[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Intermission [Closed]
Apr 17, 2020 20:31:13 GMT -5
Post by Carbine on Apr 17, 2020 20:31:13 GMT -5
Episode 3 | Week 1 | Day 5 | Continuation of Interior Design
Thunder and Carbine, they didn't really have an average room due to their own creative and brutal approach. Two assigned rooms side by side... the center wall bashed out... it was a disjointed mess of a living arrangement larger than average with the understanding they had to share it which really wasn't a concern. Having lived in Garrus together for countless years, such a room was a luxury in comparison. This area was able to be populated by belongings, able to be customized beyond bored clawing at concrete walls for some vain attempt at entertainment.
Containers of hoarded goods, a makeshift cobbled attempt at tools to make patchwork booze, some stolen objects that were chewed to pieces in a small corner that appeared to be for Bolo as well as etchings on the walls and ceiling... Abstract shapes that were artistic and varied, symbols and curls making sharp edges and boxes... There didn't appear to be a message or distinct image across the ceiling, the lines webbing out from a far corner before stopping in a half-finished display. Some rough attempts to continue it settled on one edge, broken and coarse in comparison in a sickened mockery of the original art. Some etchings and painted marks snaked down the walls at points, more drawings and some Cybertronian words smearing down in large lettering. One series of statements were rough painted in white, dripping and smearing with a ragged approach as if it were written with an outstretched palm.
The single bed in the room had always been pushed up into the leftmost corner away from the doors, and that hadn't changed since the room's formation. Smashed flush against the rough walls, it was as simple as simple could be only it was covered in small scratches and marks from stump clawed paws, and a few gnaw marks along its leading corner. It was upon this bed that Carbine was settled, his back pressed snug against the stone corner while rotors were twisted to drape on either side at any angle they could without being bent into harsh crooked shapes.
The black and white mech was tucked forward upon himself, long legs pulled up flush with his chest, while his helm was resting upon the domed shape of his knee guards. White banded forearms folded over his shins to keep everything in line, his frame not really moving as he sat in the uncomfortable silence that seemed to consume the room save for the slight tapping of liquid.
All signs of the Energon, oil, and rust flecks were cleaned away from the incident, not a single speck of blue dappling down off his neck guard or chest, but now it was all replaced with water instead. He had retreated from the wash racks as fast as he could, not wanting to loiter in a more public area, not wanting to see others or be cornered. While he knew his shared room was only a temporary escape, there was some sort of comfort to be had while he waited for his processor to fix itself and for the hammer of High Command to come down and bash his head off.
Jittered words, spat static, plunged into a world of noise without meaning...
Carbine's damage... his glitch... it could mostly be held in line. Some speech issues, some lost connections to visual languages... that was traditionally where the line was drawn. However, stress was such a heinous thing that when felt at high enough levels could claim more than his own voice. The event with Windshield had taken its pound of flesh and then some, clawing open the wound in his processor to sever the thin filaments that barely held everything in line.
It would recover. It always seemed to somehow patch itself back together, but it took time. Time sitting in a world he cannot speak, cannot understand, a fear he holds in the deepest portion of his spark bubbling up into the back of his throat like poison. Would this be the final straw? Would this be the time his self-repair couldn't manage to help him? What if he is stuck like this? Having to try to mime out every word, every want, every directive... become a liability that cannot be told orders or told to retreat should plans change. To be worthless, to be a burden... but most of all to be cut away from any semblance of social interaction. To be plunged into a hollow world where he could only speak to those who were Chirolingual... which equated to only Thunder as far as he knew.
Something was better than nothing.
So here Carbine sat, waiting, wishing, HOPING his systems would give him another chance. Recover enough even though it had been countless times the small connectors had burnt out in heightened emotion or were torn due to blunt force trauma. One more chance, one more opportunity to still enjoy what he could...
Thundercloud was across the way somewhere, speaking to him.
"Xun dos kampi'un uns'aa?"
A repeated phrase, heard differently every time it was spoken every few minutes. Each word seemed like something new, a different phrase, a varied approach to what was intended... but Carbine knew it wasn't the case. Four words strung together, two short, one long, one short... he had heard that sequence so many times before that given context clues he could basically UNDERSTAND what it was. The other mech was asking him if he could understand what he was saying. True, given context he KNEW what it was, but he also knew it was meant to figure out when the filaments patched their way back together in his processor... so Carbine remained inert, listening as time progressed without looking up.
"Kos tak echka'loh dosa?"
...
"Da osa und'kallend me?"
...
"Do yoh und'sahloh me?"
Was it fifteen minutes? Twenty? Thirty? Carbine didn’t know, but the patchwork statement was starting to make a bit more sense. With a motion to help reflect this he lifted his helm a small bit, tired eyes half closed as he lazily looked out across the room away from Thunder.
"Do you understand me?"
Eventually, Carbine's helm fully angled towards the other mech, gaze still beaten down and subdued, looking into his optics to show that yes... yes he could understand now.
Containers of hoarded goods, a makeshift cobbled attempt at tools to make patchwork booze, some stolen objects that were chewed to pieces in a small corner that appeared to be for Bolo as well as etchings on the walls and ceiling... Abstract shapes that were artistic and varied, symbols and curls making sharp edges and boxes... There didn't appear to be a message or distinct image across the ceiling, the lines webbing out from a far corner before stopping in a half-finished display. Some rough attempts to continue it settled on one edge, broken and coarse in comparison in a sickened mockery of the original art. Some etchings and painted marks snaked down the walls at points, more drawings and some Cybertronian words smearing down in large lettering. One series of statements were rough painted in white, dripping and smearing with a ragged approach as if it were written with an outstretched palm.
The single bed in the room had always been pushed up into the leftmost corner away from the doors, and that hadn't changed since the room's formation. Smashed flush against the rough walls, it was as simple as simple could be only it was covered in small scratches and marks from stump clawed paws, and a few gnaw marks along its leading corner. It was upon this bed that Carbine was settled, his back pressed snug against the stone corner while rotors were twisted to drape on either side at any angle they could without being bent into harsh crooked shapes.
The black and white mech was tucked forward upon himself, long legs pulled up flush with his chest, while his helm was resting upon the domed shape of his knee guards. White banded forearms folded over his shins to keep everything in line, his frame not really moving as he sat in the uncomfortable silence that seemed to consume the room save for the slight tapping of liquid.
All signs of the Energon, oil, and rust flecks were cleaned away from the incident, not a single speck of blue dappling down off his neck guard or chest, but now it was all replaced with water instead. He had retreated from the wash racks as fast as he could, not wanting to loiter in a more public area, not wanting to see others or be cornered. While he knew his shared room was only a temporary escape, there was some sort of comfort to be had while he waited for his processor to fix itself and for the hammer of High Command to come down and bash his head off.
Jittered words, spat static, plunged into a world of noise without meaning...
Carbine's damage... his glitch... it could mostly be held in line. Some speech issues, some lost connections to visual languages... that was traditionally where the line was drawn. However, stress was such a heinous thing that when felt at high enough levels could claim more than his own voice. The event with Windshield had taken its pound of flesh and then some, clawing open the wound in his processor to sever the thin filaments that barely held everything in line.
It would recover. It always seemed to somehow patch itself back together, but it took time. Time sitting in a world he cannot speak, cannot understand, a fear he holds in the deepest portion of his spark bubbling up into the back of his throat like poison. Would this be the final straw? Would this be the time his self-repair couldn't manage to help him? What if he is stuck like this? Having to try to mime out every word, every want, every directive... become a liability that cannot be told orders or told to retreat should plans change. To be worthless, to be a burden... but most of all to be cut away from any semblance of social interaction. To be plunged into a hollow world where he could only speak to those who were Chirolingual... which equated to only Thunder as far as he knew.
Something was better than nothing.
So here Carbine sat, waiting, wishing, HOPING his systems would give him another chance. Recover enough even though it had been countless times the small connectors had burnt out in heightened emotion or were torn due to blunt force trauma. One more chance, one more opportunity to still enjoy what he could...
Thundercloud was across the way somewhere, speaking to him.
"Xun dos kampi'un uns'aa?"
A repeated phrase, heard differently every time it was spoken every few minutes. Each word seemed like something new, a different phrase, a varied approach to what was intended... but Carbine knew it wasn't the case. Four words strung together, two short, one long, one short... he had heard that sequence so many times before that given context clues he could basically UNDERSTAND what it was. The other mech was asking him if he could understand what he was saying. True, given context he KNEW what it was, but he also knew it was meant to figure out when the filaments patched their way back together in his processor... so Carbine remained inert, listening as time progressed without looking up.
"Kos tak echka'loh dosa?"
...
"Da osa und'kallend me?"
...
"Do yoh und'sahloh me?"
Was it fifteen minutes? Twenty? Thirty? Carbine didn’t know, but the patchwork statement was starting to make a bit more sense. With a motion to help reflect this he lifted his helm a small bit, tired eyes half closed as he lazily looked out across the room away from Thunder.
"Do you understand me?"
Eventually, Carbine's helm fully angled towards the other mech, gaze still beaten down and subdued, looking into his optics to show that yes... yes he could understand now.