[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Overdue [Open]
Feb 4, 2020 22:30:37 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 4, 2020 22:30:37 GMT -5
Ep. 3 | Week 1 | Day 7
Dusk
Maine
They were living it up. Several years in relative solitude not spent skulking about the Nemesis. Many years of not being hard pressed to offer up any info or advantages over the Autobots. Their leave of absence was the extended vacation they did not know they needed. The twins could do what they pleased. There was no reporting for duty. No being gawked at. Perhaps the only issues that presented themselves were the humans, but those could very easily be done away with.
They were easily done away with.
Tucked away in deep forests and nestled by a river, sat a nearly dilapidated warehouse. The dirt road leading up to it had overgrown with brush a few years prior. The disrepair starting only because the original occupants had fallen prey to Switchfoot's horrid curiosity. What remained of them now was a few skulls among others and whatever pieces had drifted downstream.
In the warehouse existed many peculiarly organized piles, mainly the bony remains of organics, primarily sorted by structures. Interspersed between the piles were mechanical pieces scavenged from human transports and crudely discarded. It was an impressive hoard, albeit a disturbing one. What truly set it aside from the dens of despicable humans, was the contents stashed beneath the floorboards. A hollowing in the ground that bore the faintest of blue glows; a private stash of energon.
One where ration protocols could go frag themselves.
A jaunty tune echoed through the back woods, any hints of a mechanical tinge absorbed by the greenery. Swansong and Switchfoot had returned from their daily flight of picking up video signals and scavenging. Draped over their shoulder plates was a blue tarp, a bovine carcass stashed within. It was a fun find for Switch- the horns had always intrigued them.
To the twins it would have been a fine day like any other, but those with olfactory sensors had come to ruin it. With no such sense thanks to their disfigurement, it came to a surprise that the scent of decay existed and therefore could be carried off by pesky winds. Meddling teens had followed their noses hoping to snap shots of roadkill to show off to their peers. They found more than they wished to.
Now a wash of red and blue lights danced through the landscape, casting long shadows in the set of the sun. Draped around the clearing were ribbons of yellow tape. People of authority spoke with an edge into their comm equipment about sadists and freaks.
The twins with their crimson bio lights at a dim, bristled at the latter term but kept hidden deep within the tree line. It was not the first time police had happened upon their dwellings; typically an issue of minor annoyance.
This time it was different.
'My servos are in there.' Switchfoot's voice cut into Swan's helm. It bore a hint of worry, something that could only ever be picked up upon on the internal link. They shifted their weight, lowering their salvaged prize to the ground. It was better not to be caught in the act of vulturing.
'And why is that my problem?' The silent response was distracted, the speaker's lens focusing on the bovine that they prodded with a pede.
'Why?' Static popped into the inquiry. 'Those are our last pair of servos. All the others were lost in scenarios like this.' Their form began to sink further away from the flashing lights; a hard task to carry out with their height.
Swansong did not respond for a few steps, an inaudible whir suggesting they were still mulling over the response. 'Still not really my problem. Your case is weak.' At that the oddity began to stall in its gait, motions repeating themselves only to 'jump' over the next bit in animations.
'Fine. Onto the secondary issue. Our energon store is in there. We will not make it to our next stash in time. We will run out of our current reserves.' Swan simply stared back blankly, a very easy emotion to accomplish. It was their only one. 'To put it plainly; we will starve. Go offline. That grand finale you obsess over.'
'Grand?' Their motions smoothed over as they continued in retreat. A bark of laughter cracked out of Swan's vocalizer, prompting a shared flinch. 'That's pitiful at best.' The retreat began to reverse only to be met with more stalling. 'Why not just take the squishies out? It's an easy task.'
'Have you not been paying any processing power to the flicks we stream? Human government always win against the alien invaders. We. Are. The. Aliens!' A hiss closed off Switchfoot's statement, and a forced jerking of their shared frame continued the path back into the wilderness.
'Hmph. So what then, do you suggest? It certainly won't be any fun- you always take that away.'
'This.' There was an internal whine as Switchfoot switch audio channels. This was a thing they much rather did not want to do. ::H--ling th- Nems--:: After having gone actual years without using their artificial vocalizer, it proved there was a slight malfunction in sound generation. The partial transition ended with yet another static laced crack.
The twins did not yet know of the warship's watery fate.
' 'Suppose you'd need servos to fix that.' Another bark of laughter was issued before remembering they were trying to be discreet. Swansong had the courtesy to continue the transmission. ::Unit Swansong and Switchfoot reporting. Requesting immediate collection at our coordinates.:: Both helms flinched at a whining pitch that suggested some form of awryness with the Nemesis' telecom systems. ::It's a sign. Oh scrap!:: Swan quickly switched off the call after realizing it was still active during the minor aside.
Switchfoot switched channels to the public con line. ::Unit Sw-n and Swi---request-- - bridge. Ple--- -spond.:: That mechanical voice strained greatly in an attempt for coherence. Now the game was to keep hidden and in motion, and to hope for a merciful retrieval.
Dusk
Maine
They were living it up. Several years in relative solitude not spent skulking about the Nemesis. Many years of not being hard pressed to offer up any info or advantages over the Autobots. Their leave of absence was the extended vacation they did not know they needed. The twins could do what they pleased. There was no reporting for duty. No being gawked at. Perhaps the only issues that presented themselves were the humans, but those could very easily be done away with.
They were easily done away with.
Tucked away in deep forests and nestled by a river, sat a nearly dilapidated warehouse. The dirt road leading up to it had overgrown with brush a few years prior. The disrepair starting only because the original occupants had fallen prey to Switchfoot's horrid curiosity. What remained of them now was a few skulls among others and whatever pieces had drifted downstream.
In the warehouse existed many peculiarly organized piles, mainly the bony remains of organics, primarily sorted by structures. Interspersed between the piles were mechanical pieces scavenged from human transports and crudely discarded. It was an impressive hoard, albeit a disturbing one. What truly set it aside from the dens of despicable humans, was the contents stashed beneath the floorboards. A hollowing in the ground that bore the faintest of blue glows; a private stash of energon.
One where ration protocols could go frag themselves.
A jaunty tune echoed through the back woods, any hints of a mechanical tinge absorbed by the greenery. Swansong and Switchfoot had returned from their daily flight of picking up video signals and scavenging. Draped over their shoulder plates was a blue tarp, a bovine carcass stashed within. It was a fun find for Switch- the horns had always intrigued them.
To the twins it would have been a fine day like any other, but those with olfactory sensors had come to ruin it. With no such sense thanks to their disfigurement, it came to a surprise that the scent of decay existed and therefore could be carried off by pesky winds. Meddling teens had followed their noses hoping to snap shots of roadkill to show off to their peers. They found more than they wished to.
Now a wash of red and blue lights danced through the landscape, casting long shadows in the set of the sun. Draped around the clearing were ribbons of yellow tape. People of authority spoke with an edge into their comm equipment about sadists and freaks.
The twins with their crimson bio lights at a dim, bristled at the latter term but kept hidden deep within the tree line. It was not the first time police had happened upon their dwellings; typically an issue of minor annoyance.
This time it was different.
'My servos are in there.' Switchfoot's voice cut into Swan's helm. It bore a hint of worry, something that could only ever be picked up upon on the internal link. They shifted their weight, lowering their salvaged prize to the ground. It was better not to be caught in the act of vulturing.
'And why is that my problem?' The silent response was distracted, the speaker's lens focusing on the bovine that they prodded with a pede.
'Why?' Static popped into the inquiry. 'Those are our last pair of servos. All the others were lost in scenarios like this.' Their form began to sink further away from the flashing lights; a hard task to carry out with their height.
Swansong did not respond for a few steps, an inaudible whir suggesting they were still mulling over the response. 'Still not really my problem. Your case is weak.' At that the oddity began to stall in its gait, motions repeating themselves only to 'jump' over the next bit in animations.
'Fine. Onto the secondary issue. Our energon store is in there. We will not make it to our next stash in time. We will run out of our current reserves.' Swan simply stared back blankly, a very easy emotion to accomplish. It was their only one. 'To put it plainly; we will starve. Go offline. That grand finale you obsess over.'
'Grand?' Their motions smoothed over as they continued in retreat. A bark of laughter cracked out of Swan's vocalizer, prompting a shared flinch. 'That's pitiful at best.' The retreat began to reverse only to be met with more stalling. 'Why not just take the squishies out? It's an easy task.'
'Have you not been paying any processing power to the flicks we stream? Human government always win against the alien invaders. We. Are. The. Aliens!' A hiss closed off Switchfoot's statement, and a forced jerking of their shared frame continued the path back into the wilderness.
'Hmph. So what then, do you suggest? It certainly won't be any fun- you always take that away.'
'This.' There was an internal whine as Switchfoot switch audio channels. This was a thing they much rather did not want to do. ::H--ling th- Nems--:: After having gone actual years without using their artificial vocalizer, it proved there was a slight malfunction in sound generation. The partial transition ended with yet another static laced crack.
The twins did not yet know of the warship's watery fate.
' 'Suppose you'd need servos to fix that.' Another bark of laughter was issued before remembering they were trying to be discreet. Swansong had the courtesy to continue the transmission. ::Unit Swansong and Switchfoot reporting. Requesting immediate collection at our coordinates.:: Both helms flinched at a whining pitch that suggested some form of awryness with the Nemesis' telecom systems. ::It's a sign. Oh scrap!:: Swan quickly switched off the call after realizing it was still active during the minor aside.
Switchfoot switched channels to the public con line. ::Unit Sw-n and Swi---request-- - bridge. Ple--- -spond.:: That mechanical voice strained greatly in an attempt for coherence. Now the game was to keep hidden and in motion, and to hope for a merciful retrieval.