[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Off Record [Closed] Dec 16, 2019 1:51:22 GMT -5
Post by Optimus Prime on Dec 16, 2019 1:51:22 GMT -5
Episode 3 | Week 1 | Day 2
So much had changed, yet everything was the same.
The War wages on, hindered for only a moment, stalled for only the briefest of flecks among the grand scheme of things. The Truce was never going to be everlasting, Optimus held no illusions it would pan out in such a way, but it was so trivial, so useless. It did nothing but hurt his team, cause undue stress, and permitted the Decepticons an opportunity to try to kill them unobstructed. His team... it was a miracle any of them survived the ordeal. Boulders cascading down from the ceiling, crushing forces that could overwhelm even the strongest of individuals, Optimus himself was put under great strain, trying to hold the rocks at bay while instructing rescue to seek others first who may not be so lucky.
Javelin would be safe; she had the table to protect her even if part of it had damaged her leg. It would only be he who would be overwhelmed should his systems struggle too long. They would eventually find her and pull her to safety even if the rest of the ceiling came crushing down. Thankfully such an outcome did not occur, but the long grueling hours of enduring the collapse gave him a lot of time for his processor to churn in retaliation. A deep dark part of him wished to just relent to all the rage that was building up and swear to kindle a violent upheaval in the ranks and a far more aggressive push back that the Decepticons would never expect to occur under his guidance and merciful rule.
But he couldn't let such a thing occur.
He couldn't become that which he fought, or there would be no point to this war at all.
Optimus sat down within his quarters, absently looking across what had become of his living space.
With the boost in moral and supplies, they were all permitted to expand the base to an extent. Update and improve some of their Cybertronian tech, try to work on acquiring supplies to aid the Medical Bay, while also fixing up some of the lower rooms. Part of this were some upgrades to Optimus' living arrangement towards the furthest corner of the base. It felt odd to have something unique, something that could be seen as 'better' than his followers. The Prime preferred in some ways having the same room any one of the others could be stuck in, to show he was like them and not befitting of grandiose things simply for who he was... but... it was horribly impractical...
Optimus needed space to plan things, a table to lay documents and maps out without being disturbed. He required a broader system of monitors attached to the terminal that webbed all the way to the Control Room's databases so he could scan over more than what a single array was capable of. He needed space where he could have one on one meetings with others who he had to reprimand and speak to without eavesdroppers able to listen in, corrupting the trust of someone being able to open up and be honest should they have been seeking help. All of this was needed, while not having his actual recharge table and few possessions he labeled valuable exposed to sully the meeting area with personal belongings.
It felt awkward, it felt surreal. It reminded him back when the War was kicking off and it seemed expectant he should be given the 'finest' things due to rank while others had to scrounge at the scraps. He never believed in that, never condoned it, but it was there. Alas, this was valuable in some ways, able to separate work from what chances he did have to try to relax and recuperate. As such, the room was now expanded from what it once was, a sort of modest meeting area with a terminal, desk, and a couple chairs and basic storage, while a door lead back to a small corner of an area to lay his berth. The ceiling and floor looked patchy, the rough surface of the room that had once been there now expanded, a sharp discolored line to frame it out while the same was applied to the ceiling. Up above, there was a ragged warped surface, metal plates bolted down to conceal whatever lay beyond.
Cyan optics glanced over this ceiling damage, thinking back to what had occurred briefly, before his gaze shifted back down to the maps that were scrawled out on his desk, printed upon comparatively thin paper that would be so easy to tear and destroy should he not act with care. As such, dark squared off fingertips delicately traced over it to try to keep it flat, looking over the topographical data and a few markers pinned down to notify additional details and thoughts. Glyphs sketched here or there, trying to plan, trying to consider when the most opportune time would circle around once again.
Whatever the case, Ratchet would undoubtedly be arriving soon, so he found it difficult to truly invest himself into the plan when he knew it would be interrupted at any given moment. Derailed from any train of thought he could start to slide down. He was due for a medical report about things that were going on around the base, a report on any needs, as well as one on the residents themselves so Optimus knew who was injured or shouldn’t be put on a mission from who knows what nonsense they got up to behind his back. Because of this, he found his hand lifting off the table to absently smear down along his faceplate, the map rolling back up part way as the poster paper protested being flat.
It was good Ratchet would be making his way over.