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.
Carbine lets out a loud snorted laugh after being read the headline.
"Sh͏-̵sh̢it̶ty humans trying to use͝ w̨ea̕t̀her for mass murder? How lazy is that? Pu̴ll ͜ǫu͞t ͞your fuckin' guns and d-d-o it yourselves you someho͟ẃ ͠vi̕olently pacifist and equally aggre̛ss̢i̴v̴e shitheels..."
He crosses arms across chest.
"Th̴-th-t̢hey don't even weather a ḱk̛źz̡t̡kz͢t ̨have con̵t̛rol̕ ͡sy͝stem..."
Patch looked down at the article a moment… Then another. Then a roll of her lips, as she looked to the room. After a pause, and a huff of a laugh, in a quiet, cautious voice, with shifting optics and a soft smile, she ventured “W-.... What’s ‘Mara-Jauna’?”
An innocently confused, open mouthed smile at the others in the room as she huffed a laugh. Patch knew something was funny. It was KILLING her that she didn’t know what it was, but APPARENTLY there was a joke. The young femme’s attention suddenly Locked down onto the first person to snicker. “What is it!?” Both servos flew out to either side of her. Headline still clasped in her right as a bout of laughter slid right through her apparent aggressive annoyance.
With an attempt to twist the smile away from her lips, the young femme shook her helm, smacked the news article back down from whence it came and chuckled “Frag you guys…” In a mock huff, Patch left the room, still struggling to wipe the grin from her features.
He'd read over the headlines brought up on one of his Data PaDDs, originally from a snapshot of an actual Newspaper -- a product of condensed wood pulp the locals on the Planet used for everything from writing to currency, trading and bartering to even in some regions as material in their homes.
"Homicide Victims..." the Enforcer began.
That hadn't entirely surprised him that the Victims of any crime, especially the more emotionally and physically traumatic would be as tight lipped to the Police as they would their own co-workers or neighbors. He'd seen it thousands of times, perhaps more than he would have cared to have admitted and he still hadn't been one to have blamed those Victims. Trauma took many forms, and always resulted in a rather well-documented factor in those that Survived such things known as Survivor's Guilt. He'd experienced his own Survivor's Guilt, as well as perhaps those others that had survived the destruction of their home city. There hadn't been a part of him that could have blamed the Victims since in the eyes of the Psychologists on this Planet he would have been a Victim himself. He'd had the resources to have dealt with his own Guilt knowing first of all he'd personally managed to do everything he could have in the defense of his City and in protecting himself whereas many Victims on this Planet -- Homicide Victims in this instance -- had witnessed a crime so heinous they lacked the ability to even acknowledge there had been means to overcome it.
The Police and those in the Medical Communities capable of and even volunteering their Services to help the Victims of Homicides were seen at best by many on the Planet as being less than altruistic. There were many that viewed the Police as hired thugs or that they themselves could have handled their own inner demons on their own. It had sadly been the same on Cybertron, where he'd often been on the receiving end of angered Victims lashing out or he'd found he'd been called in to assist other Enforcers or other First Responders in dealing with a Victim blinded by rage.
There had been a part of him that wondered why the Local Police hadn't attempted to simply download or jack into the Victim of a Homicide's head in order to view either their more recent memories or to view what their optics had last seen. He'd had to help a few Homicide Detectives back in his old Precinct to follow through with that kind of procedure where a Mech or a Femme or even a Sparkling that had been recently taken offline had been hooked up to a computer designed for that purpose which would allow their last memories or in failing that the last views from their Optics of their attackers to be used as evidence in the Courts. It had been entirely allowed.
He couldn't have blamed them for their unwillingness to speak with the Police, but he had a unique perspective where he knew those Officers acted out in both compassion and understanding. It was the Enforcer's role on any Planet to have been mistrusted by the populace at large while trying to help their fellow Mechs or Femmes or brethren as the case may have been.
Last Edit: Apr 1, 2020 20:10:15 GMT -5 by Skirmisher
"Troopers: Man mixing LSD and cough syrup saves neighbour's dog from imaginary fire."
Windshield looked at the article's headline, then again, and then a third time just to confirm that he was, indeed, reading what he thought he was reading. Rest assured, he didn't think it'd be that when he picked up his datapad some twenty minutes past to scroll through human newsfeeds to kill time. Never hurts to know your friends...or enemies, right?
Well, either way, as far as drugs were concerned, Windshield thought he knew it all and had nothing to learn from humans.
WRONG!
Because if there is something an organic will in nine out of ten cases do to solve a problem, it's most definitely drugs. He could kinda vibe with that. But giving them to DOGS? That pup would've probably been better off dying in a REAL fire at this point. Who even knows what a dog on FUCKING ACID can or can't do. Then again...
"Mhhh, wonder if I can use the same trick to placate Carbine's stupid mutt," he tapped the side of his helmet idly and swiveled around in a comfy chair before kicking his legs up against a table with a bored, semi-vacant expression.
Suddenly, a sly grin crossed his features.
"Nah, I'll probably just poison his Energon instead. Might even spread to Officer Cunt if I'm lucky."
Thinking out loud was probably not a good idea, but Red couldn't hear him this far away from the base. (At least Windshield sure as hell hoped he couldn't. God, that would be terrifying.)
Last Edit: Apr 1, 2020 21:48:37 GMT -5 by Windshield
Sparkplug was humming. It was a pleasant enough sound, though after exposure to it for several hours, the charm might run a little thin. She was lounging before a set of monitors that - in theory -were for manipulating designs, performing stress calculations and driving forward the great Decepticon war machine.
Instead, she was aimlessly browsing the internet. Humans were weird. Unable to make head nor tail of the various feuds between apparently-famous individuals over matters she didn't really have the context for, she narrowed her browsing to areas closer to her specialisation. News reports scrolled by under the idle urging of her fingers, each report filled with excitable military speculation about the development of new weapons systems, construction of new floating fighter-bomber platforms, initial experimentation with autonomous drones… and then she stopped.
Stopped, and read a headline twice.
China may be using sea to hide its submarines.
"…but," she began, squinting as though it would help draw sense out of the collection of native language glyphs, "that's the entire point."
Without taking her optics off the baffling words, she called over her shoulder, "Hey, Vee! Seems like these swarming little oxy-breathers are brighter than I thought! There's this nation-state which has had the amazing idea to hide their ships, which are built to hide from detection under the ocean, under the ocean. Revolutionary. Literally headline news to these farcical little scuttlers."
She shook her helm. "Just when you think you've got a handle on at least part of what passes for a 'native mindset'. Never trust a species careless enough to let that filthy, salty, fetid muck cover the majority of the planet." Glancing back at the report, she read it again, just to be sure she hadn't mis-translated. "Where else were they going to put them? Strap on some wheels, have a parade? Mind you, at least then they'd be away from that swirling, circuit-corroding horror show. Poor Nemesis! Nothing deserves that."
Leaning back in her chair, she went on meditatively, "You know there are Cybertronians that actually like that stuff? Not kidding. Show them a gigantic, multiple-klicks-deep puddle of organic soup, full of all sorts of bizarro slimy copulating things spraying their genetic material everywhere, and they'll go, 'Yay, time for a swim!'. Aquaformers. I mean… seriously. If they went back to Cybertron, they wouldn't know what to do with themselves.
"Went drinking with a bunch of 'cons from the Moriturus garrison, once. Can't remember what planet we were on. Someplace with a half-decent level of civ development, not populated by midgets, like this nonsense rockball. Anyway, we got to doing energon shots with penalties. Pretty sloshed. So then there was some kind of challenge to dunk a ball through a hoop using nothing but your alt mode. Couple of vehicles did it. Helicopter-former, he was kick-aft at it, real deft. Then there was this huge guy. So he steps up. Takes the ball. Changes."
Sparkplug covered her optics with one hand, an irrepressible grin on her lips. "Big fat boat cocked over sideways in the middle of the highway, props spinning, yelling, 'Push me! Push me!'. Wouldn't change back until he'd done it. We had to call for cranes."
Cancelling the monitor readout and pushing away from the desk, Sparkplug turned her chair. "You ever gone drinking with- ...you're not here." The lab was dead quiet, and quite, quite empty. Bouncing to her feet, Sparkplug ambled over to the door and keyed it open, raising her voice as she called, "Hey, Vee! You'll never guess what I've just read-"
Last Edit: Apr 2, 2020 5:30:14 GMT -5 by Sparkplug
Downfall wasn't one who enjoyed digital media- at least not in current times.
The Vehicon he'd met was a nice individual, very talkative yet a welcomed distraction from repetitive tasks. However, the conversational topic on the other servo- was, at least in Downfall's mind, one he would rather avoid in the future.
"Breathing Oxygen accidentally linked to staying alive."
This sentence was absolutely stuck in his processor and he could not fathom its origin, nor could comprehend the meaning behind it. It was weird, a sentence that made absolutely no sense to him, yet the Vehicon had been obsessed with it.
Organics were weird, and while the green jet had visited many planets in the past, he'd never truly interacted with them- much! And despite his efforts of trying to shrug it off and forget this encounter throughout the day, he couldn't. All what he could do was sigh in frustration and hope their medic would have a strong sedative so he could at least find a good night rest.
Skystone was sitting at her desk within her quarters, shuffling her collection around and looking at construction schematics for storage areas that needed to be built.
Ping.
She wasn't generally one to get distracted, but when her personal data pADD lit up, the headline caught her eye-"Farmer using cannon to protect watermelons. Shocked with results."
She stared for a moment, mulling over what she was reading. Farming was a foreign concept to her, naturally, but she knew what a cannon was and had a vague outline of what a watermelon at least looked like.
"...so, did he fire the cannon to protect them, or did he accidentally fire them out of a cannon?"
"Hey, uh, Switchfoot?" The twins had been flying in relative silence for the last hour; one indulging in various human medias and the other surveying the land below. This evening's browsing brought up a rather interesting article:
"City unsure why the sewer smells."
"Human byproduct is unpleasant, right?"
There was silence from the counterpart and then a tired sigh. "Yes... This is an odd topic for you. Why?"
"Heh. No particular reason..." Swan may no longer have their olfactory sensors, but at least they had the common sense to note that waste lines should stink.