Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 1, 2009 10:19:35 GMT -5
Starting on Day 2 of Small Plots. Public
Sometime after the tumult died down behind him, one fact finally seeped past Duskwing's indignation at the supposedly soft, nice Autobots letting him die... that was Omega Supreme back there!
Still clutching his dead self's wings, Duskwing limped onward going... that way. He didn't know why Omega Supreme had hurried off without blasting him into oblivion, but he wasn't going back to ask him. He wasn't even going to turn back and see if Omega Supreme would notice him. That would be stupid, and, as Duskwing frequently told himself, he wasn't stupid. People just never told him things in a sensible fashion, and were always in a big hurry, never giving a bot time to think.
After some hours of limping across the black lava sand (occasionally interspersed with fields of red sand), Duskwing began to wonder what had happened to the rest of the Decepticons. Why hadn't he heard from anyone? Why hadn't they called the retreat, or boasted of victory? Had Omega Supreme destroyed them all? Was he the very last Decepticon still functioning?
He toggled his radio and yelled, "Hey! Where'd youse guys go?"--then the malfunction warning reminded him.
"Oh yeah, them bastards busted it. Cut it right out of me," he growled to himself. He stopped, and dropped the more-intact-than-his-own wings; they fell to the sandy ground with a dull thud-thud. Maybe he could re-attach the radio. Duskwing reached into his cockpit and pulled it out.
It didn't look right. Duskwing stared at it in puzzlement for several moments before he realized that the radio was split open by the heavy dart embedded in it--Perceptor-3's dart. The paralytic dart had been stopped by the radio stashed in Duskwing's cockpit, spending its kinetic energy and disruption charge on the poor, inoffensive, useless, disconnected radio.
He stared at it a bit longer in dull horror. It was destroyed; completely useless. He couldn't reconnect it; he couldn't call anyone. He couldn't find them, either; he didn't know where he was, or where they were.
Duskwing was all alone.
|
|
|
Post by Phobia/Pierce Fobster on Feb 1, 2009 23:05:28 GMT -5
Phobia is currently an unhappy bike. But, but, he was also currently one of the least damaged mechs about (hurrah, cowardice) and he didn't have anything too important to do, hence, he was put to unwanted tasks such as finding a wayward seeker jet. In the desert. It was, quite honestly, a bit like finding a needle in a haystack at the moment and Phobia was idly wondering if the jet had already navigated back to base.
The heat of the day was pressing down on his back and dust had taken the shine off his recently, meticulously cleaned armor. Unpleasant, terribly unpleasant; he'd need to clean it all off again and again until the minuscule scratching of dust was gone from every imaginable joint and that was going to take a good long time. This place was worse than Charr sometimes- at least Charr didn't have much atmosphere and the only things out to kill him there were some of his teammates and a moody Galvatron.
As it was, the dark motorcycle was speeding through the unnervingly dusty terrain, his sensors on high alert for any signs of a vaguely resembling a dead or living seeker. It would be terribly nice if he were dead though: a lot less fuss and no unhappy flier to try and haul back to base.
|
|
Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 1, 2009 23:52:30 GMT -5
Duskwing spins about, trying to figure out where he's come from, which way is back. He succeeded in tripping over his lame leg and landing heavily on an already badly-twisted wing.
"OW! Slaggit!" Duskwing doesn't panic very often--by the time it registers that something panic-inducing has happened, the moment has usually passed, so there's no point. This was different; he is still lost--but the pain of his battle-damaged wing knocks him out of it.
Pain is part of being a Decepticon warrior. Duskwing understands pain. He awkwardly staggers back to his feet, cursing incoherently at the sand that sneaks into his joints and grates there. Then he carefully picks up the two chunks of wing.
Which way? Back might be Decepticons, but back is Omega Supreme, and that crazy Clown Prime that pissed him off so badly.
"Goin' home. Yeah. Dat's it." At least his gyrocompass still works. The base is west somewhere. Or maybe north. Or northwest. He can't exactly remember, but if he goes far enough northwest, he'll get somewhere. Eventually.
He continues limping across the sand, wings bent into sheet-metal origami, cockpit smashed, air intakes crumpled, tire tracks up and down his front and back, one knee joint heat-fused into a rigid bar of metal, laser burns peppering his tattered wings, tail fins and body.
Not to mention the gouge in his neck where his radio had been chopped out...
|
|
|
Post by Phobia/Pierce Fobster on Feb 2, 2009 6:15:51 GMT -5
Halfway between having his paint blister from the heat and going off to find a quiet shady place to quietly suffer quietly in his own minor woes, Phobia was shocked out of his unpleasant haze by a distant voice. It was a fleeting sound that barely even made it over the monotonous hum of his engines but he pulled the brakes and skidded to a disgustingly dusty halt. For a few seconds the bike sat on the spot, shifting on his suspensions minutely in detestation as the unsettled dirt slowly drifted back downwards.
When there were no other utterances from the silent desert Phobia shuddered and shook the grime off before letting himself contemplate exactly what he'd heard. Whatever it'd been it couldn't be too far off and if it wasn't too far off then Phobia had something new to worry about asides from the black, horrible sand. Had it been a heat induced hallucination- a sign of his slowly deteriorating sanity? Maybe it was an Autobot that'd uttered the sound. Or some kind of alien monstrosity that would soon arise from the dunes to consume him as a midday snack?
Or maybe it was just the Decepticon he was looking for, but one could never have enough of an overactive imagination. Cautiously Phobia inched along the vast expanse of blackness. A few more minutes later he was rewarded with the sight of footprints on the ground, still clear in the sifting sands and certainly about the right size for a seeker. His sight followed the imprints towards the horizon-
Then, through the shimmering mirage, Phobia spots a dusk colored figure against the bright blue and black backdrop and pauses for a moment.
"Hey!" He shouts cautiously into the arid air afterward, quietly hoping he could outrun the other if it should turn out that they weren't the Decepticon he was looking for.
|
|
|
Post by Long Range on Feb 2, 2009 6:33:05 GMT -5
Other than Phobia, Duskwing wasn't quite as alone as he had thought. Having gotten seperated from Sky-Byte at some point, Long Range was jogging his merry way over the sand dunes, happily convinving himself that he'd find somebody sooner or later. Or atleast a shady patch to lie down in until his radio, which had been busted by a certain plant lady, would get repaired by his internal systems.
Long range was quite near to Duskwing when he heard him call out, but to be fair he hadn't been making much noise ad his camoflage systems had done its job rather well, making it hard to distinguish him from the the balck desert if you weren't particularly looking for him. Then he heard another, less familiar but still hopefully frindly voice.
"Hey, That you out there Duskwing?" He called at the top of his voice, not quitesure howfar away the jet former was from him.
|
|
Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 2, 2009 8:58:48 GMT -5
Duskwing staggers along for a bit then comes to a stop, scowling. Has he heard something that isn't the wind? He thinks about it for a moment--the heat under his cowl slows his processing even more than usual--then thinks about it for another moment.
He can't remember what it was he heard. Besides, there's no one else here. Duskwing painfully turns around again, remembering not to spin quickly this time. "Nobody dere, see?"
Except that shimmering speck in the mirage. Duskwing tires of mirages. They keep promising an end to the desert in a lake or river, and then aren't there. Now the mirage is making noises that aren't there.
"Slaggit! Slag you!" he snarls at the black desert.
"Hey, That you out there Duskwing?"
Duskwing turns again--the desert is yelling at him again. He looks at the speck--it didn't come from that direction.
"No, it's Megatron's Starscream punching droid--can't you tell by the wings??" he snaps. "Geez-Louise, how many blue jets do you think dere are?"
|
|
|
Post by Phobia/Pierce Fobster on Feb 2, 2009 10:03:44 GMT -5
Phobia flinches and briefly considers scampering away the moment another presence makes itself known. But the voice he hears is a familiar one. Well, if one considers 'heard over the radio' familiar, but recognizable no less. And of course the second voice pipes up and yes, those two were definitely Decepticons.
Revving his engines a bit louder than necessary to announce himself, the bike makes his way over to the... seeker. Yes, seeker, he can see now. Nonetheless the shiny little mech maintains a casually cautious speed as he heads in, only slowing to a stop a relatively safe distance away from the other, and even then he maintains his silence for a moment longer as he glances over the terrain for any sign of the other voice's owner. When he finally ceases that he briefly turns his windshield towards Duskwing in an almost quizzical manner.
"You're lost, I hope?" He asks in a pleasantly polite tone of voice.
|
|
|
Post by Long Range on Feb 2, 2009 14:45:33 GMT -5
"Do you honestly want me to answer that Duskwing?" Long Range says as he strides over a sand dune in the opposite direction Duskwing was looking.
He'd forgive them if all they saw was this huge thing silhouetted agianst the sky with a rather large gun drawn.
|
|
Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 2, 2009 19:36:13 GMT -5
Duskwing finally spots the motorcycle approaching; warily, he powers and half-raises his guns. They still work.
"Who are you?" Duskwing asks suspiciously. "You look sorta like a Junkion. You a Junkion? And why do want me to be lost?" Duskwing scowls and gives Phobia a very suspicious look, raising one arm to point at the motorcycle-former.
Then the other desert voice replies and something sends the sand susurrating down the sand dune behind him; Duskwing whirls in surprise, drops his spare wings, loses his balance again, but catches himself before he falls down, winding up in an awkward, wobbly cross-legged stance like a small child who has to go to the bathroom very badly.
Four smokestacks--there's something familiar about that silhouette. Duskwing thinks about it while he untangles his feet, one arm-gun still pointing vaguely at Phobia.
"Got it! Long Range! Youse guys survived?"
|
|
|
Post by Phobia/Pierce Fobster on Feb 3, 2009 7:53:05 GMT -5
"Well if you're not lost then I have absolutely no good reason to be looking for you, which is rather unfortunate as that is my current assignment." Phobia answers as-a-matter-of-factly, leaning ever so slightly away from the potentially aggressive jet. "And I'm not a Junkion, no." With the rate that the desert was scratching away at his paint though, the bike was sure that little fact was going to change in a few hours.
Then another mech makes his appearance and its all Phobia can do not to flee at the very sight of him. However, he reigns that particular impulse in with familiar ease as he watches the two larger mechs greet each other and deigns to keep himself a good, relatively safe, distance away from them.
|
|
|
Post by Long Range on Feb 3, 2009 15:55:02 GMT -5
Long Range plods his way down the sand dune, being careful not to slip and cause a minor dust storm on impact. He takes a moment to look over Duskwing and take in the damages the poor jet had suffered before letting out a long, low whistle. "What happened to you? Gt Stepped on by Omega Supreme?" He asks the jetformer, resting the rifle in his hand over his one shoulder.
"And you are?" He says, unshouldering the rifle and using it to vaguely point in Phobia's direction.
|
|
Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 3, 2009 18:57:32 GMT -5
Duskwing frowns at Phobia in a vaguely puzzled way. "Oh yeah? Huh. So who sent ya? And you got a name?" He stoops to pick up his wing bits, still watching the motorcycle-former warily.
"Nah, he didn't pay no atte-att.... mind to me. Dis was from dat crazy pink and white Autobot, when I was distractifying dem 'Bots away from Shockwave. That traitor Barricade tore me up but good--" Duskwing gestures at the gaping hole blown in his chest and cockpit, "..and somebody shot me so I couldn't move. Dat's when dey gutted my radio. Only I got better, see? An' den dat jackleg, hackjob piece of rusted-out slag what messed me up the first time showed up, and everyone went after him--me, the traitors, the Autobots---nobody liked dat guy. He busted my radio, though, so I couldn't even fix it. See?"
Duskwing holds up his disconnected, smashed radio, still transfixed by Perceptor-3's dart.
--- Technically, it was Override who blew the big hole in Duskwing's chest, and it was Holi who shot his motor circuits out. No need to let facts get in the way of a story, though.
|
|
|
Post by Phobia/Pierce Fobster on Feb 4, 2009 3:44:37 GMT -5
"Not anyone significant enough to be pointing those guns at, I assure you!" Phobia utters meekly, glancing between the two of them nervously before finally adding: "But if you truly must know, my name is Phobia. And really, I have a big purple symbol on me, who do you think sent me?"
See now why he doesn't like finding people? They always end up pointing their guns at him for one reason or another and Phobia really doesn't appreciate the prospect of being blown to bits even on a good day.
|
|
|
Post by Long Range on Feb 4, 2009 7:51:06 GMT -5
Long range looks long and hard at the smahsed thing that Duskwing claims to to have once been a radio. He'd hoped to find somebody with a working one, not one smashed up even worse than his own.
"Big purple symbols mean very little if the one wearing it is a traitor, Phobia. Or an Autobot in disguise. For that matter, how can we be sure you are who you say you are?" Long Range says, shifting his attention to the Motorbike.
|
|
Duskwing
Major
"What the slag happened?"
Posts: 848
|
Post by Duskwing on Feb 4, 2009 18:53:59 GMT -5
"So you know where we are?" Duskwing wonders. He frowns at Long Range and looks at Phobia even more suspiciously.
"Hey, Phobic--what he said. How do we know youse a real Con?" Optics flicker as an idea occurs to Duskwing. "Hey! I know! Call the Boss and tell him where we at, see if anyone shows up! If dey don't, Phobie's a fake." Duskwing nods knowingly, proud of his own cleverness.
|
|