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.
Post by Windshield on May 23, 2018 15:38:48 GMT -5
Windshield nodded vacantly at Whirl. He'd have to think of a better lie for his Autobot alter-ego later. It was more important to get out of this mess, preferably in one piece and with the spark still beating. Considering Windshield survived worse already, he was feeling pretty confident about this situation. He wasn't underestimating it, but he was visibly brisker and more tact about it.
"You don't like doctors either, ay?" Windshield asked after the tremors, which previously interrupted Whirl's lengthy monologue, stopped. It was an attempt to reach out to the mech, to bond over something. It'd ease the suspicion. It worked with most Autobots. Unfortunately, Whirl was certainly not "most Autobots."
Then Skirmisher cleared a path for the two of them, snatching Windshield with him along the way.
"Hello!? A little warning next time?!" He snarkily hissed at Skirmisher. A playful smile covered Windshield's face. Alright, now it was time for serious mode again. They still had a long way to go to the surface, and it wasn't an easy way either.
"I'm just pulling your servo. Thanks for the lift, buddy," the would-be Autobot comforted Skirmisher and gave him a pat on the back. Maybe if Whirl and Mitch weren't so suspicious of Windshield, he'd be a good friend, or maybe if he wasn't trying to deceive them.
Perhaps he was a bit too amiable. That's what Windshield always imagined Autobots to be. A bunch of cuddle bugs with a poor understanding of Megatron's grand machinations. He'd do well to pick up a trick or two from Whirl's "hostile jerkass" book to make his fraud more believable.
Last Edit: May 23, 2018 15:41:41 GMT -5 by Windshield
"I don't like anybody," Whirl told Wheelstrut simply, "Doctors is no exception. Always pokin' and proddin, askin' "Does it hurt if I turn it dis way, Whirl" and "Hey, we can make ya shiny new hands if it'll make ya feel better, Whirl" and "Would ya like some sedatives ta go with your psychosis, Whirl"..."
Okay, it wasn't doctors he disliked. It was the actual profession. But Wheelstrut had asked and Whirl didn't elaborate on how serious he was.
Now that they were out of the first room they hurried along the corridors. Whirl was pretty strong - not strong like Bulkhead or Breakdown or Megatron. Any one of them would trounce him in a wrestling match down to the kerb. But his entire skinny body was a collection of levers. And once he'd got going, he had serious momentum. He lifted with his legs and tossed things aside easily with long arms.
They had come to a junction, and he paused for a few seconds, picturing the ship's innards in his head. There was no point in choosing a direction if they were just going to run into solid rock.
There was an ominous creak. The tremors were settling down now, but every time they moved forwards they had to disturb something, even as they passed through a former control room, stripped clean of anything useful or functional.
Whirl picked a corridor - one that had less rubble - and set off at a fair, loping pace along it. He wasn't so much leading as he was making it very difficult not to follow his direction. The walls were starting to buckle slightly. Millions of years had left them susceptible to the slightest disturbance.
There was a caved-in door ahead and he put a sensor to it, before peering through the cracks.
"Dis is da way out," he stated to Wheelstrut and Mitch, in a voice that sounded a lot more confident than he felt. But the air in that corridor was flowing differently, so it was definitely the way out. It had to be. They didn't have any other choice.
He started pulling rocks out of the way again, and as soon as the hole was big enough for him, wriggled through and continued clearing rubble from the other side like before.
He definitely felt suspicious of Wheelstrut. He didn't exactly rush to trust people, and all they had on this guy was his name and a total absence of explanation of what he was doing on a crashed Autobot ship. Autobots didn't leave their own behind so why had they left him?
It was the kind of question he actually quite liked because it meant that later there would be questions to ask and he'd get to do the asking.
"Come on guys! Last one out's a fine sheet 'a metal, crushed exactly 1mm thick!" he shouted through the hole to Wheelstrut and Skirmisher.
He glanced up. Directly above him, the ceiling was beginning to buckle. They couldn't rely on having much more than four or five more minutes before the ship was too contorted to actually get out - there was still the chance of the portal but it might bring the whole place crashing down around them.
Last Edit: May 24, 2018 10:22:28 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Skirmisher on May 25, 2018 22:22:22 GMT -5
“Go through the hole, Wheelstrut,” Skirmisher said, at seeing the gaping hole Whirl had managed to create.
The creaking and the groaning of the girders, and bulkheads surrounding them had been a sign that hadn't been able to have been dismissed that the part of the Ark they'd found themselves in had been on the verge of collapse. He'd have a better chance of surviving the debris than Whirl and Wheelstrut, but Skirmisher hadn't been about to test that theory. His frame had been heavily plated by thick Cybertronian reinforced alloy, but the notion of an entire section of a ship collapsing around him burying him under tons of scrap metal hadn't been something he'd been entirely thrilled about.
“Wheelstrut's going first, Whirl,” he'd shouted above the increasing din around them. A large chunk of debris, of overhead deck plating slammed into the ground behind the Praxian with enough force to have sent the Enforcer forward onto his knees. The chunk of overhead deck plating had seemed a catalyst prompting other chunks of the overhead deck plating to have fallen loose slamming first across Skirmisher's armored backside and a few other chunks slammed into the dorsal side of the riot shield. Squeezing through the hole following Wheelstrut, the Praxian felt a chunk of conduit slam into the dirt behind him the moment his pedes leaped through the hole. Dust from the impact billowed out through the hole, and around Wheelstrut's frame with room to spare. There hadn't been any doubt in his process he'd require a full oil bath, or at least shower after this ordeal once they'd arrived back at their camp. Though, the findings from his Sixth Sense hadn't been forgotten or dismissed and only raised his skepticism of the mech they'd retrieved from the wreck. Once outside, he'd extended his internal scanners to have swept the vicinity and the canyon lips for any activity either from the humans, from M.E.C.H., or from any other Cybertronians.
Last Edit: May 26, 2018 4:50:16 GMT -5 by Skirmisher
Post by Windshield on May 26, 2018 13:27:55 GMT -5
"I'm not sure anybody likes you either," he snapped back at Whirl, "You are prodding and nagging about as much as the doctors."
There was a certain air of sass in Windshield's voice. He was honestly kind of annoyed at this point. Whirl does tend to have that effect on people, and frankly, Windshield's alter-ego needed a bit more pepper in its characteristics. A bit of snark came in handy right about now, and he had plenty to spare.
"Don't suppose they told you that, Whirl. They are too afraid to admit it. But right now, I'm more worried about getting smashed by the collapsing walls than by you," Windshield added as Whirl assumed the lead in his whirly way.
They sped through the corridors quickly. Walls and pillars, and other structures caved in around them, behind them, and sometimes in front of them, only to be removed by the escaping trio. Well, mostly by Whirl, who was leading the way. Windshield didn't think much of Whirl's personality, but his usefulness was undeniable.
"Dis is da way out," Whirl confidently proclaimed. He started shuffling away rocks and then squeezed through a small creek. Windshield immediately jumped in on the opportunity to help him clear the rubble from his side.
Soon, the hole was large enough for Windshield to get out. Skirmisher pressed him to go first, so Windshield just nodded and did that.
CRASH! The final corridor reached critical instability. Skirmisher hadn't much time left. Rubble descended all over him, leaving only but a fraction of time for the bot to act.
"Take my hand!" Windshield urged the Praxian, holding out his hand through the hole for him to grab on. The Decepticon didn't do so out of compassion, or pity, or to repay Skirmisher's kindness. He did so because he knew it'd loosen the tension. Showing kinship to an Autobot was not an easy thing to do, but it felt oddly rewarding.
There. Freedom at last! The three of them made it out. Windshield's optics adjusted to daylight while Skirmisher scanned for possible activity within the region. Once the Decepticon could see the world around him, he took some time to appreciate it. It's probably not something other 'Cons would stop to do, but that's Windshield for you.
Windshield turned to Whirl and asked: "Does the rest of this rock look like this?" He brushed some rubble off his chassis.
"And... I suppose an apology is in place. Didn't mean to say that thing down there. Well, I did... but, didn't want to," He tried to make small talk while they recuperated.
"Apology accepted!" Whirl told Wheelstrut, in a manner that could only have been less convincing if he'd had a face to be extra bad at lying with.
He looked at the side of the mountain crumbling. It really was too much to hope, that nobody would notice it, "I meant for dat ta happen," he stated, more confidently than he felt.
He turned back to Wheelstrut, and looped a lengthy arm around the mech's shoulder, "And you," he told the so-called-bot, before looming in on him. At almost 30 foot, if there was one thing that mech could do, it was loom, "But I know I've seen your face," he spoke, completely serious. He tilted his head, trying to work out why the face was familiar but the mech was not.
"Oooooh..." he loosened his arm around Wheelstrut's shoulders slightly, as if he was handling something dirty. That warden, way back on Garrus-1. Primus but Whirl had hated that warden.
But Wheelstrut was not the name of the warden, nor was Wheelstrut the warden.
It wasn't like face transplants were difficult. Any backstreet surgeon could do it. There were just a few drawbacks though. First, your donor had to be fresh. Really fresh. Otherwise the facial nerves would atrophy in death and it would be impossible to attach them. Secondly, since nobody wanted to risk having some random ugly guy's face, chances were their donor was more of a 'donor'. And third, who the frag wanted to go through their life wearing somebody else's face anyway? Spies. Fugitives from the law. People on the run. Weirdos addicted to cosmetic upgrades.
To Whirl, the very idea was repugnant, and not just because it felt like 'selling out'. Benefiting from somebody else's loss? That was messed up.
The question 'so who are you really' was dismissed. It wouldn't get a satisfying answer. Whirl would rather know the lie. Lies showed you the shape of the truth.
He leant in again, not troubling to explain himself but once more looping his arm around Wheelstrut's shoulder, and pulling him close.
"Boy am I glad we found ya, Struts. Can't say I'm fond of enclosed spaces myself, Ay?" he chuckled, "Could've really gone bad, given another five minutes?"
“Apologies accepted. This is only one region on this planet. The rest of the planet contains multiple eco-systems, but the one we're currently in is the arid Southwestern region of the North American continent. You are in what the locals have deemed the State of Nevada, and we are north of the state of Arizona that contains three different climate zones ranging an arid desert zone in the Southern part to the more deciduous forests in the Central part and the northern plateaus known to experience snow at certain times of the year,” the Praxian explained, in response to Windshield's inquiry. “This planet contains a myriad of different eco-systems as varied as the regions on Cybertron,”
“Now that we are free of falling debris, there are a few questions I would prefer answered. What were your duties aboard the Ark? Who was your department head?” Skirmisher inquired. Following their escape from the wreck, he'd set his external scanners to have detected life or activity above them on the canyon lips and the nearby vicinity and his scanners had reported the three had been alone outside of a few desert rats or snakes.
“Given our presence on this planet, an alt-form is required in order to maintain covertness. The local dominant species known as homo-sapiens or humans have many among them that would see the presence of any species other than their own as proof of the many conspiracy theories that are abundance -- rampant even among their own kind. Additionally, there is an agency known as M.E.C.H. that would commit to any action to obtain, capture, and dissect those of our species to further their own agenda,” he'd explained.
Last Edit: Jun 1, 2018 20:38:10 GMT -5 by Skirmisher
Windshield weaseled himself out of Whirl's grasp. Despite his expression or lack thereof in Whirl's case, the Decepticon could tell that he knew. He could tell a lie from the truth, and he could also make sure a lie sounded like the truth. And what Whirl was saying was grievously insincere.
How much exactly did Whirl know? Well, Windshield was not sure and had to make a quick decision. Lie further? Tell the truth? Being the person he was, Windshield decided to go for a combination of both. After all, this little scam had to last only long enough for him to escape the Autobots and rejoin with his Decepticon brothers.
"Drop the act, Whirl. I can see I'm not fooling you and you sure as hell aren't fooling me," he scoffed.
"Garrus-1, the Warden, the Breakout. You remember that, right?" He asked rhetorically. Everybody knew where Whirl was and who he was. Whirl, the guy who was irredeemable even by prison standards, Whirl, the guy who killed and murdered because it was fun, or because it seemed appropriate. Windshield just needed to be sure he is telling just enough of the truth to make his situation seem more believable, less cookie-cutter, as the human idiom would have it.
"You remember this face as well, don't you? A scrawny little mech with the temper of a rabid Turbofox, and the demeanor of a starving Scraplet. He loved stomping all over helpless, disfigured freaks. Freakslike I used to be, freaks like you still are."
Suddenly, Skirmisher butted into the conversation: “Apologies accepted. This is only one region on this planet. The rest of the planet contains multiple eco-systems, but the one we're currently in is the arid Southwestern region of the North American continent. You are in what the locals have deemed the State of Nevada, and we are north of the state of Arizo—"
"Shut up!" Windshield barked back in frustration, interrupting Skirmisher.
Windshield realized that he was ranting and stopped himself from throwing more insults at his rescuers. He took a deep breath. There was an awkward, silent pause. He seemed panicked, sounded panicked, cornered even. At this point, not even Windshield could tell if he was still pulling an act, or if he poured his spark to Whirl. There probably was more than an ounce of emotional honesty there.
He simmered down and explained, "I took that face. I took it because I never want to forget what I went through. Isn't that why you keep yours? Isn't that why we Bots have to stick together?"
If this still was a stunt at all, it was the most convincing performance ever given.
Whirl tilted his head at Windshield's suggestion, his single optic narrowing, "Maaaaaybe," he spoke, his scratchy voice with a slow drawl to it.
Yeah, that scumbag warden was all kinds of slime. Always deliberately making bad matches for cellies... How could Whirl forget the Breakout? It was the day he'd joined the Autobots. Along with many other mechs, Optimus Prime had come to help contain the outbreak, and had offered Whirl a very simple choice; be an Autobot, or don't. Sometimes Whirl wondered if Optimus was aware that if Whirl hadn't joined the Autobots that day he'd have been slaughtered in the riot. Recruitment through forgiveness. A typical Prime tactic if there was one.
But then again, Wheelstrut had taken somebody else's face, and stealing was stealing, no matter how much you needed it. Stealing was just the worst, because if you let somebody off for stealing one thing, they'd start stealing other things. Things that were more important than the faces of people you were planning to kill anyway.
"Stickin' tagether..." he nodded slowly, not looking away from Wheelstrut for a second, and his claws clicked together slowly. Empurata was complicated. It always left different people feeling different ways, although in the end they all lost a lot more than just a face.
He stepped around Wheelstrut, making sure that the other mech didn't have an easy path to back out of. Sure, they were both Empurata victims, but that didn't mean he would go any easier on the suspicious mech. He had no intention of letting him just... run off. If the guy was a 'con, then one of two things would happen - he'd lock him up, or kill him.
Maybe two of two things.
"Don't grease yourself," he added, "I keep mine for more dan rememberin'. Dose glitches think dey took my face away... dey wanted in da end ta be makin' me into an object. So's people wouldn't think of me as a real person. It's up ta me ta make sure it don't end dat way. No matter what other people sez, or thinks, or even sees. I still remember who I am and what I deserve and what I gotta do, and dat's what's important."
He bent down over Wheelstrut's shoulder, looming somewhat.
"Da you need some remindin'?"
Last Edit: Jun 15, 2018 19:42:54 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Skirmisher on Jun 14, 2018 23:08:19 GMT -5
“You were bottling that in, weren't you?” Skirmisher asked, after the other mech's outburst. “I don't mind the occasional outburst. I expect it in fact,”
“I'd say that you could direct your anger at someone else, but you're already doing that. You have been redirecting it for deca-cycles and longer. I never allowed any that I arrested and sent to the Praxian Detention Center to undergo that same sentence. You've come to accept the face as your own. I won't argue,” the Enforcer continued, shifting his weight from his left pede to his right. "We all lost something from this War, whether from a city, a planet to one's own face. I'd say you'd get over it, but I get the feeling you wouldn't care to hear that. You've made up your mind or you wouldn't have claimed the Warden's face as your own if I'm hearing correctly,"
“You've been traumatized. You've had those that like Whirl thought the sentence of incarceration, and atonement through therapy or otherwise had been too lenient. I will not even imagine what goes through your processors on the subject. It may be of little comfort, but if I had any control -- any knowledge over it the sons of a glitches that did that would...well, it is said Justice is blind. It is impartial. It has to be," the Praxian explained. Although, he had the feeling that Wheelstrut or whatever his name had been had heard it before or rather hadn't been in the mood to have heard it. He'd said it anyways, so that it would be out there and maybe cause the other mech to find some comfort at least. "For that Cult, for those mechs that supported that kind of ritual were more guilty than those they sentenced. There was an old axiom, never anger a Praxian. The twin moons of Cybertron couldn't hide one who did. A little poetic, I know. I'm not a poet, unfortunately. I'm sorry that had to happen, Wheelstrut and I'm sorry it had to happen to you as well, Whirl. One's helm doesn't have to be perfect as long as it keeps one's processor operating,”
“We might wish to move before some random human comes along. I've observed humans in this region enjoy to hike, and camp along these canyons,” he'd say. His scanners continued having swept the canyon lips, to the foothills and even the air above them to a certain degree.
Last Edit: Jun 14, 2018 23:08:49 GMT -5 by Skirmisher
Post by Windshield on Jun 20, 2018 11:40:44 GMT -5
Windshield straightened and puffed his chest. He was a little, insignificant thing compared to Whirl. He was also a Decepticon sleazebag with a questionable moral code and without a drop of honor in his processor.
Yes, he lacked all of these qualities that made an Autobot, but he was very prideful all the same.
It's true that in the past, Windshield knew how to pick his fights, he knew when to back off. That's how he survived in the sewers, that's how he survived the revolution, Garrus-1, and even the Great War.
The, in one instant, Windshield suddenly threw all of his caution, bravado, and bootlicking out of the window. He'd face Whirl head-on. After all, conventional approaches wouldn't work on somebody like Whirl.
"Do you want to punch me Whirl? Do you want to beat me senseless? Maybe you will stop once I go offline? Maybe you will keep going? Yes?" Windshield taunted. His voice was oddly calm, at peace, even.
"Go ahead, take it out on me. You're just gonna prove the Functionists right and the two of us wrong," Windshield kept going.
"But if you want to be treated like a person, Whirl, not an object, not a beast—then start acting like it."
Trying Whirl's patience like this was a big gamble. The Decepticon realized that he was putting his neck on the line by doing what he just did. He knew that Whirl would either simmer down or lash out.
All of what he said was measured twice. It was a do-or-don't situation for Whirl. It had to be. Truthfully, Windshield had no way of telling. It was a bet, a shot into the dark. But he can't let Whirl know that, can he?
Then, as Skirmisher spoke, Windshield realized just how naive he was. Yes, Skirmisher was insightful and intelligent, and he figured something fishy was amiss, but he truly had no clue how deep this rabbit hole went. This comforted Windshield and gave him confidence.
If Whirl decided to attack, Mitch would be there to put a quick stop to the rampage. Yes, there was no way he'd let Whirl brutalize Windshield.
Primus, there is no way that outdated piece of police equipment is gonna let me die. I have him wrapped around the finger. He thinks I'm a victim, he thinks copter boy over there is a victim. Good grief, Windshield comforted himself, giving no thought to the risk of failure.
The last time Whirl had been a semblance of his original, calm, and moderated personality, had been that moment he had been slammed onto the operating slab in that back street, and strapped down, and heard the surgeon bemoan that he was out of anaesthetic. Shortly after that, something had twisted up and while he still knew how to act rationally, it was hard to want to. He could go from amicable in the morning, straight to suicidal by lunchtime. He now had less self-control than a sack of weasels and considered the word 'patience' to be on a par with the word 'boring'. But although people assumed, and with good reason, that he was easily provoked, it rarely happened in quite the way they imagined, partly because being filled with self-loathing didn't make Whirl any less perceptive.
"Ya wanna angry me up, huh?" he asked Wheelstrut, "Ya angry me up and den ya think ya can talk me down. Ya think ya know me? First ya talk like I need an excuse before I'll hit a guy, and den like ya think I'm dumb enough ta believe people're ever gonna treat me like a person again?!"
He didn't need Wheelstrut to get him angry. He could do it himself just fine. His optic narrowed into a slitted glare.
"But if you're askin' fer a beatin', who am I ta disappoint?!" he asked, his arms wide in a theatric shrug, "I mean, it's what I do, huh?! It's who I am now, right?!"
Before Skirmisher could make a move to stop him, he brought his claw around at Wheelstrut's jaw in a back-hand. It was a pretty impressive move and the only down-side was that it couldn't happen in slow-motion.
WHAM.
Whirl's lanky arms weren't as strong as some other mechs, but they had something else - momentum and reach that resulted in a strike with enough force to knock the far smaller Wheelstrut right off his feet and skidding back a good twenty feet.
He approached quickly and stepped on Wheelstrut's right arm and crouched down close, "Do ya know why I like hurtin' people, Struts?" he asked the mech softly enough that Skirmisher couldn't hear, "I do it so's better people'n me don't hafta. My claws get dirty so dat dere's can stay clean. Which is why, when I start, I ain't gonna stop."
He grabbed Wheelstrut by the neck and lifted him up, then slammed him face-first against a large rock, slamming up against him hard enough to make a mark in the cliff-face.
"Not without a fraggin' good reason," he snarled in the mech's audio.
Last Edit: Jun 21, 2018 11:36:09 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Skirmisher on Jun 21, 2018 13:03:35 GMT -5
“Your designation isn't Wheelstrut, is it?” Skirmisher asked, his internal polygraph if it could be called. The human's definition, term and application of the polygraph had been a loose definition at best, since Skirmisher's internal programming -- that particular one -- hadn't been able to be fooled. It could detect the fluctuations, the variations even the subtle and inaudible ones contained within a Cybertronian's speech patterns. This ability had only reinforced the findings his 'sixth sense' had alerted him to and while the black, purple and white mech's outburst after being retrieved from the wreckage hadn't helped his case leading to self-incrimination, it had been enough for Skirmisher to have worked from. The Praxian with that confirmation could have dropped the naive facade he'd held to, and while the Enforcer's code had been the largest influence it had also been one of the few things that had kept him from snapping.
Before he'd been able to have acted out on the revelation that this Wheelstrut had been lying from the start and while Skirmisher had left him open for self-incrimination, the spindly blue much whose frame belied raw strength and even more deep seated anger backhanded the other mech striking the jaw and proceeded with his lanky limbs to have first pinned the mech's right arm beneath his pedes. The Praxian watched the spindly blue mech Whirl crouched over Wheelstrut or whatever the mech's name had been before taking him by the neck and lifted the mech's torso off the ground.
“I would come clean. You've incriminated yourself. The only option you have, that I would recommend, is to come clean. While we can't take you in front of a Magistrate, it would be best to at least come clean for your own sake,” the Praxian said, stepping closer to the two mechs. “Whirl, we have the Truce to abide by,”
“I would count yourself fortunate,” he'd said, turning his attention to the black, purple and white mech. "We cannot overstep the Truce between the two camps. Any hostile actions can be perceived as in violation of the terms and conditions of it. Let him up, Whirl. I don't doubt the hostility between the two of you is justified, but we have an obligation,” He'd known mechs to have suffered from traumatic-stress, either War related, accident related, or even from incarceration and now had witnessed first hand Empurata-induced stress by having observed the two other mechs. In another time and place, he might have allowed it to have progressed. He'd known other Enforcers, and even civilians that had intervened in violent exchanges between neighbors or those of opposing rival political factions to those that had protested in the streets for one cause or another. Those mechs had either experienced a hacked off limb, gouged or cracked optics or severed spinal struts. While on Cybertron the notion of being able to go to a repair bay or a surgical suite to have one's own limb or optic replaced or re-attached, such facilities hadn't existed on Earth outside of the medical bays of both the Omega Outpost and he had to assume in the Decepticon's own camp. Unfortunately, the place the three had found themselves in had been Earth and both camps had found themselves bound by the limitations and conditions of a Truce. “If you're still functioning, we will have to return you or at least let you contact someone from your camp. You are not an Autobot. That much is clear from the stress you placed on that lie, and from how your physiology altered as you tried to pass it off as legit,”
Last Edit: Jun 21, 2018 13:05:57 GMT -5 by Skirmisher
Post by Windshield on Jun 21, 2018 16:07:42 GMT -5
Windshield wasn't strong. If Whirl decided to punch him and toss him around, he'd be punched and tossed around. It was a simple cause-and-effect relationship between Whirl's "fists" and Windshield's face.
If he was healthy, maybe he'd be at least fast enough to dodge and stab Whirl in the back. Something backhanded like this was in Windshield's processor. It was almost hardwired into it. But that wouldn't work, he thought. Whirl is almost just as fast I am. At least for now.
Luckily, Windshield had one last trick up his sleeves. It was an ancient Decepticon tactic that proved useful during the Great War. It never failed him.
Suddenly, he stood up, puffed his chest again, answering no questions. For a while, he just stood there, looking like he was ready to cave in and give up. Whirl was still surely itching to throw more punches after strangulating Windshield, tossing him around and making him into a punching bag.
So, there was only one last tactic Windshield could execute to save his sorry chassis. He turned around and...
...RAN!
As fast as his battered body would allow him, Windshield decided to skedaddle. Once he was outside of Whirl's punching distance, he tossed his body onto the rocky ground and transformed into his vehicle mode.
Safe to assume that if humans were to see this thing rolling up the highway, the secrecy of Cybertronian life on Earth would be put into jeopardy. It's probably a good thing that there are none for miles.
The fact that Skirmisher said something about a truce didn't cross Windshield's mind. They were just three bots in a deserted area with almost no signal. And two of those bots wanted each other at death's door. At times like these, it doesn't matter what the big rigs in charge say.
"Truce? Good grief, how dumb do you think I am?" Windshield snapped back at the Autobots as he rolled away speedily.
"Yeah, how stupid d'ya tink he is, Mitch?" Whirl asked Skirmisher, giving the mech a Look. If he'd had a face it would have been a particularly unpleasant glare - of course it was very difficult to tell, especially since Skirmisher hadn't known Whirl for long. He broke into a run. Kind of a run.
The method for transformation-to-flight was significantly different between Rotaries and Seekers, specifically down to their method of ascension - thrust versus vertical lift. Whirl preferred free-fall like an albatross, but they weren't on a cliff right now.
Whirl didn't actually run very quickly in bipedal mode. He had a long, loping stride that didn't accellerate well, and it took almost ten seconds to get up to speed, and then he dropped to running on all fours like a beast for a few more seconds, various gears and cogs clicking into place extremely rapidly, the process making him look almost like he had run into his alt-mode.
Flying about ten feet off the ground, he was now pursuing Windshield, who had a good headstart and the advantage of none of the limitations of an Earth Alt right now. And also he didn't believe in the truce. Of course Whirl didn't really believe in the truce either.
Why not shoot him, after all? If you let him go he's just another gun for when they are finished reloading. And everybody expects you to be the one to do it anyway.
Damn voices.
It's not like you'd be disappointing anybody. You'd be fulfilling their expectations. You're so fragged up, they wouldn't even kick you out, they'd say, oh, it's just what Whirl does. And if you do it, nobody else has to do it. Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't feel guilty.
And I'll make sure you do.
Shut up, okay?
Listen, there will be people who will be disappointed.
Ha! Name one.
Okay, okay, I don't wanna name one in case I'm wrong, but what if I'm right?
In case you're wrong? You're always wrong! I mean seriously, Mister Twice-Voted-Most-Likely-To-Turn-Decepticon? Stop tryin' ta appeal ta my last vestiges of conscience and shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!
If Whirl had been in base mode, he'd have been on his knees and clutching his helm right now. The worst part about the voices in his head arguing was that they both had good points and it tore him up inside.
"SHUT UP!!! NOBODY CARES WHAT I DO!!!" Whirl screamed at the voices in his head, his flight pattern wildly erratic as he pursued Windshield, his vocals still on open transmission.
See, this is what happens when you stop hurting. You get us instead. Serves you right for trying to be happy.
Post by Skirmisher on Jun 27, 2018 19:43:13 GMT -5
“Adam-Two-Six, Skirmisher Actual, to Omega Outpost Actual, request assistance. Current coordinates are...” the Praxian Enforcer relayed through the encrypted frequency back to the Omega Outpost Command Center. “Situation has deteriorated,”
“Myself and Officer Whirl found an individual mech under the wreck of the Ark, buried under rubble and medical treatment had been administered. The individual had been identified, but falsified information and designation as Wheelstrut. This designation had been falsified, and actual designation has not been determined. The individual mech has fled following an explanation of the Truce, with Whirl in pursuit and something must be amiss. Whirl has encountered a problem. This Unit cannot continue pursuit of the mech with the false designation of Wheelstrut if Whirl is to be intercepted before impacting the local terrain. Assistance is requested. This frequency will remain open,” he'd relayed, knowing any solid line to his Precinct or in this case the Omega Outpost could have meant a live update rather than a delayed one. “Caution. Individual may be confused. Individual's appearance....” he'd relay Windshield's appearance, as per Praxian Enforcement Protocol. While he could have decided to have forgone the Protocols and Procedures of the Praxian Enforcement since his retrieval from his shuttle, he'd opted to have maintained and adhered to it more out of those Protocols being among the last elements remaining from Praxus. If he hadn't, he'd known he would certainly have lost it. “Medical Priority. Whirl's losing it. I repeat, Whirl is losing it,”
Taking a running start rather than assuming his alt-form, Skirmisher had known if he'd attempted to have intercepted or caught Whirl while in his alt-form both would have crashed. Keeping his external scanners to have maintained a wide perimeter for any human or Decepticon or even Autobot activity, the Praxian took off with his pedes pounding the desert and stone floor. He'd raced after the other rotary mech keeping in mind that where he'd seen Whirl having approached the ground hadn't been where he'd wind up.
“Whirl, can you hear me? Talk to me,” he'd say, over an encrypted frequency he'd directed towards the spindly blue mech. “Talk to me, buddy,” He'd intended to have caught the errant, and troubled rotary mech in his arms to have slowed his impact against the terrain and to have spared him from it.
Last Edit: Jun 27, 2018 19:44:04 GMT -5 by Skirmisher