[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Watch that First Step...
Feb 23, 2017 2:06:57 GMT -5
Post by Skirmisher on Feb 23, 2017 2:06:57 GMT -5
[Episode 2.5: Week 1: Day 4: Location: Region: North America, Nevada, Jasper: Omega Outpost: Ground Bridge Control/Control Room]
The tunnel formed from the Ground Bridge opened out into a rather tight control room at least by Cybertronian standards with a smattering of consoles that had either been cobbled together from two separate lines of technology to resemble a hybrid that only looked functional, and as Skirmisher stepped out through the tunnel formed by the ground bridge itself his pedes thudded against the packed concrete had allowed him to have gleaned more from the single compartment of both its previous use and the state of the garrison. Having accompanied Javelin through the ground bridge pushing or rather guiding the second of two hover-pallets, the field medic hadn’t quite known what to expect though the moment he’d set his pedes on that packed concrete his optical visor gleaned every detail from the outpost’s former use as a missile silo to a make-ship if not rudimentary base of operations. Remaining quiet, Skirmisher had opted to take in what details he’d been able and the large dark green rather bulky mech manning the controls for the ground bridge before the bridge had closed behind them. He’d had no doubts the mech had been more than capable of having handled himself in a fight, since any mech that hadn’t would have been rendered little more than a hubcap. Taking in the size of the large mech at the bridge controls, he’d allowed his visor to have recorded before having archived a myriad of statistics ranging from the dimensions of the mech to projected strength and speed mostly derived from the mech’s shoulders and other limbs. His unorthodox methods in enforcing the hundreds of ordinances within his home city had certainly raised questions from his superiors, but he’d mused even they hadn’t been able to downplay or dismiss the amount of reprobates to chop shop owners filling the many cells within the Praxus Detention Center. His skepticism and suspicion of everyone had been rather justified given his background, and the amount of low-life mechs he’d had to deal with. He’d allowed his optical visor to have recorded, and archived both Javelin and Hazmat’s statistics, accents and behavior for future reference albeit without them having been aware of it.
The cylindrical shaft featuring a set of panel-doors inset coupled with the multiple scaffolding at varying heights at varying heights throughout the control room had been too small for Cybertronians rendering only one result plausible that this repurposed silo had initially been cut from stone for the use of small bipedal creatures, perhaps these humans Javelin and Hazmat had made mention of. A myriad of sounds, from natural to even artificially projected from the small batteries of monitors and display screens to an even smaller square shaped display screen featuring a pair of thin antennae and knobs along the façade had been rather welcome across his audio receptors after having heard the sound of the ice for so long, and while he'd almost felt at ease or at least less defensive he'd spotted something out the corner of his visor. Resting on a second floor or so raised platform he’d noticed a small -- make that very small -- wooden table set only a foot in front of a well-worn and patched cushioned couch too small for any Cybertronian to have used.
The tunnel formed from the Ground Bridge opened out into a rather tight control room at least by Cybertronian standards with a smattering of consoles that had either been cobbled together from two separate lines of technology to resemble a hybrid that only looked functional, and as Skirmisher stepped out through the tunnel formed by the ground bridge itself his pedes thudded against the packed concrete had allowed him to have gleaned more from the single compartment of both its previous use and the state of the garrison. Having accompanied Javelin through the ground bridge pushing or rather guiding the second of two hover-pallets, the field medic hadn’t quite known what to expect though the moment he’d set his pedes on that packed concrete his optical visor gleaned every detail from the outpost’s former use as a missile silo to a make-ship if not rudimentary base of operations. Remaining quiet, Skirmisher had opted to take in what details he’d been able and the large dark green rather bulky mech manning the controls for the ground bridge before the bridge had closed behind them. He’d had no doubts the mech had been more than capable of having handled himself in a fight, since any mech that hadn’t would have been rendered little more than a hubcap. Taking in the size of the large mech at the bridge controls, he’d allowed his visor to have recorded before having archived a myriad of statistics ranging from the dimensions of the mech to projected strength and speed mostly derived from the mech’s shoulders and other limbs. His unorthodox methods in enforcing the hundreds of ordinances within his home city had certainly raised questions from his superiors, but he’d mused even they hadn’t been able to downplay or dismiss the amount of reprobates to chop shop owners filling the many cells within the Praxus Detention Center. His skepticism and suspicion of everyone had been rather justified given his background, and the amount of low-life mechs he’d had to deal with. He’d allowed his optical visor to have recorded, and archived both Javelin and Hazmat’s statistics, accents and behavior for future reference albeit without them having been aware of it.
The cylindrical shaft featuring a set of panel-doors inset coupled with the multiple scaffolding at varying heights at varying heights throughout the control room had been too small for Cybertronians rendering only one result plausible that this repurposed silo had initially been cut from stone for the use of small bipedal creatures, perhaps these humans Javelin and Hazmat had made mention of. A myriad of sounds, from natural to even artificially projected from the small batteries of monitors and display screens to an even smaller square shaped display screen featuring a pair of thin antennae and knobs along the façade had been rather welcome across his audio receptors after having heard the sound of the ice for so long, and while he'd almost felt at ease or at least less defensive he'd spotted something out the corner of his visor. Resting on a second floor or so raised platform he’d noticed a small -- make that very small -- wooden table set only a foot in front of a well-worn and patched cushioned couch too small for any Cybertronian to have used.