| abstract
| - Sahara Stinging particles of sand and dust fly in your face as you trudge through the shifting dunes of the Sahara... You wonder whether some hideous disaster aeons ago might be to blame for the condition of this desolate area... the contrast of the unending wastes against your memories of the richness of the world where it lies is almost unbearably stark. Moving among the waves of sand, you stumble over a completely unexpected patch of vegetation, the dried scrubby brush looking like a rose in bloom to your startled eyes. Though it offers no shade, it is a comforting spark of vitality in the otherwise empty desert. Contents: Decepticon Shuttle Contrail Octane Outbound The Decepticon Shuttle Triumph sets down on the rasping sands of the barren wastes of the Sahara. Tiny beads of earth scatter and whip about beneath the anti-grav engines of the large transport, and a few tumbleweeds are uprooted as their feeble root systems are no match for the power of Cybertronian technology. A soft crunch permeates the landscape, muted slightly by the sharp winds that play havoc against the starship's hull, as Triumph sets down. The landing bay opens up, large ramp unfolding to give access to the blank surface of the surrounding desert and Outbound begins his descent... A small computer emerges from his left forearm, and a medium pitched tone begins to ring periodically before the Decepticon presses a finger against the screen to silence it. "Hmmm... Exactly what I had thought. An utter wasteland," he muses, indigo optics flashing with each syllable. "These sands however... They may not be to Trypticon's liking," he continues aloud. "That's what this is about?" quizzes Octane as he emerges from the shuttle, one shoulder dropping back as he passes through the portal to allow his wings to bypass the door jamb, "Trying to find a new hiding place for the big guy?" he eschews the ramp, instead trotting out into open air, flight systems making the drop from exit to ground a gentle glide, sand crunching beneath his boots when he lands. Shielding his optics with his eyes, Octane peers upwards, gleaming eyes narrowed against the horrid sun. F-35B Lightning II flies over the other Decepticons and then turns around to come back, dropping to an alarmingly low altitutde, solely so that she can say, "This is very.... landlocked. Low chance of Trypticon being dumped in the ocean, here, I guess." Trypticon being dumped in the ocean is always a huge concern. "It is," Outbound replies simply enough with little indication given to whom exactly the reply was directed. Outbound's gaze travels over the wastes for another moment before he too makes his way into open air, the sands ebbing slightly as his body sinks a few inches upon setting foot onto the terran surface. The forearm data-computer seems to react to the new position, this time silently with a not-so-subtle blinking of an orangish light. Studying the datastream silently it seems as if the mobile infantrymech is completely oblivious to anything but the small screen, but as he looks out over the desert yet one more time his eyes flash again with speech. "Temperatures as low as -5 degrees celcius during the winter months. As high as 50 degrees celcius during the summer. Highest recorded temperature 58 degrees celcius... This is a place of extremes." Fixing his attention on Contrail. "Couldn't just ride in the shuttle?" he uttered, the upwards quirk at the corner of his lip offering a mirthful touch to the mock-sour comment. Seekers are good flyers right? He'd hate to have to pull her nose-cone out of a unexpected sand dune. "Why worry about this anyway?" he asks, hand dropping from over his optics as he turns towards Outbound, "I mean, we've got the big guy in a pretty good spot already, don't we?" he prattles on, making some absent gesture with his hand. F-35B Lightning II is a very good flier. She can't speak for anyone else. Contrail drawls, "Now you're just reading that off a data entry. Let's ask some better questions. How much do the Autobots CARE about this place? Threaten their precious North America or Europe, and they come running fast, but this is Africa..." As Outbound contemplates the point of the mission to find a new place for Trypticon to roost, Outbound begins to make his way farther from the shuttlecraft as if he hand't even been addressed by either of his companions. Another dance of fingers across the datacomp elicits another series of binary chirps, and the blinking orange light shifts to a steady emerald green. "It's soemthing to do," the infantrymech notes finally, likely to Octane. His shoulder shrug casually as if having something to do was good enough reason for them to be out in the middle of nowhere for him at least. Squinting, Outbound grunts at Contral's comment. "Indeed. While Africa is home to many natural resources that the fleshbags use in abundance the conditions of places such as this desert are extreme to the point that it is unlikely that they will turn those gelatinous pussballs that they pass as optics onto this region for some time." A smile seems to light Outbound's features as his datacomp chirps again, and a mirthful cackle escapes him as his eyes flash along though for whatever his reasons the infantrymech neglects to share what it is that he suddenly finds so funny. With the colorful mention of human eyes, Octane grimaces, head rocking back at the end of his neck while his face twists in distaste. Sure, it was true, but he didn't like to think about it. They were always looking with those things! "I dunno. They have those satellites too!" Octane ushered the idea away from the bilogical stew that makes up the world's natives. Folding his arms beneath his windshield, Octane turns his attention skywards, peering suspiciously at one cloud or another. "I mean, sure we could cover Big-T in sand or concoct some optical camo, but still..." he is forcing himself to blithely ignore Outbound's sudden fit of laughter. It wasn't anywhere near as infectious as some... mostly creepy. It crept up on you. F-35B Lightning II continues to fly along slowly and low, and she corrects, "I meant, how much do the Autobots care about the humans here? The Autobots do not care about all humans equally. Or do not seem to, at least. Of course, we also have to consider... how easy would it be to deploy Trypticon from here to useful targets?" Outbound's computer collapses in upon itself and then takes its leave completely as it packs itself neatly away into the subspace portal within his forearm, his optics still searching the landscape that is just as barren as it was the first time he'd looked it over. "Still..." the mech seems to agree with Octane without so many words. Contrail makes a good point though, doesn't she? "Data records of the history of the region indicate a very mixed view of the local population as viewed by the rest of the Earth's populace. On one level there seems to be a lot of commercial interest in the region, however the bulk of the local population does not seem to have benefited much from it. Those that benefit are typically stationed elsewhere on the globe..." Which is a good thing for their purposes surely enough. Outbound snaps his fingers, and his optics flash again. "This location would be ideal for deployment to all areas of the globe. Its' centalized location would decrease travel or response times to any earthside activities tremendously. However... It is also somewhat vulnerable for the very same reason, which is why camouflage would have to be top-notch in order for this to be a truly effective settlement." "Alright, alright, listen. Deployment tactics and the earth's geopolitical slag isn't exactly my purview. Now, area around here is pretty rich in fossil fuels, I know that much. Maybe we could set up some solar banks too. Do this and we might off set the costs of moving the big guy pretty quickly." he offers his points on the matter. He seems ready to add a few measres more only to halt, eyes tracking the circling flight of contrail, "You're... you're just going to keep circling us like that? Not going to land at all? Afraid of getting sand in your high-heels?" F-35B Lightning II lands and transforms. "Well. If you insist. It's just that I have better sensors in jet mode than I do in my other modes." Turning into a police car, Contrail fights crime! Wait, that's not right. Contrail causes crime. Outbound's optics flash at the mention of fossil fuels, remaining silent for some time. Darnit! He wanted to capitalize on that little tidbit of information. How wonderful it would be to have kept the plentitude of oil to himself for just long enough to try and run off with a converter to see if he couldn't create some additional energon for use in his own personal experiments. Then again there wasn't a base here yet... "That is a potential benefit, however the same could be true of Antarctica. That particular region remains largely unexplored even by the fleshbags that live here. It is actually hypothesized by many of the hyumans that Antarctica could be sitting on massive deposits of fossil fuels and other natural resources..." the mech says betraying none of his ulterior motive. Yep, time to start championing the Antarctica settlement! Contrail's transformation and subsequent landing seem to draw little notice from Outbound who begins to try and shift the conversation to more talk of Antarctica. "It would be much easier to keep Trypticon hidden in the deep south as well." Oh, oh, did the new kid on the block not think that the boys and girls that had been her since the 1980s would forget about the black gold, the Texas Tea? Aha, Ahahaha, Hah, ha... aaah, that's good. With the landing of Contrail... and her subsequent transformation... into a car. Octane fixed her with a curious look, red eyes gleaming with questions. Was.... was she a Cybertronian without a robot mode? The horror, the utter horror! Maybe she was just being silly... The Horror! "Agh, can't we just build a base on the moon... Have we done that yet?" he wonders aloud, optical ridge lifted, "We've probably done that already..." he continues, arm lifted topoise at his chin. Lamborghini Gallardo has three modes. They're wandering along. Her car mode is perfectly capable of keeping pace and then some. It's not like she needs hands to slog through desert sand! "The moon is an interesting idea. Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if we forgot Earth entirely. Just pulled out and attacked some other world." Outbound doesn't have much to say about the moon. It's way up there, which is far away from any targets that they would ever likely raid, and far too many Decepticons were too stupid to take a class on how to pilot a shuttle. After a moment's pause and Contrail's commentary as she continues to zip about the Saharan wastes, "Attacking some other world...a base on the moon...both would weaken our station here on Earth, where we are very much aware that there is indeed energon ripe for the taking. Leave here and the hyumans consolidate their strength, use all of their experience fighting with us and aide from the Autobots to significantly build up their forces thus strengthening the Autobot's so-called Alliance. That would certainly bite us in the aft in the end. A terrible idea, both of those." No feelings spared this time around for sure! "You talk like they have any strength left to consolidate!" remarks Octane his smile gone crooked. "The UNs EDC was all but wiped out a while ago." he notes, arms falling down to brace at his hips. "Now if we left?" he offers a shrug of indifferent unknowing. "Same deal, different set pieces. We had Nebulon for a while, let it go. No idea why, maybe the Stunticons were just too dumb to run a planet." he follows along with his idle reasonings. "Of course, we're talking like we have anything to do about all of this. You tell Galvatron that he's going about things all wrong and you're liable to end up spare parts for your trouble!" Lamborghini Gallardo sighs to herself and has to side with Octane, "The humans would be nothing without the Autobots propping them up. If we left, the Autobots would be forced to pick - repair Earth to help their human friends or chase /us/. But in any case... when's the last time either of you heard from Galvatron? Not Shockwave. /Galvatron/." The mobile infantrymech's expression remains blank as he listens to Octane, the other mech's reasonings passing by him without further comment. Who knows which of them is more correct? If Outbound was a betting mech he would certainly put his energon on his own analysis, but Octane wasn't the total fool that he had initially appeared to be. "Agreed. Making waves with the current ruler of the Empire is always ill-advised folly..." Like so many have found out the hard way before! A smirk briefly colors Outbound's expression as he thinks, "Starscream...Hahaha.." Then Contrail's question strikes a chord, as it is the same question that he had indirectly asked Shockwave not long after his reactivation. Other than the piece he'd already spoken on the matter of the leader that he has never before met however, Outbound remains silent. "Big purple hasn't been around?" wondered Octane, a brow raising once more as he regards the squat, little car. "Huh... well that would explain a few things..." like noone being shot for the infiltration fiasco. Lamborghini Gallardo basks in Outbound's poignant silence. After a long pause, she confirms, "Yes. In as many words." She finally transforms to robot mode to brush some of the sand off her frame. In a transformation that is harder than it looks, Contrail rises up into robot mode. Outbound lifts a hand to his chin and begins to stroke at it gently, his indigo optics going dim as the other two continue to speak of Galvatron. Once Contrail has transformed into her primary mode the infantrymech's optics flash at their full brightness output, as if he'd just had a so-called 'eureka' moment before turning swiftly while simultaneously changing his own mode. Not a moment is wasted, as he's off like a bat out of hell toward the shuttle before you could say 'peace out'. Hiss, pop, whirr, grind, snap, click- HOVERTANK! "well...." utters Octane as he waves away the cloud of dust kicked up in Outbound's wake, brushing it off here and there from his frame, "that was interesting and all..." He waits, almost expecting the ramp to snap shut in the tank's wake... No? "So... looks like we're don here..." Contrail pulls out a polishing rag to wipe the dust off her optics and looks the way that Outbound went. "Huh. Wonder what spooked him. But yeah, let's blow this popstand." As Outbound bounds into the shuttle, Triumph's boarding ramp snaps shut before the trail of dust kicked up by the hovertank's hoverjets even begins to initiate the process of resettling. On turns Triumph's antigravity propulsion system, and the vessel begins to lift off from the terran surface. So much for courtesy of waiting, eh? As far as Outbound is concerned...popstand blown!
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