[ti]Ep 3[/ti]What Goes Around [Avalanche]

[Carbine]

Episode 3 | Week 2 | Day 3

Things had a way of not working out how they were meant to around Carbine.

Social situations, team dynamics, and just being a decent person were high on this fail list... though lesser more mundane things like how to treat offerings that were not even required were also there as well.

The table that had been placed in the cell was no longer sitting upon its legs, instead flipped completely upside down so that the four posts of legs were jutting up into the air. Nothing seemed to be damaged on it, the legs still straight, the edges not dented to hell and back, and the underside wasn't gored or anything else out of line. It had simply been flipped for one reason or another, either intentional or due to a fit of rage that had not been cleaned up. While the table was undamaged, the chair looked like it had seen a better day.

This simple chair was sitting propped into the left corner, leaning away upon its two legs with backrest against the wall. The leading edge of the back support was charred and burnt, a sort of ashy residue that snaked along its surface with dark smears. This was not the only damage however, the front right leg a bit bent and twisted, perhaps explaining why it was no longer sitting flat upon the ground and was using the wall itself to keep upright.

Other than these two things, there was nothing remarkable. Nothing damaged or clawed at, nothing else even present that could be upturned or flipped around. No hard impacts along the concrete walls or floor as if he had used the chair to swing into them at full force to account for the bent legs. The bed was still latched on the right-hand side, and the shield on the front panel of the cell kept resolute and sound with a translucency that only cast a faint haze to view through.

The two occupants of the cage had seemingly gotten comfortable for the day, ready to lounge about and let time slip gradually by.

Carbine was laying upon his side upon the berth at the moment, his back pushed flush along the side wall with helm positioned furthest away so he could keep an eye on the gate. He was almost squished in a way, the posts along his back pulled up as high as they could go so that his spine could settle as flush as possible with the solid surface of the wall. His broad shoulders made it a tad difficult to lie comfortably, his torso needing to twist a bit to permit his hip to crook down to touch the flat surface. If he had been resting anywhere else, he would likely lay upon his back fully, yet that was not on the plan this day.

He couldn't sleep, he couldn't rest. Carbine's processor was running on overdrive to try to chew through what had gone wrong the last week and how everything he had learned to call normal was... gone. He felt like the ground was ripped out from underneath him, forcing him to fall, striking rocky ledges in his decent while waiting for the inevitable impact with solid earth below. His entire life here on Earth was crooked on its helm, and he frankly had no idea where it would end up next. He had some stability before despite the incident with Windshield... but now that Ratchet was gone a real deep seeded fear and dread swarmed through his tanks like poison.

The black and white mech curled his legs up a bit, forearms crossed across his midsection while optical projections were dimmed and half lidded.

Bolo meanwhile was resting as well, yet was more than ready to stand at attention should anything change.

The Cassette was lying on the underside of the table that had been flipped upside down. For some reason the slab had been deemed more comfortable than the concrete, and as such he was upon his chest, forelegs splayed in front, while hind limbs and hip were crooked to the side to splay his legs off the edge. He didn't even fully fit on the modest table, his neck slung over one side so that his helm rested upon the actual ground, the structural framing of the desk poking at the side of his throat. The large round eyes of the canine could not blink or close, yet they were dimmed profoundly low, likely sleeping.

This would change in an instant however should there be noise.

If the door to this room before the cells opened in any way, Bolo would rocket to his feet with a thrashed heave, standing at attention with ears upright. A deep guttural growl would form, a rumble that was rather apparent that it was animalistic in nature. It was a threat, a wordless warning that whoever it was most assuredly was not welcome here in any way whatsoever. Each snarled noise would be ended by a snorted intake of air, before the growl would start again, air sifting through the vents on his back.

[Avalanche]

Avalanche moved through the corridors of Omega at a brisk, purposeful pace, her heavy tread thrumming in subtle vibrations through the concrete. It was clear from the hard look in her optics and the flatness of her impassive expression that she had a job to do. A pity it was one she could take no pleasure in.

Carbine had fucked up in ways soldiers didn't get to fuck up. That was a fact. So too was the fact that she'd been appointed to take care of his punishment for the infraction. Appointed, but with her hands tied; the consequences she could apply had been trimmed down to simple manual labour. As for what would come next if he simply refused to cooperate... even she wasn't sure if that would finally shatter the Prime's infinite patience for the bad behaviour of those he commanded.

Venting a sigh, she keyed open the doors to the brig, then stepped inside. Her optics narrowed. The first and most obvious thing was the cassette, in a violently hostile stance that made her hands itch to drop into a combat posture. After that, the rest of the detail came in; Carbine pressed up with his back to the wall, watching the door, and the upset table and damaged chair. Clearly he'd been given more leniency than he deserved, and he'd celebrated by breaking things. She truly didn't understand how the garrison had survived like this for as long as it had.

Total hostility from the prisoner was a given, even if the cassette wasn't giving that away loud and clear.

"Carbine. I'm here to oversee your sentence." Blunt words, spoken without particular heat or satisfaction. She didn't like the heli-former, but regardless of how much he needed to be brought into line, this kind of work was one of her least favourite parts of her rank. "You will be doing manual labour today. Dock your cassette. Deploying your armour, weapons or cassette once the field is down will be treated as an escape attempt. If you don't think you can control it, leave it here."

A mech that truly knew and understood the magnitude of what they'd done would, at this point, cooperate. From her limited experience of Carbine, however, it seemed utterly naively to expect him to comply without opening his big mouth.

[Carbine]

Carbine watched lazily to see who it was, tipped off by Bolo long before he realized himself.

Oh shit. It was the pissy bitch.

A light 'tsk' was made then, a disapproving sound. At first it may seem directed at Avalanche, scoffing at her presence, though a moment later Bolo stopped his barking, a low grow taking its place. Strings of makeshift saliva twined with rage induced regurgitated Energon dribbled idly from his mouth, a bubbly concoction while the shoulder rings clicked and whirled slightly in a mockery of raised hackles. A moment after this growl, the canine would begrudgingly turn, walking a few paces to slip beneath the berth before whipping about face.

Sitting here, Bolo's neck was crooked abruptly forward, forelegs squatted down some while haunches were fully settled on the ground. His expressionless gaze locked down onto the femme, intent, focused, ears pinned upright and forward. While he had gone somewhat silent and 'passive', he was ready to act out if he had to.

Carbine's hand lifted then, palming the front of his visor and smearing back and over his helm in a sort of absent minded movement. This was met with a snorted crackle from his vents, his gaze dulled a bit.

The black and white mech was still in extreme discomfort from the night before... which, despite the feeling everything that had been done had to help... anything had to help from what was there, yet, things were still irritated and it was hard to shake it. Ever since that seal of silicone was ripped away, ever since fresh air snaked in and bit down with angry teeth, there was just this constant crawling sensation. Needles tapping along, poking and prodding, agitating systems with angry throbs. The feeling of things peeling and sheering clear, a pooling sensation almost like drowning to find equilibrium once more...

Carbine pushed himself up into a sit so he could listen to what Avalanche had to say.

The femme's request came with a bit of an issue. While the deployment of a weapon was an obvious nono, something he could control well and had to actively choose to do, the other two things could sometimes be a bit hit or miss. His Riot Armor was reactionary. He could activate it on command should he will it, yet when push came to shove it was best to have it engage the second alarm struck so that he could defend himself. A gun being drawn against him as a cop was not something you wanted to 'process' and then click the armor to work. You wanted it to simply sense the spike of fear or momentary duress, and fling active just as one may instinctively swing an arm up to block.

It should be fine, Avalanche HOPEFULLY wouldn't do something to start this, so he didn't really FEAR this happening. If it did? Well... he could cross that road when it happened. Explain hastily that it was reflex and that she was at fault there. Should past experience serve as a warning between the two, maybe this would be more likely than realized, though would likely not cross a line where his other momentary thought would become an issue.

Bolo was a good Cassette, he obeyed, he jumped to the cause, and was eager to please. He truly looked up to his Carrier for guidance, and took his word as law. However, when push came to shove, if something truly bad DID occur, it was not unheard of for the canine to force its way out of its dock. The deployed locks could only do so much, a conscious want to hold him back. Yet, like his armor, it was reactionary, and Carbine wanted to bet that things would never go that far unless he happened to speak too far out of line or get combative.

A combative nature he was very much planning to smother and stifle down even if it hurt his pride.

Carbine's right hand flared out some, the digits creaking slightly as a tingle of discomfort eked from the battered joints. He focused down on this a moment, before peering up at Avalanche.

"So... w-wh͠a͢t̶'́s t̸he ́cl̨ic̀hé? Am I going to be h-hauling cra̡tes ͜back and forth? Chipping ro-͜c̛k͘s in͝to gravel? P-p-̸p͜er-͠k̵ch̴ch-ha͝p̨s I am tasked to try to unbol̢t m-m̕ore ̧chunks of the Ark to use thę m͡e̵t͞als for fan-cy cons̵tŗuction shit."

He had to say something flippant. Defensive... almost a nervous reaction. His tone of voice was happier, though pitched down some. For those who knew him it could almost be called apprehensive.

"I'll have y-̢y͜ou ͏k͢n͏ow I can't co͟n-͠st-́ru͢ct shelving u-units. Been there, t-̶t̕r̛ied ͘that... ended poorly."

Standing up, Carbine stretched his spine back with faint pops, his shoulders rolling in the sockets as well to loosen things up from his long held stationary position. To pair with this the posts of his rotors flicked up, the long panels flaring some before settling back into an inert position with a light rattle that reverberated along them. He hated that sound, then again it was likely because it was coming from him and not something else. His distaste of his new Alt not even a slightly guarded secret.

[Avalanche]

Orange optics glowed like embers as she watched him, waiting to see exactly how this troublesome soldier would comport himself. She wasn't a carrier, and didn't fully understand how much could pass between carrier and cassette without being spoken, but whatever the nature of the bond, the near-rabid animal slunk back to a slightly less aggressive posture seemingly under its master's guidance.

That was a start.

Silence hung in the air as Carbine sat up. There was something off about the way he moved. She'd seen wounded soldiers before that were trying to hide that something was wrong - by the pit, she'd been that soldier before - and something about him didn't ring true. Still... the medics would have given him a going over, after the assault. Nothing had been reported to her, nothing that should block him from working. Her instincts could easily be wrong.

Fine. She was intending to pay close and personal attention to him every instant he was outside the guard field regardless; it was just one more little thing to consider, another little tell to watch for.

A soundless vent escaped her heavy chassis as he finally spoke, in his static-riddled, stuttering way. Not as bad as it could have been, but without a Primus-damned whisper of contrition. Not that she'd truly expected anything else.

"Get this clear. I'm not here to punish you for the sake of punishing you. You're not going to be doing makework devised just to give you a hard time. You are a soldier, and it is your duty to contribute to this army. Right now, you aren't trusted to do a soldier's work, so we're going to have to find other ways of making use of you."

She gestured downwards, with a jerk of her blunt thumb. "We need more storage and barrack space. You're going to dig out rock. I've marked out where, and there's a pick waiting."

Nodding at the bunk where Bolo crouched, she added brusquely, "I told you to dock your cassette, or declare you're leaving it here. Pick one and stand by the field."

She reached over to the keypad, ready to type in the field disarming code as soon as - and if - Carbine declared himself ready to get on with the task.

[Carbine]

"I hav́e͞ ser̵v͝ęd. I̴ j̧-j̴ust had a mom̛ent ơf̷ p-̕poor jud͝g̀e̛m͢e͏nt..."

Quietly spoken in a low wavered whisper that was barely audible.

At Avalanche's words about Bolo and the following order, Carbine's right eye would squint and left pinch a bit in a sort of incredulous glare while helm turned back up to look at her. What did she want him to do? Scream 'YES COMMANDER' and jump up to his feet like an eager cadet? Grabbing his Cassette and docking him in a blur of movement? He had barely gotten to his feet, only cast a few words out before he was being growled at? Oof. This was going to be rough, especially as Carbine's first impulse was to get instantly snappy and confrontational.

A slow flex of the hand, a creak of the sore joints...

Carbine reached down then, grabbing hold of Bolo's harness to lure him out from underneath the slab. It wasn't a drag, he wasn’t forcing the canine to comply, merely guiding to show exactly what he wanted, and lead into what he planned to do. As such, once cleared fully from the berth, Carbine's hands would move to grip both sides of the harness's bars, before he grunted and swung Bolo up into the air with intent to clear his helm and shoulders so he could hit his back.

It was a well-rehearsed movement, Bolo kicking off the ground to help, forelegs tucked closer a moment while he was wrenched off the floor... There was a sort of annoyed grunting sound from the canine, a snort of irritation at being docked right then and there, though it wasn't really something he was in a place to contest. As such, with a clicking slam and sound of transformation, Bolo would lock into place, plating smoothing out as it merged and meshed with his Carrier's frame. The only thing to remain was a couple clicking whirls of the white rings, a jittered action before they too settled.

With Bolo now docked, Carbine rocked his shoulders once more, getting comfortable while he adjusted how he carried his weight ever so slightly so that he didn't topple backwards from the dog backpack.

"He isn't ͢a-͜an it. ͠H́is ̀na͘-n̷ame is Bolo. Not that y̴ou c̴are."

Irritation. Carbine didn't exactly take too kindly to Avalanche calling Bolo an 'it'. The slight wasn't something he would throw down for, but it did sour things a little bit further than they already were.

Stepping forward, Carbine would stand in front of the field, his arms going loose on either side while he planted his legs slightly more apart. His helm would rise as well, hands spreading out, taking on a sort of passive stance that was akin to an individual that was going to be scanned for weaponry. It was not uncommon at all to do such a thing back in the day, guards needing to look for weapons clasped in one's hand, needing to make sure you weren't about to bolt... Perhaps it wasn’t the best to reveal to the Commander that he was well rehearsed with the steps one goes through as a prisoner, but he wasn’t really in the mood to be snarled at for doing it 'improperly'.

"So, wh-at do you ̕ẃ-w͝an̵t̛ me to call you? Com̷m͜a̸nd́er Avalanche? Or j-j-j͘ust ͞Com͠mand̛er is fine."

His words were polite enough, but they were strained, helm crooking to the side slightly to eye her. Carbine had not forgotten the femme's words the last time they crossed paths. He learned fast, and he knew better in the moment... He didn't really want to poke at her with shortened nicknames if it would get his hand twisted out its socket.

[Avalanche]

The words were murmured, but she could just about make them out over the static; she'd pricked his pride as a soldier, enough for him to insist that he'd done his part. Good. Frankly, she hadn't been at all confident that he'd have even a trace of that pride left, and it was better than nothing. She'd had to deal with screwups before that were deserters-in-waiting merely lacking an opportunity to run, conscripts in all but name. They usually acted out the worst.

So. Chalk up one potential positive trait.

Avalanche watched, one broad hand resting on her hip, the other poised over the keypad, as Carbine pulled his cassette up and onto his back. Again, there was something off about his movements that troubled her. She wanted to make use of him, but if he really was damaged, she wasn't the kind to make a prisoner's injuries worse through enforced labour. And yet, surely, she'd have been told if he was, given the restrictions placed on her ability to levy punishment on the mech.

One hard day's labour, she decided, and then she'd have him checked over again to see if his frame was standing up to the work.

The jab about the cassette's name, though, she herself was stung a little there. She wasn't pleased with Carbine, to say the least, and it was acceptable to show that. But even though she'd not spent much time with carriers, she knew enough to know that they were often fiercely protective of their subunits, sharing emotions in ways even an Amica Endura couldn't come close to.

"Bolo. Male pronouns. Got it," she acknowledged. It wasn't much, but it was a kind of implicit acknowledgement that she'd at least address the cassette properly in future. "Commander is fine."

Thankfully, the controls were sized for larger mecha; she'd had frustrating times with interfaces designed for smaller manipulators before. Her hand shifted over the keypad, disarming the security grid; the humming crackle of the field sputtered out, and she looked up towards the camera with a nod of acknowledgement to whoever was maintaining watch over the monitoring system.

"Step on out. Walk ahead of me. We're heading down to sublevel two, east corridor. You should know the way."

Under ideal circumstances, he'd take a sensible path, at a sensible pace, and she wouldn't have to correct him. Just how easy or difficult he made the process of getting to his work site would tell her something about how the day was going to go.

[Carbine]

Carbine had expected Avalanche to be rude and abrasive when corrected about what Bolo was. Perhaps she would snarl out an 'I will call it what I please', or who knows what else. He didn't really have high hopes for her... maybe if it were any other situation? Sure! But when she was dishing out repercussions? Not so much. This wasn't like her first introduction to him where it turned into a little power play that really amused him! This was the bad type of Commander getting to flex their bad type of Commander role to be absolute pieces of trash. Was this comparing her to previous experiences that were not applicable here and now? Yes. Did this mean his mind didn't go there? No. What it did mean though is that he was somewhat caught off guard and relieved when she actually dipped back and acknowledged his correction.

She may be a piece of shit bad type of Commander, yet there was a slight falter shown there.

Weakness.

It was a weakness of sympathy or compliance. A weakness of showing that she could be swayed by the words of a subordinate. While this could be on multiple levels, from simply taking small requests like this into account, it could branch up to more manipulatable levels if the right cards were played. Wedging between two seams to pry a crack into a bigger gaping wound. It would take the most callous of soul to truly shut down Carbine's thoughts on how to get ahead, and evidently Avalanche fell out of that mold just as quickly as she climbed up to it.

No... no... he needed to not start down this path. He needed to not try this game. He had a lot of time to think things through, and reflect on current events in the silence of this portion of the base, and he had to not let an interaction with a new soul fling his goals aside so recklessly. He had to be good. He had to not toy the line. If he pushed Avalanche too hard, it may not just be his wrist that gets twisted backwards, but she may spin his arm clean out of its hinge like a wind-up toy to try to make a more memorable point.

Alas, playing nice and cooperating could not be done perfectly however, and as the gate fell aside and she told him what to do, he already let out a mental groan as he knew damn well where this train was going. It didn’t take a genius to think two steps ahead and how it was all going to explode in his face and throw his ass to the ground. He had to though, there was no other option, and as such Carbine casually stepped out of the gate.

The black and white mech kept his hands down at his sides, remaining passive with fingers uncurled. He continued to play the role of a compliant prisoner in a way, to not cause issues for something THAT trivial... but the moment he got out he turned about face, to aim his back towards where they were going at an angle, so that Avalanche was mostly positioned to his front-left, his gaze eyeing her sharply from the corner of his split orange eye. It was at this angle he would start to strafe walk backwards to the door, a fluidity of the action from years of practice and a long line of stumbles and falls in the far past.

To not make it look like he was defying her on purpose, like he were staring her down in a confrontational way, Carbine strained to start conversation of SOME kind to lessen the hostile implications.

"I ss͟-͠s̵ur̢e do.́ ͜O̴p̴pos̸i̧t͟e͏ to the We͢st̀"

Ok so... maybe that wasn't the best conversation attempt, given it belted out as a flippant statement to take a stab at her.

Shit.

[Avalanche]

Leading other mecha hadn't come naturally to Avalanche. She wasn't forged for it, not in the way that some of the others seemed to have, ones who gave the impression of having been barking orders since the nanoklik they came online. That didn't mean, however, that she wasn't good at it. She'd worked at it, slowly and over a long time, building up the necessary skills to know when to push, when to ease off, to read mecha. She didn't always get it right - no one did - but for someone that had begun as blunt and abrasively oblivious as she once had been, the millennia had taught her some solid lessons.

Right at that moment, watching Carbine's chassis language for the first hints of trouble, his reluctance to move ahead of her might as well have been printed in flashing neon glyphs across his armour. Yes, he had exited the briefing room strangely that first day, turning to face them and backing out, hadn't he... she'd noticed the oddity at the time, but it had slipped her mind since then.

Here it was again. No longer conjecture, but simple fact.

Avalanche grinned. It wasn't an especially nice grin to behold, the kind of expression you might see a demolitionist make just before an enemy stepped on a mine. Strolling forward, she matched Carbine's pace, moving up to walk side by side with him as she emerged into the broader corridor.

"That's an interesting habit you've picked up," she remarked conversationally. The kind of habit one picked up when you absolutely couldn't trust any mecha to be in your blind spot for more than half a second. The aversion had to be pretty intense, given how hard Carbine was working not to fall prey to it.

The thing of it was, she didn't like the concept of deserters at this stage in the game. The sides had been set for far too long; any mecha that had a sudden change of spark now had other reasons than a belief in either faction's virtues or sins. Keeping Windshield solidly outside of the garrison was the right move. And yet, he was technically one of theirs, for as long as that lasted. Not even a prisoner, and if one of hers had ripped a prisoner's faceplate off, there would have been far worse consequences than Carbine was likely to face.

What she needed, what he needed, was a strong disincentive against acting up again. And that tic of Carbine's laid a tool in her grasp, one that could be finely adjusted by the exact amount she eased towards that blind spot of his. She didn't have to use it. But showing it might well be enough.

"As I said, you're going to be digging today. We need more room, and you're going to make it. And I will be right there, by your side, to watch. Assuming all goes well, and I don't have to shackle your pedes to the floor to keep you where you're meant to be."

By your side, as opposed to right behind you. Mess with me, and I will nail you to the ground with your back to the corridor.

Even something as simple - and familiar to the mecha of the outpost - as restricted energon rations had been ruled out. But there'd been nothing about leveraging his psychological flaws. Again, she didn't want to lean on them to keep Carbine in line. But the fact she could, and he knew she could, shifted the dynamic.

[Carbine]

When Avalanche grinned while watching him turn about face, Carbine's own eyes seemed to narrow some, a mild squint of a glare as he braced himself for what she would say or do next. He was trying to get a feel for how she worked and fit into the command structure puzzle. Optimus had his over kind understanding nonsense going on, Prowl had his reputation that skittered through the lines... Red Alert was an angry little gremlin that stayed out of the way... Jazz was... well Carbine didn't know much about him as they hadn't interacted too much. The little they did interact however he seemed nice and actually DEFENDED him! But Avalanche? He had just as little to work off, only instead of being unaware of how hostile Jazz could be, he was unaware of how nice the super bitch could go.

Moving back and out of the way, Carbine kept an eye on Avalanche as she walked forth to stand to his side, an action that brought with it more wariness and focus to how she carried herself and acted. For every step that she took, he turned around gradually in turn so that he was aiming forward rather than his back to the doorway. He didn't really want to be going backwards once they would start down the hall, so he was quick to fix this once he was able to do so. Yellow eyes watched her from the side of his vision, torso crooked ever so slightly to angle his shoulder armor almost like a shield to cover part of Bolo's side.

"I ͟d-ḑon't kn͘ow what yo͞u are talk͟ing abo͘ut̶."

Carbine lied. That simply came with who he was. Small little things, twists in how he phrased his sentences to put a dash of truth behind deception... it was how he worked to convey a specific appearance on how others viewed him. He was careful at times, could be manipulative... That said, this lie? Well, it was painfully transparent. A blunt comment made to hiss at Avalanche to shut up and not delve into a conversation on it. Whether she respected this or not was hard to say, yet he knew he would be tempted to throw any and all attempts to play good should she press this fear by action.

Try as he might, as determined as he may be to not cause rifts or be a troublemaker since the incident... terror overpowered all when peaking, and he really didn't want to lash out like he had against Windshield. Not only would it end with him earning himself more timeout in the moron kid corner, unlike Windshield Avalanche would likely reel about face and smack his helm clean off his shoulders should he take a real swipe at her. Carbine may be a larger mech, but that didn't mean he could take the types of attacks others of his size class could, and she was larger than that. He was an illusion masked with a high-quality armor front panel.

"B́y my s̡ìde͏? How ͠c-c̷-̡o͢nsid͏e̴r̨at̛e of͘ you! Do ̨yo͟u wan̴t t-t̕h̛e sh̀ovel or th̢e picka̡xe̵?"

Impulsive humor, both a natural part of himself, while also a good coping mechanism to play as if he didn't really care. To pair with this and further accent his nonchalant approach, his helm rose and tilted somewhat forward to watch where they were going rather than looking at her more directly. There was a boon however to having no perceivable pupils to his name though when viewed from a bit of distance, for while his head was angled to imply that he was looking forward, he was still pushing his vision over enough to see her as a muddled shape to watch for brash movements of if she slowed down.

"I'́m n-n͘ot go͠ing anyw-͝h̨ere. I m͞a͜d̴é a bad cal̀l. I ̨am n̛o flight ri̵sk͞."

Hah... flight...

Carbine considered running. There were flashes and thoughts on what he would do when the gate was opened, even when Bumblebee was trying to help him. It was hard not to when one was trapped and given such an opportunity. Any sort of opening, any chance to make a run for it in Garrus... many took it and bet their lives on it. Believing they were above imprisonment and that they outsmarted the guards. It never worked however, and while Omega One was no Garrus, not by a long shot, Carbine knew by the time he got to the mechanized door leading to the road, it would be well locked and he would have no real way to break through. That was however, if he intended to run, and he knew he really couldn’t even if they were outdoors with no cage of the mesa surrounding them.

He didn't think he could survive on this world alone.

The white rings along Carbine's back flicked idly, gaze still appearing to be set forward.

[Avalanche]

I don't know what you're talking about.

Ah, now there was the telltale song of a mecha who knew exactly what she meant and didn't want to admit it. There must have been someone that genuinely used the phrase out of actual innocence sometime in the past few million vorns, but Avalanche couldn't bring any specific examples to mind.

And now that it was out there, in the open, she didn't need to refer to it again. Carbine was... the word that came to mind was crafty. She knew his type; had known him from the moment they'd met and he pulled his elegant-gentlemech-but-with-a-sneer routine. She had the option of using it against him, he knew it, and that was all that needed to be said. Just how seriously he took that implicit threat would show in how far he tried to push her.

His flippant tone was mildly annoying for one in his position, but nothing she was minded to do anything about.

"They're both yours. I don't need shovels or pickaxes to dig." She lifted a large hand, flexing her fingers. The underslung piston hammer glinted in the corridor lights. Taking a corner, she paused briefly, then set off towards the sloping passageway that led to the lower levels.

"It's a terrible world for deserting on," Avalanche remarked conversationally after a moment's pause. "An uncontacted planet. No connections to galactic commerce, no passing ships to hitch a ride. Nowhere to get energon if you bailed. If the 'cons picked you up, they'd drain you dry to find out what you know, and the only humans that know enough to be useful want to dismantle us for parts."

No, she didn't think Carbine was really going to try to run. He could, and if he did, that would turn him into a different kind of problem, but by her read, that was a step too far. His bad decisions were more impulsive than that.

Her footsteps echoed as they left the more trafficked corridors behind. Right about now, he was probably wondering if she was going to give him a physical reminder of the fact she didn't like him, out of sight of others or camera, his word against hers. There was a brief flicker of displeasure in her field at the thought. She wasn't that kind of commander, or even that kind of femme. But he didn't know that.

And, to be fair, it wasn't like their first meeting hadn't given him cause to think such things.

Turning down a side corridor, she came up against a right-angled corner that was, on the surface, unremarkable. But after looking at the plans, and her own rough and ready grasp of geology, this seemed like the best place to begin digging a continuation of the corridor they were standing in. An arch-shaped outline had been sprayed onto the rock, and just around the corner stood a large trolley with tall canvas sides, ready to be filled with rock. A shovel and pick - crude instruments, manufactured out of what metal they had to hand - lay within it.

"Let me get you started."

The big femme stepped up to the sprayed arch and drew her fist back, her blunt-spiked knuckleduster locking into place. Her whole body moved in one flowing motion, putting the strength of her entire frame into the blow, and as her fist impacted the rock, the underslung piston slammed the hammer weight forward with a heavy CLANG of metal against metal. The red sandstone splintered, a wide, thin chunk breaking free like a scab and clattering to the ground in a patter of smaller debris to leave a shallow crater in the wall.

Avalanche took a couple of steps past the trolley, then turned to lean against the wall, crossing her arms across her chestplate. From where she stood, she'd be side-on to Carbine when he began working the rock face. If he did.

"All yours, Carbine. Let's do something useful down here."

[Carbine]

Carbine walked at a calm gait, not in any particular rush, just enough speed to not lag behind. His shoulder was still canted back however, the armor broad, primarily flat in design with only the faintest curve to its shape. Its surface was dented and chipped, yellow paint damaged from so many times he had used it as a battering ram to try to push open a door, or knock someone over if he managed to gain enough speed to make a dent. Said armor was being utilized to guard Bolo still, not relaxing in the slightest, especially when the femme showed off her specialized forearms that evidently had to be built to pack an extra punch. He really didn't know what he was looking at there.

This tension only grew as she started to speak further.

He... knew all this. He did... It had rung through his processor on repeat for days now like a song that caused nausea and unrest. While he could argue finding Energon was at least POSSIBLE if he flew solo given he had Bolo, the issue was needing to process it to consume. He didn't know where to even start with that, and he could do little with a combustible rock. Food so close, in his own grip... only to not be able to do anything with it. It was such a futile feeling to even imagine it, and her words were truly demoralizing. Or rather, they were at first.

It was one thing for Carbine to tell himself these facts and talk himself down, and it was another for it to be used as a weapon against him. This Commander seemed to be trying to dissuade him, using fear and cold ruthless reality to keep him from acting out, though it perhaps had the opposite effect than desired with his combative core nature. When guided he would move, when shoved, his feet would dig down, and right now she was shoving him hard.

"If the 'cons picked you up, they'd drain you dry to find out what you know-"

"I supp̷ose t́hèn y̢où oųght to not chas̶e ̢m͝e off."

The dark visor slowly angled further at Avalanche, a fierce focus in the orange smeared gaze.

"Wou̵l̷d b̶e a re͞al sh͝a͏me."

Rumbled words that were pitched low.

Would the Decepticons even bite on something like that? Sure. They would 'accept' him undoubtedly so that they could grill him alive, try to mill out every spec of information his damaged processor could spit out... but after he was wrung dry, would they want such a soldier in their midst? Or would they see him as a worthless detriment and pop a bullet through his helm? Every Cybertronian had value. No new soldiers were able to drag themselves out from the nauseatingly condensed miasma of the All-Spark. He wouldn't be trusted, that was certain, but he could fight, and if he was driven away hard enough by the Autobots it was a nice little assumption that he would like to grind his heel into the head of those who wronged him...

No.

He couldn't think like that. He had roots here, and was trying to make friends. He WANTED to try to make a change! Yet changing one's nature and not CHALLENGING when he saw someone else riding a power trip was so difficult.

Yellow eyes looked up at the imposing rock wall as it came into view, coming to terms with how crap this would be, before watching Avalanche show off once more to elaborate on just what those mechanics on her arm did. She punched the rock’s surface with more force than he could ever accomplish with any hand tool, the strike making him lurch ever so slightly, before a sharp glare formed.

If this were any other day, he would likely have a million and one possible responses lance through his processor on how to make an inappropriate joke or statement. Perhaps purr out how she could push him around any day, or that a gal who wasn't afraid of getting her hands dirty was hot. Perhaps he could say how flattered he was that she would show off her little trick for him before asking if she did that on every first date or if he was special. Not today though. Because she was in a position of authority over him, and he was currently feeling shitty about what he had done to land himself here, her actions flicked him down another path entirely. Before he could so much as throttle himself, ((which he had been doing exceptionally poorly this entire day)) Carbine let out a snorted crackled pop of static.

"Oh la dȩ ͟da, ̶sh̡-̢sho̶win' off my str̡en͞g͏th. Big e-e-ego flex. Grunt br-a̕wl̡er mo͠de, go."

Mocking. Carbine planted his knuckles on each hip as he rocked them along with his words as if doing a horrible impression of the Commander, or rather, any strong lady in general. There was absolutely no point he felt in what she did, other than being a show of force to garner fear, and he wasn't biting. She may throttle him; she may punch him down... or slam him into a wall... but that piston strike? It was way too strong. That would be something that would backfire hard if she were to use it in retaliation, and would be more in line with the Decepticons than Autobots. If this were any other outpost NOT run by Optimus... he would have more reason to fear... and may truly honestly be much more passive and apprehensive knowing those safety nets were not there... but there was a feeling of invulnerability and a want to not look weak to some new lady.

Carbine grabbed hold of the pickaxe's handle with his right hand just after he finished his mocking chirp, flicking it with a sharp pivot to half throw it into the air before he snatched it so that it was right side up. This smooth transition was swiftly followed by his left hand swinging around, clapping just below the grip of the prior, before he flowed into a full-tilt baseball bat swipe at the wall. The heft was paired with a snarled grunt, putting real force behind the strike to try to make a point, feeding some of his anger into it. Its impact caused a loud cracking bang, a few chunks of stone breaking off to clatter to the ground while dust kicked up.

[Avalanche]

Avalanche suppressed the urge to roll her optics. The childish mech didn't deserve to provoke that much of a response from her; the less reaction he got to his constantly acting out, the better. Though he'd already solidly confirmed one thing: whatever supposed remorse he might be feeling, it wasn't enough to make him fall in line. Other soldiers, if they'd screw up as badly as he had in a fit of impulsive bad decision making, would have known to keep their helms down and be model prisoners for a while.

Not this one.

She watched him flail at the wall like he was trying to hurl the pickaxe through it for a few moments, before she finally spoke, her voice level and conversational.

"One of your many problems, Carbine, is that you think the galaxy revolves around you and what you think. Everything people do has to be about you. I don't give a damn what you think of me; your opinion isn't important. I'm your superior officer, you're a soldier, and you do what you're ordered. I'm not going to waste energy trying to impress you."

Or at least you claim to be a soldier. I'm not convinced.

She nodded at the wall. "That's flat, smooth stone. When some idiot with a pickaxe they don't know how to use hits smooth rock, it can skip off and hurt them. I've seen it before. I made a divot for you to hammer into, so you're less likely to shove that pick through your leg."

Her orange optics remained steady on him, watching his form and posture as he swung. Maybe he'd tighten up his stance as he continued; maybe not. She considered advising him on how best to stand and swing to burn the least energy with each movement of the pick, but given his attitude, it didn't seem like there was much point. Maybe when he'd burnt off some energy against the stone, and if he didn't improve, she should step in later.

Regardless, he was going to be burning energon more vigorously with all this exercise than he had been just sitting in his cell, and his allocation wasn't going to go up. The more he wasted with pantomiming a tantrum against the rock, the hungrier he'd be later. That might be lesson enough, and a talk about the best way to move the day after.

It really was something of a shame. She'd come to this duty, prepared to even things out if he acted like the Autobot he was supposed to be. But instead...

"And Carbine. Don't think your veiled threat to run off to the Decepticons if you don't like how you're treated went unnoticed. That will be going in the report for the Prime."

[Carbine]

Carbine didn't know how to use a pickaxe, and it was more than apparent it seemed. His attempt to work and do the action right was far from what it needed to be, and he eyed where he had struck, then compared it to Avalanche's own indent... only to then glance down at the hooked shape of the rough pickaxe while thinking about her words... The difference between both of their marks was obvious, and he could now understand just how devastating her punch could be. The way it splintered the rock off versus what he had accomplished with a full body swipe and a tool built for the job...? That was bad news, and his fingers rolled over the handle's grip to try to tweak how he was holding it a bit nervously.

While Carbine's armor on his front was heavy duty and strong, able to endure lower caliber weaponry and shrug it off... a full speed metal spike would still do some nasty damage, especially if it hit lower and rammed into the wheel that was exposed on the front that created his heel. Break that ring and he couldn't walk other than pitched far forward onto his toe point, he couldn’t roll, and he couldn't attempt to fly as it'd shatter and throw the rotors the second they roared active. Maybe he was lucky that it hadn't chipped down at him, or maybe Avalanche was amping it up to make him nervous by making it sound more dangerous than it actually was.

It made sense though, and that was why he hesitated a moment, looking back over at her.

Soldier... as if he had a say in the matter. He transitioned to one warden and their guard goons, to a different warden and their serving 'commanders'. Only difference was the ability to see things outside of a locked down compound, and the illusion of working for a better goal or 'greater good'. That may work for Thundercloud yet... Carbine saw it for what he felt was reality. None of them had much of a choice here, and he closed his eyes while taking a vent to try to calm down and not belt out his very polarized thoughts on the matter.

Like it or not he had to try to stomach it all as he took in another slow vent, yet, finding balance again was difficult, unable to even slightly grasp stability again when she continued and commented on his perhaps not well thought through remark. Or... maybe it was a transparent view of his thoughts? No... a hollow threat to incur a response and fight back, or maybe reality... His processor jumped between these two as he didn't know why he chose to say it other than be spiteful, a less than hidden threat that felt so right to say in the moment.

"Affir͜m̧at͡ive̕."

A bitter single word in response. What could he say? Carbine may be feeling antagonistic to push back against Avalanche, yet he knew he couldn’t contest his poor impulse commentary. Calling her overly serious for thinking he was legitimate in his words would go over not great. She also wasn't someone he could toy with in any way by telling her not to worry, that he'd go easy on her on the battlefield... or other sly words for a laugh.

Pitching from Carbine's core, a crackled whine sounded faintly from within, systems trying to rile himself up again to swing the pickaxe once more with heavier aggression and less dramatic flare. His yellow optics now latched down onto the indent the femme had made previously, taking such a warning to spark and working with what was gifted him. With a similar flowthrough to the previous strike, the black and white mech rammed the tip of the pickaxe within the provided divot harshly, causing another small splintered chunk of rock to pop free.

A small chunk that was one more drop of evidence within the sea of knowledge that this would be absolute ASS.

[Avalanche]

Carbine's faceplate, such as it was, certainly was hard to read. In her limited experience of the mech, that hadn't mattered much; you didn't need to wonder what the mech was feeling because he would tell you. It was only now, when he fell quiet, that it became apparent.

Still. Limited facial expression or not, there was body language, and there were field emissions. The way he stopped for a moment, looking over to meet her steady orange gaze, certainly hinted that the warning had struck home.

A single word escaped his vocoder. Bitter. But also somewhat resigned, without the mouthy backtalk she was wearily coming to expect. And when he swung the axe again, he aimed for the divot. That was a good sign.

She let him go at the rock face for a few minutes, watching his movements to get a solid grasp on them, before she finally spoke. "Alright. Stop for a minute and give me the pick."

Unfolding her arms, she stepped over to his side and took the pickaxe from his hands, giving him room to move around her rather than stepping behind him as she took his place. Gripping the bottom of the pick handle with her left hand, she stood a couple of steps back from the rock face.

"Pedes shoulder width apart. Keep your left a step in front of your right. What you're doing is this."

With her left hand near the base of the pickaxe, she gripped about two thirds up with her right and swung, keeping a tight grip with both hands all the way. Glancing at him, she added, "You're burning energon you don't need to. Digging with a pick, you let the weight of the tool do the work."

Shifting her left hand to the very bottom of the handle, she instructs briefly, "Firm grip here. This is your anchor and your pivot." Her right hand moves back up to near the top of the handle, perhaps a fifth of the way down. "Looser grip here. You're pushing with your hand, not holding on."

Starting with the pick head low, roughly at four o clock from the pivot of her left hand, she swung the pick with exaggerated slowness. Once the pick head picked up momentum, even before it had swung fully upright, her hand slid down the shaft to join her left hand at the base. At the point the pick passed the vertical, the her grip was almost level with her optics, the pick overhead.

"Get the head moving, then your hand slides down. Let the momentum of the blade bring it down. Keep anchoring with the left so it doesn't jar out of your hands when it hits rock."

Stepping forward, she repeated the motion slowly, then nodded once and swung back once more. This time, she swung hard, the pick slamming down with a chiming ring of metal on stone as it knocked a chunk of sandstone loose.

"Keep your optics on where you intend to hit, and swing straight. If you're not experienced, it's easy to lose control on the downstroke because you don't have good leverage to steer. Take your time. Get it right."

Turning to him, she held out the pick again.

[Carbine]

Why did they even need more space!? Who cared if people had to double bunk or go somewhere else to work on things?! This was absolute horseshit and Carbine was getting angrier and angrier at every moment, while simultaneously getting more and more determined and resigned to the punishment that was thrown against him. Unintentional by design, the labor wasn't working because of the physical exertion it was putting on him... far from it. The labor was working because every time the pickaxe struck down against the stone, it sent a reverberation that rocked through his aching and hurt right hand.

The anger that seared active every time he reeled to take a swing, would sharply bleed at every strike when he reminded himself he had obliterated half of Windshield's face with sadistic glee. If it had happened unintentionally that would be one thing... but he WAS trying to inflict pain. He WAS trying to get vengeance. The Warden's face had been burned into his psyche as a vile demon he wanted to tear apart... yet even his grotesque visage couldn't numb what happened.

Strike after strike... his right hand vibrated from the impact, the digits sore and painful, making it feel as though his grip was slipping, though it never did. Carbine was just pulling back for another swipe, when Avalanche spoke, which... oddly enough caught him off guard?

Carbine stopped with a lurch, the rotors on his back flicking some as he was sharply reminded that he wasn't alone. He may subconsciously have been aware, picking up on movement should she come at him and tune back into reality... but in the moment he had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts his mental bead on her had slipped from the forefront. The yellow optical projections would then flick across her features, wondering what was going on here as he turned the pick around and offered the handle out.

Stepping back and well out of the way of a swing, Carbine blankly watched, his fans crackling and popping as they cycled the dusty air hard. His right hand would lift as he did so, the left cupping over it as he rubbed at the sore joints, his fingers flexing out when his thumb pressed at the base of each digit. He would continue to do this, gaze focused and sharp, not saying a single word as he thought over just what she was doing here.

If there were punishments elsewhere on other outposts, it was a 'figure it out yourself' approach and nobody cared if you were draining out dry from exertion. This mindset made her actions seem that much more alien, and yet, were one more piece of evidence that spoke of her weakness. Omega One, the Autobots now... they had no capability of being fierce and ruthless, and Carbine felt like that would be a downfall with this war. A war that was already sliding towards failure.

Inadvertently, by teaching him to swing properly, she was half disarming the punishment. Both by showing a form of compassion, and lessening the reverberations up his right hand.

Grabbing the pickaxe back, Carbine's optics would narrow slightly, looking over the tool before he walked around Avalanche to get back to the other side without putting his back to her. He would pop rotate the handle in his grip some, moving the pick's hooked end forward in the right direction, while he mirrored what she had been doing previously. It wasn't perfect, but there was an attempt made to get the right grip, his stance changing with legs apart from one another slightly too wide with left not stepping forward.

Close enough.

Kinda.

Wrenching, Carbine followed through on the first strike, his right hand inadvertently letting go as it slid down the handle from its soreness. This caused the pickaxe to lose control sharply, the head twisting sideways with a loud twing as it jumped. Avalanche's earlier warning was still fresh in his mind, and as such, the second things went squirrelly he lurch swung his hip to the side and let go entirely, dodging what may have been a bad bounce back. It was hard to say if it would or wouldn't have hit him, but he wasn’t taking a chance, making it worse by wrenching as he did to make the tool bounce/swing behind him from the fleeting grasp from his left hand.

A crackled snort was made as the pickaxe clattered down, Carbine's rotors flaring out part way on either side in alarm. He stared at it a moment, before looking up at Avalanche.

What the fuck?

Bite your words. Don’t do anything dumb again.