[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Sticks and Stones [Whirl, Mitch, Scream, Soundwave, Closed]

[Windshield]

Episode 2.5 / Week 2 / Day 7

It was hot today. Of course, it was always hot. Well, hot, and dry. Probably not even the best human poets could come up with a better description of this infernal, arid canyon somewhere in Nevada. Alright, maybe they could, but they wouldn't bother. It was an insignificant place and nothing to write a home about. If humans didn't like this place, imagine how the average Cybertronian might rate it. Not with five stars, that's for sure.

So, why would anybody come here, then? There were two reasons, actually. Sightseeing was one. Though, this certainly wasn't the reason any bot would come. It wasn't even a reason for humans to come. In fact, it was more like a "possibility" rather than an actual reason. But the other option was way more interesting. A faint life signal suddenly popped into being somewhere in the canyon. How, why, and when? These are good questions. However, none of them had answers the Decepticons or the Autobots would know.

Who on Earth did know them? Probably nobody. But under it? Windshield knew. He was a Decepticon, lost to the ages, missing in action, and gone for quite a while. Now he remained in stasis under a huge pile of rubble in a stray piece of junk from the Autobot Ark. He was suspended in stasis to conserve Energon. If he was conscious, he would probably have a humorous quip or two in regards to his current situation. Either that or he would suffer a spark-attack caused by panic. Maybe the latter... Probably... Most likely... Alright, certainly. He would certainly suffer a spark-attack.

Right about now, it would be quite amazing if somebody tracked down his location. Even more amazing would be if somebody bothered to rescue him. But Windshield knew most Decepticons didn't play this nice. Everybody knew most Decepticons didn't play this nice. And the team that did play this nice were the Autobots. Which was, as luck would have it, not the team Windshield's been fighting for the last couple of millennia.

Either way, Windshield needed help, and he couldn't scream, he couldn't even think. Luckily and unbeknownst to him, his fate was in the hands of Cybertron's finest... fine-ish.

[Deleted]

Finest was not exactly the word used to describe Whirl. Or even 'fine-ish'. More likely, 'finish'. He was certainly the last Autobot you'd want to see, and not entirely because of his unquenchable desire to 'finish' Decepticons.

Optimus Prime hadn't exactly asked for volunteers to scout out the unexpected new signal in the Nevada Desert. The best way to get Whirl to follow an order was to frame it as being something he already wanted to do, and getting the trigger-happy, fidgety Rotary out of the base for an hour or two could never be considered a bad thing. Besides, nobody could fail to have missed the blue rotary's constant complaining about not being allowed to stretch his engines.

Besides, his alt mode made him a natural scout. it would just be spite to not send him out.

Not that Whirl hadn't complained about his 'partner', mostly that 'I don't need a babysitter,' and 'I'm not a team player; just watch me!'

Optimus was one of the very few people whom Whirl respected though, and Whirl had, in the end, put up a minimum of fuss about Skirmisher. He didn't exactly respect the guy, or see any particular reason to just yet, but he was a flier, so, whatever. Skirmisher being a cop didn't mean a whole lot to Whirl just yet though; he'd met a lot of cops whom he didn't respect much.

He flew slightly behind Skirmisher, mostly because his speed didn't match that of the other mech.

As would become usual, Whirl's avatar was sitting in the pilot seat, not that it mattered much when they were speaking over comms right now.

"Signals from around da first Ark?" he stated to Skirmisher, "It's totally gonna be a Decepticon trap! I love dose tings! I mean, they set up a signal, don't label it proper, and get ya ta come! And dere's always tons 'a Decepticons ta just smear all over da walls an' ceilin'!"

It wasn't necesserily a trap, but Whirl tended to assume these things, or at least he said he assumed them; he was saying it just to see what it took to irritate Skirmisher, so that he could gauge the mech's personality.

"Always sendin' out signals fer help so's we come! It's like a reverse Catch-22! Win-win! If it's really help needed, we're da good guys! If it's a trap - and by if, I mean 'when' - we get ta kill da bad guys!"

They were narrowing down the signal, which was somewhat vague.

"Bagsy da big one!" Whirl stated cheerfully to his 'partner'.

[Skirmisher]

[Episode 2.5, Week 2, Day 7, Location: Sol System, Planet: Earth, Continent: North America, Region: Nevada]

Having departed the Outpost, Skirmisher had been assigned Whirl -- the mech he'd encountered in the Scottish back country -- as his wing man. He hadn't complained since he'd rarely spent time with the spindly mech, although the nature to their being dispatched to the more arid back country regions of Nevada had piqued his curiosity. Prior to the Truce, if a Decepticon beacon had been intercepted by an Autobot listening outpost or by a routine patrol the beacon would have been grounds for all parties involved to intercept at all possible speed in order to gain valuable intelligence and or commandeer valuable Energon. With the existence of the Truce, the conditions had warranted any stray or errant or distressed Decepticons or Autobots had to not only be given or granted proper medical treatment if such had been required and to have been handed over to their respective camps intact.

“If the Decepticons had laid a trap near the first Ark's location why would they have programmed the source to have begun transmitting on an open band only now rather than in previous cycles? I can't say much of anything because I wasn't aboard the Ark, but if the Ark's in as bad a shape -- mostly cannibalized -- what would be so valuable it would draw the Decepticons to it?” Skirmisher asked, over an encrypted band to Whirl. His hard light avatar had formed in the pilot's seat within the cockpit of his alt-mode complete with the Air Force flight suit and helmet, and while the possibility of being discovered by any local humans in their planes or helicopters or gliders had been remote Skirmisher had noted both he and Whirl had been of the same mind when it came to it.

“I don't think the source of the beacon could be part of a trap. The Decepticons are too prideful of such things, and wouldn't simply allow it to be transmitted over an open band. I'd keep my guard up though. The last transmission on an open band we had to investigate was from your pod, Whirl. Given the dangers and threats embodied by certain agencies, I'd say we were rather lucky we didn't encounter anyone on that trip. This isn't some back country marshland in Scotland. I wouldn't put it past some local hiker or sight-seer to be in the unfortunate vicinity this time,”

Rather than to question why a distressed beacon had been intercepted in the region of Nevada, the steady signal from the beacon had been the larger question. The understanding that many of the errant Cybetronians had found themselves in violent impacts on the Earth's surface hadn't been something they could have easily dismissed, and that the open beacon had remained in that same location had only confirmed his suspicions that the beacon's source had been among those unfortunate few. His own transmission, a triple-encrypted beacon from the shuttle buried under a millennia of compacted ice had remained undetected and no one had intercepted it until only a few cycles previously and the shuttle's com-array had been state-of-the-art at the time with the power to spare. The detection and interception of the Decepticon beacon had meant the source had been either been in a local canyon or buried until recently.

“As for smearing Decepticons, I wouldn't mind bashing a few helms either. I owe them, but with the Truce in place our options have been limited. I don't think Optimus would find it too troublesome if we had to defend ourselves,”

“My scanners are in agreement. The beacon's transmitter's remained stationary,” he'd said. “Reverse Catch-22? If it does turn out to be valuable Energon or even one of our own that happened to trigger a Decepticon beacon, I'd count it a lucky day as the humans would have it. If on the other hand, it is a genuine Decepticon in distress we'll judge the situation once we arrive,”

“The beacon's signal is getting stronger. We're in the right area, or close to it. I'm going to angle some of my scanners ground side to determine where the exact location of it, and whether there aren't others in the area,” he'd say, redirecting some of his ventral scanners to penetrate the compacted ground while his other scanners had been set to alert him of any human or other Decepticon or even M.E.C.H. presence. If M.E.C.H. made itself known, the two or three if there had been anyone on the other end of the beacon would have had need to make a hasty retreat. While he had no doubt the two of them could have stood their ground against M.E.C.H., he hadn't known of the current state of whomever had been activated the beacon or if there had been another Cybertronian.

[Windshield]

As the Autobots edged in on the signal's location, something stirred beneath the stones and space junk from the Ark. It was Windshield. He woke up, probably due to the presence of nearby Cybertronian energy signatures or by Primus' will alone if one is so religiously inclined. His first course of action was to scream. And he did so loudly, almost obnoxiously.

Then he simmered down and opened his optics. Windshield found himself surrounded by rubble, metal frames, and rocks from all sides. He realized that this wasn't the Afterspark. It wasn't the Ark either, at least not entirely. However, few distinct features of the spacecraft did environ him in the collapsed chamber.

Alright, think. You planted a Detpak on the fuel pump per the orders. You got out of the blast radius and then— Then... Oh right, the Autobots showed up, Windshield thought to himself. He glanced around the place to see if there wasn't something he could make use of, something that could get him free. There wasn't.

Right about now, it'd be great if I could even move a servo, he mused and tried to pry his arm from beneath the debris. He couldn't even lift it. And let's be honest, even if he could, Windshield isn't a bot known for his heavy lifting.

Blast this. Must've burned through my Energon.

After trying to do the same thing about five more times, Windshield finally realized that his efforts were futile. He was running low on Energon, and the stasis could preserve only so much of it. Now that he is awake, he's running at full capacity again, and going off the little that's left.

So, what else was there left to do? All he had was his mouth. Calling for help on the off-chance that there is somebody out there seemed like a dumb idea. The problem was, all the good ideas weren't in the realm of what was possible. And luckily, Windshield is precisely the kind of person to try his luck with a dumb decision over not doing anything at all.

"HELP! Anybot out here?!" He shouted.

And he shouted again: "I'm dying over here, hello!" Perhaps his muffled screams would reach the surface if he was loud enough. And maybe, just maybe, somebody selfless was listening. Probably not, but it was still worth a shot. It was always worth a shot.

[Deleted]

"Da Ark's mostly looted, sure... but dat's da thing," Whirl told Skirmisher cheerfully, "Obviously da Ark's been looted, so if dere's somethin' left behind, it's somethin' we don't know about. Which would be why it ain't been found yet. Which is why we're findin' out about it kinda late. Sometimes ya gotta turn somethin' sideways ta get a good look at it."

It was just a demonstration of Whirl's way of looking at things. It didn't mean he was right. But it was a good reason why he might be right.

"Optimus spoils all my fun too," Whirl told Skirmisher, without elaborating in any way. As they closed in on it, he tuned his sensors, "It's real close now... Should be right around here..." They landed (a minor assumption that obviously they're still together, okay?). Whirl didn't actually land in helicopter form, but transformed in the air and dropped the last ten feet easily.

"Definitely around here," he repeated, half to himself and half to Skirmisher - they were standing not thirty feet from the remains of the mountain the ARK had crashed into. It had been brutalised by nature, cannibalised of almost every little part, and now resembled a junkyard more than a space-ship, at least to human eyes. There was the old airlock, which had been ripped open at some point in the past, and after that more rubble had fallen in.

Their target was somewhere inside - or beneath it.

Whirl checked his sensors, "Might not be a trap after all," he spoke sadly, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. He (and Skirmisher?) grabbed rocks and started hurling them aside, and a path was cleared for their entry. He shoved his way in before Skirmisher could.

"HELP!" a voice shouted.

"Ah, DERE is our signal," Whirl told Skirmisher, while nodding to himself. The signal was growing stronger and more accurate as they got closer. While their target's voice echoed along the corridors, the path was not so straight. On the other hand... millenia of deterioration had left the walls much weaker, buckled and twisted, with many parts removed and others heavily rusted. Whirl, ever the lateral thinker, turned in the direction the signal was coming from, and jammed his claws into an existing tear in the wall, starting to rip a larger hole so that he could start to carve a more direct route to their signal without trailing along winding corridors. If he'd still had hands made of living metal it would have hurt too much, but Whirl's claws were dead metal and his wrists were currently experiencing a pleasant total numbness from Patchet's pain-relieving program.

The screech of his claws tearing metal would set anybody's teeth on edge, echoing along the corridors, and would be as audible to Windshield as to Skirmisher.

[Skirmisher]

Gripping each piece of torn bulkhead and girder, the Praxian continued his search for the distressed origin of the beacon while insuring the debris from the Ark hadn't complicated their efforts. He'd known there had been a high possibility that the chunks of removed debris could have shifted either forcing the ground beneath their pedes to cave in or for other larger bulkheads to have collapsed. Flicking on the tandem utility lights housed within his helm to illuminate their path through the darkened labyrinthian remains of the Ark, he'd continued following the spindly blue mech and had resorted to using the cybertronian alloy riot club he'd transformed his left hand into to help wrench open hatches or to disable jammed locks.

“I doubt the Decepticons or even M.E.C.H. have intercepted the beacon. If they had, either would be on their way or would have managed to have arrived before us,” Skirmisher said before hearing the shout from below though muffled. Helping Whirl with each piece of debris, Skirmisher hadn't minded the grinding and the tearing of metal if it had meant saving at least one more Cybertronian from going offline.

After a short time, the two mechs had managed to make short work of the twisted and torn bulkheads and girders before managing to zero in on the signal. Taking each piece of wreckage in hand from the twisted girders that had snapped like kindling to the eons charred bulkheads, the Praxian sat the debris aside before peeling away even more of the detritus before finally uncovering a black, white and muted purple Cybertronian beneath. 

“What's your name? Keep talking to me. We're not going to leave you here for the Scraplets,” the Praxian asked not talking down to his patient. Knowing the first thing any medic worth the Energon in their veins had been taught, Skirmisher had wanted to have kept the black, white and muted purple mech talking to keep the mech aware and tuned to them. Reaching with his right hand towards his own left flank beneath his left arm, the panels slid apart seamlessly revealing a concealed compartment and with his right hand took hold of a medical kit. The panels slid closed with the same care concealing the compartment from view. “Tell me anything you want,”

Scanning the Cybertronian with his own visor, Skirmisher had found the mech's medical readings had displayed on his own HUD and had set his scanners to seek out any problematic regions such as wounds, torn mesh or leaking fluids. Having found a few to say the least most likely from the impact of the crash or having been thrown into the canyon, the Praxian began clearing away the rest of the detritus to have made a far more stable clearing to operate in and to save the Cybertronian's life. Setting the med kit aside, he'd carefully flicked the locks opening the kit to reveal field surgical tools to first aid requirements including a few vials of oil or other adhesives along with a few vials of emergency Energon rations. While the kit's Energon rations hadn't been enough to have staved off the need for Energon in the long run, the rations had been enough for any medic or other mech or femme fortunate enough or unfortunate enough to have had a med kit to have stabilized a patient long enough for further more comprehensive medical treatment. Kneeling, the large Praxian had been better able to have viewed the distressed black, white and muted purple mech. He'd allowed the Ion Magnum to have remained concealed from view deep within that compartment, and had only produced the medkit.

There had been a strong nagging 'feeling' from his Sixth Sense, or rather what the humans had dubbed a gut feeling the Cybertronian hadn't been what one could have called an honest citizen. The sense, the Sixth Sense, had developed for him over the length of his career in the Praxian Enforcer Department and had saved his operational life on more occasion than not. The reasoning for his Sixth Sense to have alerted him had been based on the rusted and torn detritus of the remaining members of the Ark's hull to how the Cybertronian's limbs had lacked the rounded appearance from erosion that the surrounding detritus had shared. That alone hadn't been the only thing that had set his Sixth Sense off, with the other being how the black, white and muted purple Cybertronian had been buried beneath a mound of junk that had remained undisturbed until the activities of both Whirl and Skirmisher. He could have called out the Cybertronian based on those findings, but the Praxian hadn't been freshly forged the previous cycle and would wait to see if the Cybertronian incriminated himself.

[Windshield]

THUNK. The first wall had fallen.
 
THUNK. The second wall had fallen and then another one, and another one. One by one, something, someone, was getting closer. Windshield didn't believe it. The crazy plan to call for help from six feet under, as the humans would have it, actually worked. Help was coming. Then he realized: what if it wasn't help? 

What if it was an army of Scraplets chewing through the hull, slowly devouring everything in their path, going after the juiciest piece of metal aboard this shipwreck? That'd mean Windshield. He was the succulent piece of metal. Is this how it ends? Is Windshield to become one with the Allspark because of a Scraplet infestation?

THUNK. The last wall had fallen. Well, it weren't Scraplets and never have been. But arguably, the presence of two Autobots, one of which was Whirl may I add, was probably even worse. Windshield decided to feign death, albeit very unconvincingly, because the medic still approached him, and helped him. Why was an Autobot doing this? Doesn't he know? Oh. He doesn't. Windshield could use this to his advantage. He'd just wait for the bot to patch him up and then hit the road.


"What's your name?" The Autobot asked him. Windshield knew that dropping his name would probably ring a bell or two. Now, he can't have an Autobot operating on him discover that he's a Decepticon. So right about now, it was time for Windshield to do one of the things he does best: lie.

"My name is W... Wheel... Wheelstrut," Windshield winced in pain. Though he was lying about his name, the pain was real. He needed the medic's attention sorely. Despite the fact that an Autobot like this one would never abandon a patient over their allegiances, he knew a few Decepticon physicians who had the capacity for such. Names like Flatline and Knockout popped into his mind.

While the flier investigated Windshield's injuries, he could notice several small Energon leaks in his abdomen. Though they would have been minor wounds under normal circumstances, in this situation, they could've been fatal if Windshield was left leaking for another month or two. And that would most certainly happen if it wasn't for his would-be saviors.

Right about now, those injuries needed mending and Windshield required an Energon transfusion if he was to survive this day. Of course, none of that'd stop him from talking. He loved a good chat, even if he wasn't always telling the truth.

“Tell me anything you want,” The medic reassured his patient as he worked his magic. The problem here is, letting Windshield tell you anything HE wants is a terrible idea. Perhaps his new friend would learn that the hard way. Eventually, of course. Today was a miserable day to be uncovered by Autobots.

"I... I... There was an explosion, and then the Ark! It just blew up to tiny pieces! You, you are Autobots, right? Tell me the rest of us are alright," he feigned surprise, shock, and compassion. Very difficult emotions to convey, though Windshield didn't have much problem with that. In fact, he was living for the role of being an ill-fated Autobot.

[Deleted]

(for this time I will call 'Windshield' as 'Wheelstrut')

Whirl tilted his head in his typical birdlike manner at the Cybertronian, his singlular optic blinking slowly.

"Nice paintjob, Wheelstrut," he told the mech amicably. It was enough to put just a tiny twist of nervousness into the gut of somebody pulling a con. He scratched the side of his helm thoughtfully, "Da Ark's been lyin' around here fer a long time, buddy," he spoke in his most conversational tone.

While Skirmisher worked on 'Wheelstrut's' injuries, Whirl moved a few pieces around to give them some more room - eventually sinking onto one knee right next to 'Wheelstrut's' head, leaning over him so that at least for now, his face filled Wheelstrut's vision. Or at least his lack of face, and that creepy single optic. Former Empurata viction. You didn't need to know of Whirl to know that all Empurata victims were fucked up and if you did know about Whirl you'd know he was the most fucked up of them all.

And you couldn't read him. That cheery, friendly tone he used meant it was impossible to tell if he was suspicious

"You been here like, four-million years, man," he informed Wheelstrut, "Amazin' dat you've gone completely unnoticed. Bad luck, Ay?!" His words were chosen specifically, to calm the innocent but to make the guilty squirm, "Hard ta believe nobody ever noticed you was missin'. I knew a guy what was dat unobtrusive an' borin', nobody noticed if he was dere or not. Can't remember his name right now, though. Heh..."

He let out a cackle of laughter.

"Da name's Whirl. But..." he studied Wheelstrut's face, "I tink you might just know dat, Ay?" Whirl had been in and out of prisons multiple times in his life - most significantly Garrus-1, which had been packed with Decepticons and Decepticon sympathisers. The face was familiar somehow, but the name and body didn't match, making it hard to tell.

"Wow, so you was on da first Ark. Neatness. Real select crew, dat. I heard even da Waste Disposal bots needed clearance checks!" he chuckled. The faceless optic contrasted sharply with the cheerful statements spoken by an obnoxious voice, making Whirl incredibly hard to read. He continued to lean over Wheelstrut, "Sorry, buddy. Dey're all dead. It's just you, me, an' Skirmisher here. Da last three Cybertronians alive..."

Wheelstrut's optics widened as Whirl steamrolled on.

"So man am I glad ta see ya! I was gettin' pretty sick 'a tryin' ta repopulate da Cybertronian race with just Mitch!"

[Skirmisher]

“Wheelstrut?” Skirmisher asked, rhetorically. “You're very fortunate to have remained functional. I know it doesn't seem like much, but your internal safety measures activated and placed you into stasis-lock. These Energon leaks on your torso were superficial at one point in time, but over the duration of your stasis the seepage became worse. It's still not enough to insure operational failure, but it would be in as an estimated guess would have been a few mega-cycles,”

The response from the other Cybertronian had confirmed his suspicions, more from how the Sixth Sense had raised a few such concerns and the other had been from his own internal databanks which had cross referenced and analyzed the fluctuations in the Cybertronian's words similar to a polygraph used by the human law enforcement although with eliminated possibility of being fooled. The black, white and muted purple Cybertronian's attempts to lay concern for the Ark's original complement had been an attempt to throw otherwise valid suspicions out the airlock, or would have if it had been some other mech tending to the formerly pinned Cybertronian. Though there hadn't been any other sources of concern, at least those not yet raised, Skirmisher had only those few confirmations to have based his actions off of and being an Enforcer he'd known cases based entirely on assumptions had been far more likely to have been dismissed. Without acting on those assumptions, he'd allow Wheelstrut as the mech claimed to be or at least an alias to have continued thinking the two Autobots had been fools and to have incriminated himself in some other fashion.

Reaching into the medkit, he'd produced a small grease gun or what appeared as such and applied some of the hot oil -- hot to organic senses only -- to Windshield's joints having known joints from disuse would have atrophied. He'd applied the hot oil after he'd inspected the joints, and had sanded out or otherwise removed burrs or other impediments from the joints. He'd seen to the Energon leaks stemming from the Cybertronian's torso, and had used a plasma welder set on a comfortable setting to have sealed the leaks over. Finishing the application, he'd sat the grease gun back into the med kit and carefully held out one of the medical emergency Energon rations in hand for the other Cybertronian and held it to where Windshield could have handled it.

“This isn't much, but it should be enough to at least stabilize your systems for a little less than a cycle. You're going to require a full medical check-up, and diagnostic in addition to a more steady Energon intake,” he'd said.

“Thank you, Whirl, for making more of a clearing for us,” he'd said, appreciative of the fact.

[Windshield]

Windshield cringed painedly as the medibot sealed his wounds. He didn't think much of Whirl. After all, nobody ever did think much of Whirl. Except the last two sentences were a lie. Everybody thought quite a lot about Whirl. It was a long list of issues, grievances, annoyances, animosity, hate, and perhaps friendship in some rare cases. Of course, nobody ever actually said anything. Trying to have a go at Whirl was the last mistake of many Decepticons and even some Autobots. Windshield was not about to make that mistake.

No, instead of doing something incredibly stupid, Windshield, or Wheelstrut, depending on if you believe his words or not, sat there on his broken skid plate, and smiled haplessly at Whirl, whose attempts at some manner of Socratic irony amused him. Depending on the interpretation the smile could either mean Windshield was trying to ignore Whirl or that he felt like his antics are a non-threat. Truthfully, Windshield thought neither. He believed Whirl to be very intelligent and extremely dangerous. A smile just seemed like the best expression to cover up his feelings.

Skirmisher, one the other hand, he was up to something, or he knew something. In a cruel twist of fate, Windshield had much more success determining Whirl's identity over Skirmisher's. It seemed like Empurata didn't make Whirl quite the featureless closed book he was cracked up to be. He talked a lot. And Windshield could tell a good bit about him from just the way he did so. Skirmisher wasn't like that. He was calm, collected, and if he was suspicious of Windshield's charade, he didn't act upon it.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything," Windshield said compassionately. If this gratitude was fake, if it wasn't Windshield talking from the Spark, then he was an excellent liar. Yes, that Windshield most certainly was. But this sentence right here. It wasn't meant to be a lie. He genuinely commended his new, albeit temporary, friend. 

"Hard to believe I was almost a goner," he somberly added, "I hope the rest of the crew had better luck than me."

"I know, well, I think Whirl was joking about the last Cybertronians thing... But, but, just how many of us are gone? How many more died since I disappeared?" He asked, pretending to care about the Autobots' fate.

Windshield had an entire ocean of questions. Some of them were just meant to feed the flame of his little theatre, while he was genuinely interested in the rest. But he had to take it slow. Asking too many questions at once would raise suspicions even further. They were high enough already as it was.

After Mitch (Read: Skirmisher in Whirltongue) greased up Windshield's stiff, atrophying joints, welded the Energon leaks, and explained the criticality of the faker's condition, the entire structure shook violently. Small pieces of rock showered the mechs and clinked off their chassis before the tremors ceased.

"Uhm... Whirl, was it? Just how many walls did you break on your way here?"

Another, more destructive quaking was bound to tear the ship asunder. And it wasn't exactly far away from happening. There wouldn't be a better time to run. In fact, soon, there wouldn't even be the chance to run.

[Deleted]

"Billions," Whirl answered Wheelstrut's first question before Skirmisher could, in a matter-of-fact way, "Mechs built as cannon fodder. Mechs built ta die. Entire planets turned to graveyards. Mechs with a life expectancy of three minutes, airship ta ground. People become numbers an' den numbers become charts an' graphs an' vertices and finally, dose vertices become tactics. And after dat, da invention of da Protectobot and da Vehicon." (See ROTF Protectobot)

For once, Whirl was serious. He'd lost a lot of friends in the war, and it affected him just as much as anybody else, whether they believed it or not. He was crazy. He wasn't a monster.

Sometimes it had felt like they set up crack teams of Wreckers, trained them, and mentored them, just to watch them being blown apart.

He stood up, feeling uncomfortable at the outrush of honesty and mentally planning to blow it all off as a joke later.

"Walls?" there was another tremble, and he counted in his head, "Five rooms so... about six walls? Yeah, 'bout dat many. Plus rubble dat needed pushed aside. Quickest way here. It seemed like a... good idea... at da time..." he spoke slowly. The walls trembled slightly again. Uh-oh.

"Heh... so, uh, Mitch... how's da work goin' on Struts dere?" he asked Skirmisher casually, leaning on a metal pillar, "Comin' along pretty sweet, if you ask me..." The rusty pillar creaked under his weight, and he straightened up quickly as a small amount of debris pattered down on them.

[Skirmisher]

“Wheelstrut should be up about under his own power shortly,” Skirmisher said. Having known if he'd hurried, the quality and thoroughness of the welding and other first aid would have been far less than had been intended and as a medic -- even as an Enforcer he wouldn't have allowed it. Using the plasma welder, he'd continued welding the Energon leaks on Windshield's torso and other areas before having carefully welded his aft plate without even having moved the Cybertronian.

“Next time, Whirl, remember to follow the layout of the compartments and the flow of the hull. It'll prevent the hull from being more compromised than upon impact. I'll help remind you, and you'll help remind me of it. I haven't had to search through the wreckage of a ship that often,” he began as a chunk of deck plating from a bulkhead above bounced off of his helm before having slammed into the ground near his pedes. Without missing a beat and perhaps a sign of a practiced hand, the Enforcer having grown tired of debris and other detritus collapsing onto them raised his right arm above his helm and across both Whirl and Windshield. More from reflex than intent, or perhaps from intent, thick Cybertronian alloyed plates slid from his arm extending the full length from covering his right shoulder to extending coverage past his left shoulder and down past his right arm to cover both of the other mechs. The plating thickened, reinforcing itself with other plates that shifted into place including a few glacia creating a firm shelter from the falling debris. The concave form of the riot shield meant the sides, the flanks of the shield had curved towards the earth itself and created an improvised dome. With the shield in place, the Praxian continued his medical administrations. Thick armored plates had slid into place across, and along the back of the Praxian from helm to pede to protect his frame though the single one-way view solid riot protective face plate hadn't descended.

Allowing Windshield to ingest the first small emergency ration of Energon, the Praxian had carefully picked up with his left servos what appeared to have been a rather large hypodermic needle-gun designed to be hooked to the Energon lines within one of the Cybertronian's limbs to allow even that amount of Energon to enter their system. Setting the needle apparatus on the case, Skirmisher had reached for and had grabbed a second ration of the emergency Energon before carefully loading the vial into the back of the needle apparatus. Locking it in place, he'd plucked the apparatus up from where it lay on a corner of the medkit and slid gently into Windshield's left wrist between the palm of the hand and the lower forearm where one of the Energon lines had been located. Squeezing back on the needle-gun's trigger, he'd watched patiently as the emergency Energon contents fed through the Energon feed lines within the arm and filtered into the rest of Windshield's frame. The vial emptied within moments, and when it had the Praxian gently withdrew the needle-gun allowing the line to close and with his left hand packed the tools he'd used in the medkit before having locked the medkit closed.

“You should be fine, at least for now. I welded your aft plate back together. You shouldn't have any issue, but I wouldn't attempt to do cartwheels on it. The Energon should tide you over until you're able to undergo a diagnostic in a fully equipped medbay,” Skirmisher said. Reaching down, he'd slid the medkit back into the concealed compartment in his left flank beneath his left arm.

[Windshield]

"Same old story, I guess," Windshield mused over the losses. It was more like a passing thought, rather than something felt deeply. None of it mattered. At least not until Megatron's banners hung from the walls of Iacon, and until Decepticon peace enveloped all of Cybertron. Right now, there was no Cybertron to fight over, but Windshield believed that Megatron would find a way. It would all be worth it in the end. It must be worth it in the end.

But now was not the time to think about philosophy or to dream of a "better" future. Right now, it was the time to think about, well, now. Instincts told Windshield to run. Somebody would probably act upon them. Windshield couldn't allow that, even if the wreckage was about to collapse any moment now, he'd let the Praxian work.

The Decepticon winced in horror as the Energon injector closed in on him. Windshield hated needles. It didn't matter that they were supposed to help him. He wiggled and shook and yanked about for a good while, acting like a protoform. Luckily, this little tantrum didn't last. Windshield simmered down and let the medic continue, albeit he was still shivering slightly.

"Sorry," he chuckled, "these things scare the living Spark out of me. Been to some bad places with needles before. Met some bad people with them, too."

Once Skirmisher finished his job and thoroughly explained everything to Windshield, he was somewhat comforted. The Decepticon stretched his servos and quenched his hand into a fist. They were surprisingly functional given the recent events. Fair enough, these experiences weren't exactly hot news, but to Windshield, it seemed like he lived them just a few days ago.

"That's one piece of solid work, doc. Don't think I'll be needing that medbay," he joked. Even though it was lighthearted banter, Windshield wasn't twice thrilled to spend even an abysmal amount of time wherever the Autobots dwelled. The odds of being discovered grew with every passing moment. That didn't phase Windshield, and he'd still much rather avoid confrontation.

BOOM! Another quake set the rubble into motion. It wasn't quite as destructive as Windshield anticipated, but it was enough to collapse several of the hallways. More chunks fell onto the three mechs. This time, they were bigger. How fortunate that Skirmisher deployed his riot shield to protect them. But even that wouldn't hold forever, and quite frankly, Windshield wasn't very fond of getting trapped again.

"We have to get out of here!" He cried out and stood up with some difficulty. Skirmisher's job was well-done, but it couldn't account for cycles of disrepair. Still, Windshield would be able to run if the situation asked for it. He sure as hell hoped it wouldn't.

"Whirl, you punched your way in... Think you can punch our way out?" Windshield smirked.

[Deleted]

You couldn't meet two mechs more different than Whirl and Skirmisher. Good cop, bad cop - Whirl's crazed apparent incompetance versus Skirmisher and his outwardly calm, cool appearance. Some people might let their guard down around Whirl because he seemed to not know what he was doing. Others might let their guard down around Skirmisher, because he didn't act like he'd pull your head off.

Either way it was a bad idea.

Whirl didn't comment on how Wheelstrut had just claimed that emergency first aid had completely repaired him. It was, in his personal experience, the kind of thing a mech said when he wanted to dodge the med-bay. He should know.

Whirl looked around at the crumbling surroundings and tilted his head, "Da more walls I tear through, da faster dis place comes down," he mused, trying to think things through for a few seconds, "Also, my claws can't cut rock. On da other hand, I expect several million years in here leaves you thinkin' da place is just like home. Probably safer ta call up a Portal, even down here. Den we can get ya straight ta da med-bay an' have old Ratchet da Hatchet look over ya. You'll be in da base, surrounded by da best Autobots in da galaxy, and also Bluestreak, havin' all ya credentials looked over," he looped a 'friendly' arm over Wheelstrut's shoulders, "Ya ain't got a problem with dat, ri-"

He was cut off by another tremor.

"Or we could make a run for it," he added, un-looping his arm from Wheelstrut and looking around for an exit. There was a small gap in the rubble, and it was fortunate for Whirl that he was so skinny, because he fitted through it. The others didn't, but Whirl stayed on the other side, not running off and abandoning them but helping to enlarge the hole from the other side, tossing aside rocks and other rubble so that they could get through too.

[Skirmisher]

“A ground bridge here would only compromise the stability of the wreck further. It would be advised while the wreck is coming down that we punch through a few more bulkheads -- which my scanners detect the bulkhead directly behind you, Whirl, leads to the outside,” Skirmisher said, his processor forming an idea and ultimately a course of action. “Even if we were to call for a ground bridge, the time it took would allow the rest of the Ark to collapse around us. The act would be a violation of the Truce, with Wheelstrut -- if that is his name -- being allowed into the camp. It would be best if he were to seek out medical treatment or the rest of it in his camp's own medbay,”

Letting the panel in his left flank to slide open, a rack containing the Ion Magnum slid out before dropping the massive sidearm into the Praxian's left hand before the panel re-sealed on its own. Grabbing it firmly, the Praxian raised his left arm and taking aim carefully slid the index servo on his left hand across the trigger and fired. A phosphorescent bolt emanated from the barrel and as he'd aimed to a spot a safe distance from the spindly blue mech the opposing bulkhead that his crosshairs had targeted blew outward leaving a gaping hole large enough for the three of them to have fit through.

“Double time it!” Skirmisher shouted. Seeing Whirl release Wheelstrut - if that had been his name -- the Praxian slipped his left arm around Wheelstrut's torso or shoulder firmly and allowed his legs to have doubled as pistons propelling him to the side to follow Whirl outside and carrying the black, white and muted purple Cybertronian while keeping his right arm held high with the riot shield deployed at least to cover them from falling debris.