Flashback – “De Facto” – Closed
Apr 17, 2012 11:24:45 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 17, 2012 11:24:45 GMT -5
They’d refitted him with a class five ion cannon… two of them. A class seven molecular-cut combat blade, shock-trooper model, designed for heavy-impact builds twice his mass density but then again Zeta Prime had been the one in charge of his basic training so it didn’t surprise the data clerk even remotely that the mech was fitting his political rival for frontline work. Technically, Orion was of the rank to buck his command and direct operations from a remote location like the other CO’s but…. the message it sent, frankly, would have done the new leader more damage than a frag grenade to the chassis.
So to speak.
“You’re their hope,” Zeta had said, malice in his politically-crafted affection. “Show them you’re more than talk, that you’re a Prime now, Optimus.”
It’s Orion, he remembered thinking, standing in Zeta’s office, wondering at the strange weight in the subspace folds of his armor, not physically heavy but… denser somehow. He was aware of his weaponry slotted deep into the mass-displacement sections of his frame. It prompted him to keep clenching and unclenching his hands. The medics who’d done most of his combat refit said they were surprised. The archivist standard software and sub-routines took easily to the military downloads and his hardware integrated with seamless sync to his new combat mods.
“You’re a natural,” they’d said.
I’m a historian, he’d corrected. They’d changed his plate density so he was heavier, but he hardly noticed since his hydraulics had been kicked up a notch as well. Basic combat and aggro-tec had been flashed into his neural mass and proto-recall but he felt no different and, upon closer examination, it was found that his model had already been built with a latent software package – though eon out of date – for combat. “They haven’t changed your model for millions of years,” said the medic overlooking his refit. “That’s remarkable.”
Remarkable that my function class has stagnated unnoticed for millions of years, he thought, now, watching the main batteries roll into the Autobot encampment, a five-mech combiner laughing down at his chalk before coming apart at the seams, leaping into the air as five aerial bots and hurdleing away to the cargo freights again. The Autobot cause did not want for supplies… but they did want for combat ready troops. Obvious, considering he was in command here.
Orion waited. The platoon’s new weapons master would be reporting here shortly as Orion would not be allowing him to evade it this time with stories of ‘Aye, Ah’ll get ta ya when Ah got taime!’ because there would not be any time. Megatron would not give him time. Ironhide's unwillingness to take to his new "protection detail" didn't yet concern him... unless Zeta had assigned him specifically for that reason.
So to speak.
“You’re their hope,” Zeta had said, malice in his politically-crafted affection. “Show them you’re more than talk, that you’re a Prime now, Optimus.”
It’s Orion, he remembered thinking, standing in Zeta’s office, wondering at the strange weight in the subspace folds of his armor, not physically heavy but… denser somehow. He was aware of his weaponry slotted deep into the mass-displacement sections of his frame. It prompted him to keep clenching and unclenching his hands. The medics who’d done most of his combat refit said they were surprised. The archivist standard software and sub-routines took easily to the military downloads and his hardware integrated with seamless sync to his new combat mods.
“You’re a natural,” they’d said.
I’m a historian, he’d corrected. They’d changed his plate density so he was heavier, but he hardly noticed since his hydraulics had been kicked up a notch as well. Basic combat and aggro-tec had been flashed into his neural mass and proto-recall but he felt no different and, upon closer examination, it was found that his model had already been built with a latent software package – though eon out of date – for combat. “They haven’t changed your model for millions of years,” said the medic overlooking his refit. “That’s remarkable.”
Remarkable that my function class has stagnated unnoticed for millions of years, he thought, now, watching the main batteries roll into the Autobot encampment, a five-mech combiner laughing down at his chalk before coming apart at the seams, leaping into the air as five aerial bots and hurdleing away to the cargo freights again. The Autobot cause did not want for supplies… but they did want for combat ready troops. Obvious, considering he was in command here.
Orion waited. The platoon’s new weapons master would be reporting here shortly as Orion would not be allowing him to evade it this time with stories of ‘Aye, Ah’ll get ta ya when Ah got taime!’ because there would not be any time. Megatron would not give him time. Ironhide's unwillingness to take to his new "protection detail" didn't yet concern him... unless Zeta had assigned him specifically for that reason.