[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Scrapyard Hullabaloo [Backwater/Open]

[Deleted]

Ep. 3 | Week 4 - Day 2 | Daytime
Location: Around Colville National Forest, WA

Backwater/Bait - Open

---

Ever since arriving at Blackridge, Backwater had been eager to get her hands on a datapad so that she could answer one, vital question: was there water on this mudball or would she be spending her days bored as scrap, again. When she’d gotten access, she’d immediately done some preliminary research- and was delighted to find that there was water. A lot of it- oceans of it in fact- which, uh, great but ew. So instead she turned to looking up the more notable in-land bodies of water, both popular with the locals and more remote, and eventually came up with a bucket list of places to go. Smug like a well-fed Bait the femme bided her time, until the opportunity arose to go for a little… joyride.

Sure, it wasn’t just a joyride- it was only mostly one. A chance to really clear out the gunk in her engine casing after years of being grounded. Which sounded dramatic, but it was the utter truth. Backwater had last been posted on an absolutely miserable outpost with little in the way of anything even remotely interesting, let alone entertaining. No forest of any sort, no bog or swamp or even a puddle to speak of. Just dunes of dirt, and the odd dead thing she couldn’t be bothered to identify.

Now, however, she was livin’ the life. Cruising up the northeastern arm of the Columbia River with reckless abandon, fans whistling their buzzing, choppy howl that was music to her audials. She wasn’t going full speed, choosing instead to zoom up river in a slalom, or a zig-zag- or sometimes gunning it for a short spurt before cutting her engines and pitching her bow sideways to capsize and roll in the water. She wasn’t an actual local watercraft after all- her air vents could be shuttered close, her engine couldn’t be choked out and her alt’s low center of gravity made it easy as scrap to recover. All in all it was good fun, pulling all sorts of stunts between observation of the coasts for anything alarming or of interest.

It was in a lull, Bait deployed to swim lazily on her port side for a bit along a more wooded stretch of river, that a curious break in the trees caught that interest. She called her cassette back in close, setting a course for the left riverbank at a significantly reduced speed. Her fans whirred, quieter than before but still louder than a car’s engine. She hadn’t been actively looking for anything, but it paid to investigate. There hadn’t been much activity from the locals this far into the woods either- mountains rose along either side of the river, and apart from the occasional glimpse of a road it seemed sparsely habited. In any case, she was careful to approach cautiously. This area off the main river almost formed its own cove, the coast just off the bank quickly becoming a shallow sandbar before opening back up into a little gulley between two wooded hills. It was times like these, as she passed over the sand, that she was glad she had a flat-hauled alt and no inboard- or outboard- motors- life was annoying already, no need to scrape her bow or bend a fan blade on a rock to add to her dismay.

Backwater paused just before the shore, now partly hidden from the main waterway by a small peninsula and the hills encircling the cove. One last check, to make sure that there was well and truly no one around- con, bot, local or otherwise. Satisfied, Backwater cut her engines and let herself coast the last dozen meters to shore, transforming in shallow water that sloshed and sputtered around her knees with the movement.

“What a day for sailing, huh Bait?” She dipped an arm in the water, effectively fishing her cassette out so that the lazy sock puppet could dock without the inconvenience of moving himself. With a snort and a shake of the head at the flash of utter contentment such a motion garnered, Backwater waded out of the river and up unto the grass, cycling a few sputtering gusts of air through her vents to clear them of water. What had caught her eye, in this otherwise boring gulley of grass between the hills, was a shine of light bouncing off metal. As she approached now, only a bit wary and braced to move at the slightest sound, it was clear to see it was… an abandoned scrapyard, of sorts.

Old frames of vehicles long past their usefulness twisted out of the ground like skeletons half-buried and long forgotten, while the odd unidentifiable contraption gleamed from piles of rusted rubbish. Some newer things drew Backwater’s gaze to the far side of the lot- newer being… a relative term. The stuff still had paint, if anything. A road curved away behind this pile, up towards the hills and deeper into the trees inland- somewhat grown over and with no new tracks to speak of. This lot, altogether, was a somewhat fortunate find. Bait would eventually need some scrap to chew on, and no one would miss any of the rust-buckets here, she was certain. Plus- a grin split across her face- she might find something useful! Pit knows she was no stranger to salvage work.

After a quick poke around the yard, however, it quickly became clear that she’d need another set of servos. Her pouches couldn’t carry jack, and Bait’s subspaces were small and could only hold a few bits n' bobs. After a moment's contemplation, face screwed into a grimace as she taped a digit against her hip, Backwater decided to call in to base and see if they could bridge her over some poor sod to help haul metal. Checking to make sure her comms were correct and secured, she sent a quick message.

::Scout Backwater to Base, I’ve found a salvage yard that may offer up some useful pieces. If there’s any-mech slackin’ roun’ I could use a servo to polish off whatever’s here::
She tagged on a databurst containing the approximate coordinates for her current position and leaned against one of piles of crushed car frames, resolved to wait and see if anyone would get back to her.

[Pyrotech]

The soft drone of insects murmured and whispered around Backwater's frame, drawn by her warmth and the shine of her optics. Miniscule gnats and a few idle hover flies floated around her head. A few of them dipped close to her plating to test the moisture around her recently cleared vents, swooping and looping before they settled into circling patterns, lazily flying within the still air caused by the angle of her body.

Drifting on the breeze was the scent of disturbed mud from where she'd clambered out of the river. It stunk of decomposing water weed and leaves. There might have even been a touch of dead fish; delicious and enticing if you were a raccoon, but not if you were someone who ate with a more refined palate.

::Affirmitive, Scout Backwater::

The voice that replied to Backwater's query was cultured and slightly dry. The mech speaking had an obvious, upper-crust accent that was touched with a lifetime of lofty towers and elegant apartments.

::A salvage yard?:: he said with obvious interest.

Pyrotech sat up fully at his desk. Well, his rock slab resting on two carved chunks of sandstone. At least now he had an actual chair, so that was a start. Closest he'd come to having a desk since he had arrived on Earth, but that was a thought for another time. Right now, he needed to mull over what this femme was relaying.

He'd learned. Never pass up one of those. Even if it was mostly garbage that they couldn't find a use for, a lot of it was already purified metal that wasn't accounted for or catalogued. The humans would miss construction items left at a site, but they didn't care one whit about old cars and dented appliances, and those could be easily repurposed for flooring or wall support panels as needed. His dark hand came up and tapped thoughtfully on the datapad in front of him.

Absentmindedly he scrolled a fingertip over the pad and brought up the current roster. He had no idea who half these mechs were at base, and frankly, he didn't care. Most of them were utterly useless, good for nothing except a body to catch a blaster or to be recycled into better building material. Some of them were decent workers, though. Those he liked to know about and keep track of. Anyone who called back in a find to base had some actual sense and right now that was a rare thing.

His red optics focused on the information scrolling quickly under his touch.

A wildlife officer from Archon? One of the colony worlds... Interesting but not surprising that someone like this would end up on this filthy little mud-ball of a planet. Surprising that this femme might actually have a useful profession to us though. Hmmmm.

::Sort and retrieve what you possibly can,:: Pyrotech replied, even as he continued to read her dossier. ::Any good amount of metal is useable. I will send along who I can spare at the moment. They are under your orders for this operation, use them as you see fit. If you find too much to bring back easily, call back to base and ask for Commander Pyrotech. Whatever you can repurpose, I would absolutely appreciate it. Thank you.::

The polite response lingered as line crackled softly, and then closed.

Backwater wouldn't have too long to wait though. In less than ten minutes, a familiar green portal swirled open. The unnatural light washed over the trees and the ruined vehicles and trash, highlighting the hollow, desperate holes where headlights once were. The lopsided gape of a half-crumpled hood exposed a rusted and ruined engine. A tangle of mouse-chewed electrical lines lolled out one side, resting in a puddle of greasy sludge that had pooled in a small depression. Ancient cracked tires were dull and brittle, disintegrating with time and weather. Flakes of dry, crusted rubber piled up in a crumbled mass against the dented rims.

Then a robot padded quietly out of the ground bridge. A femme; tall, long-legged, and lean. She appeared to be black and soft grey under her patina of hard wear, scratches, and gouges. Her plating was spattered with dry mud and smeared with pale dust and road-grime. One forearm was wrapped up in some sort of filthy grey tape that was peeling away in spots.

There was a soft, unsure noise as the femme lifted her nose and drew a nervous gulp of air into her intakes. Forest. Water. Rust and junk. All of these scents were familiar to her. What wasn't was the odor of an unknown Cybertronian, one she didn't recognize from the base.

Then again, she didn't recognize many of the arrivals from the Nemesis; her goal was to stay as far away from most of them as she possibly could. If that meant trotting endless circles of patrol? Absolutely fine with her, she'd run border patrols until she dropped. Too many other things going on in her head lately anyway.

The whirr of light closed behind her.

Cautiously, Dart stepped out onto into the clearing. Behind her narrow shoulders, two small points of metal twitched, and then splayed nervously back. On seeing the other robot waiting, the courier immediately snuffled at the air and lifted her hand to touch the badly damaged sigil on her chest in a respectful salute.

Then she tucked her hands quickly to the small of her back and ducked her chin.

"Ma'am," she said quietly.

[Pipette]

It was a very generic day in the chemistry lab Pipette spent more time in than everywhere else combined. Four walls, ceiling and floor all made or carved rock protected her from what was outside, namely people and all their chaotic social interactions she couldn't follow. Inside her rock box was her entire universe, well, mostly. Despite her fears, real and imagined, about what lurked in the Decepticon base, her ventures outside had mostly actually been positive experiences. Those were her people out there, her kin, and amazing as it seemed every time she thought about it, even her friends. All two of them, maybe three, possibly four. Quantifying who was a friend and who was was exceptionally difficult.

Within her little laboratory, she had an equally little radio, with equally little volume. It was only the name Backwater that made her perk up and pull her attention from the molecular disposition growth of multi-walled carbon nanotubes in their custom built vapor chamber. Backwater was an interesting individual who was even harder to understand than most. They had shared drinks, and her cassette’s venom was an enticing chemical cocktail with surprising emergent properties. Further interaction was thus desirable. Pipette spent a few more minutes adjusting chemical processes to endure her absence unsupervised, packed up her spectrograph into her satchel, and eventually left her laboratory with a sigh.

A salvage yard could potentially yield any manner of useful elements, chemical compounds, and even equipment for the resourceful, but tearing apart a human car for its catalytic converter was not something her frame was built for. She had neither the strength, or the mechanical aptitude for car disassembly. What she did have however was access to power tools. She liked power tools. So before she went to the spacebridge command center, she visited the supply closet and signed out precisely one set of hydraulic power shears, and one “baby” disc saw. The larger disc saws were too big for her petite frame.

Slightly less than a dozen minutes after Backwater had sent her message, Pipette was ready to face the world. With all the professional conversation of one fridge to another, a vehicon sent her on her way to the scout coordinates.

With power tools in each hand, satchel over one shoulder, and her customary P.P.E. of hood goggles and mask in place, the chemist was ready for whatever circumstances, fortuitous or otherwise, would follow in Backwater’s wake.

Now where was she?

[Deleted]

::Received and understood, Commander Pyrotech. Thank you::

Pits, he was a city mech if she ever did hear one. Backwater shook her helm with a scoff and a sigh, looking around the scrapyard in contemplation. Cons came in all shapes, sizes and backgrounds, she knew- and she also knew claims and rumors that the cons were entirely made up of the lower castes were decidedly, very much, false. Any comments about her opinion of a Commanding Officer would, however, be kept quite firmly to her-pits-spawned-self.

The airboat-mech hummed, considering the rubbery pads of her digits for a moment before she moved to pick out a few drying weeds that snaked down an armour plate on her forearm from where they were lodged in the wire-net of her fan cage. She paid no heed to the native insects that flew about her frame or the stink wafting from the mud disrupted by her passage, instead cycling a nice, long, invigorating vent of fresh air to liven-up her systems. Ah, it felt nice to be out. She honestly didn’t mind that Blackridge was rough-hewn, what she found offensive was that it was underground. It was nicer than her old station for sure- the now-defunct, pit-spawned, helm-numbingly boring fueling station she’d rather not think about ever again- but by scrap, did the Hold get cramped when a mech was used to the great range of the outdoors. Not to mention her bunkmate was an utter helm-ache all on his own, so getting some space from him was just as, if not more so, refreshing.

As Backwater waited for whoever was being sent, she discreetly made a slow loop of the perimeter- poking her helm into any alcoves in the tight-packed trunks of the forest surrounding the scrapyard, walking up the overgrown access road a bit, and overall just making sure it was secure enough for what they were going to be doing. Secure enough, too, to deploy Bait again. Once satisfied, she did just that- pinging his systems to enable deployment and receiving an excited pulse of satisfaction over their bond in response.

The cassette unwound himself from Carrier’s waist and stretched up to her arm with a curious tongue flick and a flare of the hood as he got a read for the area. He then continued further- using her arm as a bridge of sorts between his docking ports and the stack of half-buried vehicles Bac was standing next to.
“Keep close and hidden, Wyrm.” Bait didn’t look back at his Carrier, but the ping of agreement she received from the bond was as good an acknowledgement as any. Her cassette knew what was edible and what wasn’t- and it wasn’t as if his systems couldn’t handle whatever impurities he could possible encounter either. She trusted him to get his fill for now and keep a lookout for them as they worked.

No sooner than Bait disappeared behind the stack of disheveled, rusted skeletons of cars long past their prime, the tell-tale whoosh, electrifying crackle and blinding green wash of light of the ground bridge spelled the arrival of Commander Pyrotech’s helping servos. Backwater straightened from where she’d leaned against the scrap-stack, chewing one end of an antenna she’d snapped off of a nearby vehicle. Not for the first time, she was glad her visor was dark enough to allow her to scrappin’ see who was coming through. The femme that emerged was- give or take the picture of exactly the kind of mech Backwater preferred to work with. Dirty, ding-ed up, already seemingly used to salvage if those- what the ex-seacon assumed were- improvised bandages indicated anything. No fancy filigree or purely aesthetic, cumbersome kibble (and by the visible lack of wings, presumably not a flier either). She seemed to sniff the air upon arrival which- well, hey- if she had the senses necessary to get anything useful from that, good on her for the immediate reconnaissance.

“G’day!” Backwater lifted a hand and called out in greeting, rolling her shoulders as she walked over. She stopped at a respectful distance- one that (coincidently) wouldn’t scrap up her neck cables looking up at the other, taller mecha. As a responding show of good faith, she gave a two-digit salute in the general direction of the Decepticon badge bobble atop the antenna over her shoulder.
“Backwater, head o’ this impromptu salvage op. My partner’s ‘round ‘ere somewhere so don’t be too skittish if ya spot ‘em. Ever do somethin’ like this before?” She spoke with a pleasant enough tone, in a straightforward but friendly enough manner- though her smirk was perhaps a touch too sharp.

Of course, introductions were barely started and the first bridge barely closed when a second roared to life- earning a quirked optic-brow from Backwater as she turned just enough to keep both the first arrival, and whoever was coming through in sight. This one she recognized. “Well well, if it ain’t the lil chemist herself. Dunno if yer gonna find anythin’ too useful to your craft in ah’ older scrapheap like this Pipette, but another pair of servos ain’t ah’ waste either.” Backwater again raised her hand and called out in greeting, taking the opportunity to acquaint the first femme with Blackridge’s resident chemical weapon specialist in case they didn’t know each other. Did the ex-seacon think miss sweet-cheeks would manage to carry much of the scrap, honestly? No. But scrap, whatever, they had to make do with whoever they had- and if the chemist did find something special for her work? All the better for the war effort.
Not to mention-
“I see ya brought some tools- nice thinkin’, that.” Backwater turned from Pipette to the first, assuming Pip would join them in the little clearing by the water, on the outskirts of the scrapyard.
“So, if there ain't no further interruptions, have either of ya ever salvaged a yard like this?" Knowing the experience of both would better help Backwater divvy up the tasks, but she had a feeling she'd likely just be separating out the yard in three and telling them both to go through from most delicate parts to least anyway.

[Dart]

Partner?

A second quick sniff didn't reveal an odor Dart could pinpoint as belonging to another mech. Huh, maybe her partner was doing a perimeter patrol, or scouting.

As the second bridge spun into light, it cast that same greenish, sickly pall over the yard. Shadows became sharp and tall, as if they were dark, jagged teeth under a lifted lip of warning. Dart shifted her weight nervously before she dug her heels into the ground beneath her, forcing herself to stand still as another robot made their way out of the portal. Automatically, the courier did another quick sniff and realized she didn't recognize this Decepticon either. They carried with them incredibly different odors; sharp and astringent, with a cloying chemical tang.

It was weirdly unpleasant for some reason and made her nervous as it wafted out from under the robot's... hood?

To be fair though, almost everything made Dart nervous. Probably not the best point to focus on.

Apparently these two mechs knew each other. Pipette. Oh. She was a chemist. Well those smells made sense now. This was someone who spent time in a lab, mixing one concoction after another. Down at the university, the humans had smelled like that as they shuffled out of the lab wings and the science department. That and an awful lot of coffee.

"Yes ma'am," Dart said quietly to Backwater as she quickly and politely looked away from the newest arrival, letting her gaze focus on the gross ground between her feet.

Pyrotech was constantly salvaging. It was a way of life for them. She'd hauled metal and cable and tin, pulled stones and pushed sand. They'd actually lived in a place like this once. It wasn't by any means her favorite memory. The smell of these old, struggling scrapyards always brought back a lot of the awfulness that had happened during her Australia. Robots hiding under the dirt and squalor of dark and decaying junk.

The tips of Dart's spoiler flicked back and forth and then half-lifted over her shoulders as she tucked her hands a bit tighter to the small of her back.

"I do. I mean, I've salvaged a lot, yes ma'am. Commander Pyrotech does it all the time to supply Blackridge," she murmured.

[Deleted]

A brown colored aircraft seemed to zag and zig thru the air, as if it was more kite than helicopter. The heavily customized Bell XV-15 Tiltrotor, currently moved toward the junkyard the other Decepticons seemed to be converging on. It bouncing thru the air as if the pilot was trying to steer with one hand while blind folded. Any dips near the ground being immediately overcorrected as it moved generally forward. A response is soon heard on an open Decepticon channel. “Backbeat here. Don’t start the party without me.” An excited Backbeat was on the move. 

The VTOL vandal soon arrived at the scrapyard’s airspace and started to land. He choose to land near the yard, but just far enough away as to not let his turbines kick up large amounts of dirt and debris. That said, he’d inadvertently defoliated a few nearby trees. The earth-mode was still new to him, but the minor tempest it's rotors could generate was fast becoming it's most entertaining feature. 

As Backbeat transformed to robot mode, the turbulence his rotors caused stopped. Rotor blades folded into fearsome claws as his body assumed a bipedal shape. Backbeat took survey of the scrap yards entrance before walking in. He’d not had much opportunity to tour this wild new world before now… His job had taken priority, and he’d learned to hate being stuck in the Decepticon’s apparently new fortress. Still, it was not all bad. He was outside, finally, and was excited to be able to both experience the planet’s natural beauty and its intoxicating transmissions. When the opportunity had arose, he’d quietly cut and ran from his mountain of supply requisitions to explore a bit. It had been rather good luck he’d been in the relative area when he got the transmission. An excursion to explore and get a little experience in his new earth mode had been cut short in favor of his second favorite activity... Looting.

Backbeat walked towards Backwater and Pipette slowly. He casually waved a clawed hand at the two. His rusty brown and bright yellow armor seemed covered in compartment doors and storage bays. His various Decepticon badges were spots of bright purple amidst the rather earthy tones his color scheme seemed to dominate his frame. The armor itself appeared as if it was ordered for a bot a size or two bigger than the lanky robot that wore it. What appeared to be sharp claws poked out of bulky forearms being drug by rather lanky upper arms. Backbeat glanced at the two as he spoke a friendly “Hello, I'm Backbeat and I’m here for the looting.” The faceplate he wore jostling slightly as he spoke. He added a jovial: “I haven’t missed out on any of the good stuff, have I?” He clasped his clawed hands together as his gaze wandered around the area. Already scanning the nearby junk piles for valuables.