, we get the others. And he can have the gas, I'll deliver it myself unless you can convince him to pick it up elsewhere not up that hellish path. Unless these gents are carrying plastic, in which case he can have that until they cancel it for all his gas-shopping needs.::
He patted down his lovingly wrapped duct-tape presents, looking for wallets. He wasn't interested in ID's - he was looking for credit cards, or cash. Neither would do them any good, but it would beat lugging gasoline up and down that Primus-forsaken excuse for a path.
::I won't be shooting anyone, Matilda. Too busy dealing with the duct-tape packages.:: And yet for all the busy he claimed to be, he still managed to jump into the 'Bots-only commfreq. ::Someone with a working holo might want to follow Matilda the Mighty in there, guys. Sharing info's not exactly a strong point with Cons.::
::Yup, I can see that:: Fairwinds remarked as she swept back in, though not immediately towards the shack as implied. She was a recon Con - an overhead circle to take in the scene before landing was default behaviour.
Spotting the silver mech handling objects taken from the MECH agents, she came to land on one of the still-smoldering tree branches. The squishies in themselves were of no interest, but their technology was another matter entirely. They'd collected some bits and pieces, most notably the gun that had put Lord Megatron's processor back several steps, but nothing like what the Autobot was handling.
MECH had harvested from them more than enough - it was entirely reasonable to take from them, too. It wasn't necessary to cut it from their bodies, unfortunately, but you couldn't tit for every tat.
Fairwinds whistled at the Autobot, and nodded towards the items in his hands. "'fore I go down there, I want one of those. Consider it a token of your gratitude that I haven't had two squads of Eradicons 'bridged in."
Last Edit: Sept 29, 2014 3:28:47 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Bluestreak on Sept 30, 2014 18:28:31 GMT -5
Haggle. Right. Haggle.
Bluestreak turned that directive over in his head. Uh, guys, I'm really not the best at haggling, he thought, but didn't say it out loud. They needed him to keep talking, so, okay, he'd do that while the others got things straightened out. Oh, good, they weren't going to let her go into his house, ugh, no, thank heavens for little favors. He didn't think he could deal with that well.
Right, focus. Hey, they called you Silver. Not motormouth. Not Babbles, no one's made the yap yap yap gesture, wow. Silver. I like it, I kinda like that other one too, I gotta ask him about that, since his house will be- let's not think about the Decepticon. I haven't haggled... Well, not for a really long time, I guess, I mean, I haggled for ammo, sure, and for work on my gun, okay, right, I can do this, I can do this, I can haggle with this guy who's...
Bluestreak inclined his head and eyed the scraggly, sharp-eyed human in front of him. The man stared up at him, finger outstretched. Bluestreak honestly didn't think he'd blinked once, while Blue had probably shuttered his optics at least fifteen times, mostly in response to the demands put on the proverbial table out here in the middle of the desert.
You know, I think you use a lot less tinfoil than folks think...
The sharpshooter rocked back on his heels. The doors behind his shoulders twitched and moved, then settled as he rested his weight equally on both feet. He shifted his rifle across his shoulder; if he had to snap it down in an instant he would be able to.
"Okay, got it. We get these folks out of here," he chattered, his voice back to his good-natured burble. The sun was hot against his road-dust covered plating; his silver finish a bit dull and muted. "Got it, can do, because we don't want them out here being their random shooty selves again. We leave you all their guns and conventional weapons, sure, we can't use them, and besides, I figure figure they'd add to your collection in the bus, because seriously although a lot of of folks say their black helicopter guns are genuine, yours really are, that's got to make them worth some serious credentials, right?
"One radio and one phone, because really, what are you going to do with more than that and to be totally honest, we need some so we can sort some stuff out back at the mothership too so that we can figure out what they're up to."
He gave the man a thoughtful nod. The shadows from his helm drifted across his optics as he shifted the gun against his shoulder, settling it a bit deeper in the cradle between his pauldron and neck guard. His hand curled along the stock, fingers steady and comfortable. "The gas is yours, ten jerry cans. I'll bring it back myself, promise, or one of my friends here will, it's the least we can do for your help about the base, right?
"Hey, and if these guys are carrying uh, plastic, would that be easier for you instead of us lugging gas up here? I mean, you could use that until they cancel it, sure, but you probably want to be careful about leaving a trail for them to follow, paperwork or otherwise, because well, you might want to consider moving now that they know where you are, just because I think they'll bring out the big stuff and hunt you down."
"You've seen their big base though? Seriously? You really have the coordinates? How'd you get in without them shooting you or... well, or just shooting you again?"
"Also, can I ask you something totally off the subject for just a second if you're willing to tell me...?"
Bluestreak offered up a quick smile. "So, hey, um... what's a Beanpole?"
Last Edit: Sept 30, 2014 18:29:25 GMT -5 by Bluestreak
The old man did not reply right away. He was watching Rook and Fairwinds, his eyes glittering beneath the wide brim of his floppy hat.
He looked back sharply at Bluestreak. And grinned.
One eye winked.
"It means yer scrawny, beanpole!" he barked, curmudgeonly again. "But you talk nice! For what's probably a hallucination. Cactus juice and pure mescaline! Mmm mmm good! So I'll be nice to you too. You gimme everything I asked for, we got a deal. You bet your sweet space robot ass I got the coordinates. I found that place fair and square, by stalking them helicopters. Nobody shoots at me! Not unless I take a shot at them first. Then they shoot plenty. But they don't see me! Nobody sees old Marco when he don't want to be seen. I know these parts, boy. Don't you forget that. And yes, I will accept most major credit cards, thank you."
He said the last bit as polite as pie.
Meanwhile, Rook got lucky again - if he investigated further he would find exactly one wallet in the cargo pocket of one of the men. Empty of course, except for two crisp one hundred dollar bills and a black and white satellite photo of a desert range of hills. And lint.
Behind them all, Wash quietly projected a blond haired avatar in a Hawaiian shirt and sent it wandering innocently into the shack.
Rook didn't flinch or look at her when Matilda came down to perch next to him, but every bit of his attention was immediately and keenly on her. His crouch shifted smoothly for a moment as he found a posture that would let him spring away from her if she picked that particular moment to start firing. Or at her.
He turned politely when she whistled at him. One optic ridge and a faint little smile showed, but his optics remained the same faded blue and his field stayed close up and even. He kept rolling the unknown MECH disc over his knuckles; his first instinct was to balk, but he knew it for a rote response to a 'Con presence.
The spook stretched his arm out, rolling the disc to the open palm of his hand and offering it to Matilda, voice light. "Sharing is caring, I'm told." His told dropped to something cool and detached. "Betting on a concussive, or flat-out disabling, and I wouldn't write off a bug. Handle with care, Mattie."
He pocketed one of the remaining three. He was fairly sure he'd have to turn the others in to the weapon-techies back home, but it was just not in his nature to up and surrender a potential new toy. Not to mention if and when someone did figure out what they were, he'd dearly love to use it on MECH. Ah, irony.
Leaving a pile of the conventional weaponry and any clips his lovingly wrapped presents might have been carrying, Rook straightened up and put one radio plus cell set on top of the pile, examining the second set. with a grimace, and seemingly not happy about it, he committed the pic to memory (a photo of a photo, so funny, surely) and offered Matilda the photo and the radio as well. "Do you even need these?"
His free hand he lifted over his head, the two hundred books secured between two fingertips, offering further details on their common line. ::Two hundred bucks, a radio, a cell, a whole pile of weaponry. Maybe a ride to the gas station of his choice? Someone else will have to take him, though - I'm going to be taking our MECH friends for a ride soon as we're done here.::
And if they were sensible mechs, no one would ask him where he and the MECHs were going. He sensibly ignored any activity Wash might or might not be engaging on, lest he draw attention to it, as well. Nope, all ignorant, the Aero.
Fairwinds flew out in a steady hover just close enough to take the mystery device, radio antenna and picture within her beak from her outstretched neck. She immediately returned to her tree branch and subspaced the two items she was pretty confident wouldn't get up to any mischief in a quantum pocket.
The disc was another matter. She bashed it a few times on the charred wood, running a shallow scan on its internals, then twisted to set it upon her back behind the collar-like cooling vents and between her wings. Her dorsal plates shifted, flaring, then two data cables emerged and crossed over the object. Once it was secured to her frame, she looked back across the scene to see what she'd missed.
An outline inside the shack - humanoid, but none of the Autobots were worried about it. Fairwinds boosted back to the air and landed atop the structure. Sinking her claws into the roof, she swung her body down and stuck her inverted head through the doorway.
That sharp eyed, clear wink. At him. For no one else.
There was a lot of things Bluestreak didn't know, couldn't tell you. He was good at words though, and he was good at listening. Yeah, he just- sometimes he couldn't stop talking, but really, he also never stopped listening to others talk. It filled those empty spaces, chased away moments with chatter. Sometimes it was just one or two sentences stuck between all the other talk that was important. So he stuck with that, and offered up an honest, good-natured smile in return.
"Hey now, I'm-- okay, I'm scrawny compared to a lot, yeah, yeah, I know, Beanpole it is, I'll take that and run with it. Kinda has a nice ring to it, you know, but okay, great, a deal it is, I'll take that deal if that's the deal you're offering, and as a show of good faith from us, yeah, there's a credit card and some credits - er, money, I think. Two hundred dollars, would that interest you? Er, a ride to the gas station of your choice?"
Talking he could do, and really, the demands seemed pretty reasonable. Guy wasn't demanding a planet ripping fusion canon, or a trip to the mothership (oh he would have had no clue how to debate that.)
Sorry, we don't have oxygen on board, you humans like breathing, right? Breathing is good. That was a place to start at least.
The silver mech's shoulder quirked. "I don't think we have enough gas cans to use, hopefully you do, Mister Marco, but-- okay that's our deal on the table, right now, I hope that works for you, and nope, I wont forget it. You know these parts, if I have a problem about them, I get it, ask you, and for the right deal you'd get us the right info, okay, sounds fantastic. So if we have a deal, it's a deal, right."
"We're going to take care of these black helicopter guys too, forgot to say that, whoops."
He shifted his hand around the edge of his rifle, trying so hard not to move when the Decepticon landed on the shack like a prying vulture and peered over the edge. He had to assume Wash saw her, since this sharp-eyed human saw him and what all of what the others were doing. All Bluestreak knew was that they had to get those co-ordinates. Even if they weren't true or real or anything, it was more than they had to go on. That would be Wash's job. Rook's job. They'd figure it out, they'd be able to tell pretty quick. That's all they needed.
"Um, Wash," he said carefully over their private comm. "He's watching you. He's willing to give us coordinates, dunno if they're real, but if they are, it's a big stea we didn't have, Wash, and hey, you're- you're not going to let Matilda into his house, are you? I don't like that that's not okay."
Last Edit: Oct 8, 2014 21:59:30 GMT -5 by Bluestreak
The moment Fairwinds poked her head down and peered into the shack, the first thing she would see was Wash’s pale–haired avatar hurrying out of it.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled. The man looked ill.
Once he was gone she would get a clear view of the interior. It was a small structure, with rough and knotted wood walls. A boulder was lodged half inside one wall. Daylight shone through the splintered cracks around it.
The shack was roughly square, with a high and draughty ceiling that creaked beneath her weight. There was an old army cot in one corner, with a rough wool blanket pulled over it and a flattened pillow at the end. An old mini-fridge sat in another corner, empty beer bottles lined up on top of it. A single bare lightbulb hung over a plank table built against the far wall. An amateur radio stack dominated most of the tabletop; a microphone stand was placed in front of it, while a padded headset lay coiled nearby. Cherry lights on the radio glowed.
The rest of the table was messily stacked with books – old textbooks mostly, battered and dirty. A quick glimpse at their spines revealed they were written about a variety of subjects: physics and medical physiology were the most common. A tattered copy of ’Heart of Darkness’ sat on top of one stack. A big hardback of ’Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ sat on the seat of a nearby wooden chair.
The rest of the tabletop was mostly empty, save for a few worn pencils, as if the old man had been interrupted in the middle of writing something when MECH had dropped by. Some letters and words had been scratched into the wood as well, as if with a knife. Gads of yellowing photographs and newspaper articles were pinned on the wall above his workspace. One photo showed a scowling blonde girl sitting on the hood of a red Camero. An article from a Las Vegas newspaper told a breathless story about peculiar sightings in the desert. Another magazine article talked about Area 51. And etc.
A pair of binoculars hung on a nail on the wall beside the door. A noisy grumbling sound echoed through the rear wall – probably an outdoor generator. And that was it.
Meanwhile, the old man himself seemed oddly chill with the fact that his home was being invaded by space robots.
“Fine, fine, two hundred cash and guns and a cell phone and a free ride to the gas station, yep, that squares you off with me,” he said. He watched Wash’s avatar as it hastened over to join the blue Autobot himself, then cocked an eye at Fairwinds. “You tell your friends to take their loot and their prisoners and hustle back to the Mothership, and then you and I will bury the guns before taking a trip to the gas station. Two hundred bucks should buy me enough Jerry cans. Ha!”
He cackled and spat.
“And on the way back, I’ll give you those coordinates. Got ’em memorized, you see? That way the government can't just take 'me from me. Not until they perfect their filthy mind devices! I figure I got until 2018 for that to happen, tops.”
Annnd the conversation had detoured into mind-reading devices. Alright, then.
At that point Rook hooked two fingers of each hand into the duct-tape packages and straightened up easily. He draped the humans over one outstretched arm as a human might carry a delicate piece of clothing to keep it from wrinkling, and circled widely toward the smoldering wreckage of the tree; he had not forgotten there were three MECHs, and he wanted to make sure all of them that could create trouble for their host would be removed.
He was not going to kill the humans. Ever-present in his mind was the order the Prime had passed, and while Rook was an expert in respecting the letter, but not the spirit, of any order when it became necessary, he did not think he could stand before the Prime himself and flat-out lie if the mech asked questions. The Prime was not Intel; he might not understand that sometimes you just shouldn't ask unless you truly believed any answer would be the right answer.
No, if the Prime asked, Rook wanted to be able to truthfully say the humans had been alive when he'd last seen them.
Naked, and in the back-end of the desert, in a gully not known for its life-supporting capabilities. But alive when the spook had last seen them.
::If you're done with me, Lancer, my friends and I have a fairly long ride ahead.:: His tone was calm and even, belying the fact he was a little worried that at least one of them coughBluestreakcough might start asking questions and so he switched to light teasing. ::I swear to Primus next time you ask me to come on an "easy" trip, I'm moving to another continent.::
He had not, however, missed the haste with which Wash had left the hut. While outwardly offering no acknowledgment of the hut-investigation team, on their private line he offered a very mild, ::You alright?::
Fairwinds didn't pay any mind to the holo's apparent unease, rather pleased to have the cabin to herself. She dropped down into the doorway and waddled inside, scanners sweeping the floor for trapdoors, safes and other potential points of interests.
One did not live on top of a MECH facility unknowingly when you were this paranoid. She hadn't been listening too closely to the hobo's dialogue with the negotiating Autobots, but he seemed very unsurprised at their existence as giant mechanical space beings. Suspiciously chilled, in fact. The squishie knew things, even if he didn't know all of the things he knew, particularly when a lot of the things he knew looked to be just batcrap crazy. Robots cured some Texan woman's husband, but programmed him to speak Spanish? Yuhuh.
The radio equipment seemed primitive, and the newspaper cuttings on the wall were obsessive. There was room in her subspace for the lot should she have the chance to take it. For now, she wasted no time in rooting around the table for any material suspicious-hobo-dude had written, intending to subspace every notepad, journal, and shopping list she could lay her beak on.
In the meantime, she activated her own avatar to go stand guard at the door and oversee the proceedings outside. Four and a half feet tall, blonde pigtails and freckles over a button nose. She was freaking adorable in her death metal t-shirt, purple tartan skirt and black leggings ending in shiny purple Doc Martins.
Post by Bluestreak on Oct 19, 2014 16:35:47 GMT -5
Bluestreak nodded, and glanced over to see Wash's avatar scoot back away from the shack. The look on his face was one that gave the silver mech a bit of concern and he was going to ask if he was okay...
When the Decepticon casually swung over the front door with a flourish and waddled inside. Her avatar appeared a few seconds later.
Immediately, some clouded flicker crossed his optics at that. He curled his fingers a bit more along the stock of his rifle. Get out of his house, he thought to himself. That was a place where... where someone should feel safe. It wasn't like running down a road, or being out in public. No, a home of any sort was someone's private space and they should be able to just come home and feel secure, not jolt on line dreaming about your city being ransacked and burned to the ground in front of you---
Bluestreak shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. If it had just been him, he- no, no deals, not with someone like this, no deals with that cruel beak and intelligent, cold eye. But... he was not Wash or Rook- that was not his job to decide. No, his job was to shoot things that he was ordered to shoot and...
Talk, apparently.
Right, he could talk. That he could do.
"You heard that, right?" he asked the other two mechs. He was pretty sure they had, he was allowing the conversation through on the open line, but he just needed words to fill the space so that he could focus again. "You go, he gives, and uh, wait, I guess I'm also burying his guns and taking a trip to the gas station. I guess that's part of the deal too, slipped that in, didn't he, haha... ah well. He's not going to be happy when he realizes that a Datsun isn't made for offroading. Wait, I'm a little regretful about that part, my shocks get to do this all over again. Twice. Darnit."
How many gas cans could you fit into a Datsun? Oh boy, guess he was going to find out. He hoped this man didn't smoke in the car. That would really be a downer.
Last Edit: Oct 19, 2014 16:36:37 GMT -5 by Bluestreak
The pale-haired avatar walked straight to Wash with quick, clipped strides. Wash crouched down onto one knee to greet it. His expression was uncharacteristically stone-faced as he lowered his hand to his avatar.
"Yes," he said huskily, in response to Rook's hail. Then, in a bit more normal a voice he said, "Ah, yes, yes, I'm fine. Did you say that you're taking our new friends somewhere? Might I offer a suggestion towards a scenic trip for them to enjoy? Agent Fowler has requested that we turn any captured MECH personnel into his custody for questioning. We may stand on shaky moral ground when it comes to interrogating human prisoners, but appears to have fewer qualms about it when it comes to members of what he is lobbying to classify as a terrorist organization. If these guys are privy to any valuable information, his men would be the best to shake it out of them."
His avatar climbed onto his hand and vanished. Wash very quickly closed his fist, which he then held shut as he pushed back to his feet. He offered Bluestreak a sober look.
"Did you copy that as well, Bluestreak?" he said.
Meanwhile, inside the shack, Fairwinds would encounter...
Nothing.
Not what she was looking for, at least. There were books on the table, but no notebooks. There were worn down pencils and bits of shredded pink eraser scattered everywhere, but no scribbled notes. No journals. Not even a single sticky pad.
Her luck was not entirely out, however. At some point the old man had gotten bored and used a small penknife to scratch words and letters into the tabletop. 'QSD' read one set of letters. 'SOM-' spelt out another, before the rest of the word became scratchy and unreadable. More letters messily slashed out 'ASH' and 'ITU' in angry looking, illegible marks. Another scrawl read, 'DROGUE DART AX-' The rest of it was mostly crude profanity, save for one spot on the table where it looked as if the old nutter had attempted to carve the lyrics to an entire Jefferson Airplane song into the wood. All that was legible was, '-ED YOUR HEAD.'
The radio, the books, the clippings - none of it was bolted down, and was free for the taking if Fairwinds wished.
Last Edit: Oct 19, 2014 19:31:13 GMT -5 by Deleted