koilungfish (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
koilungfish) wrote2007-06-23 08:30 pm
koilungfish) wrote2007-06-23 08:30 pm
Entry tags:
Continuing with the mud and rocks
22/6/07 - Ill
Quiet, pt 8
A cable descended out of the air and dangled before them. Smokescreen started to his feet, reaching out for the grappling hook shining at the end of the line. Prowl put a hand on the diversionist's shoulder and held him still.
Silently, Prowl put a hand on the cable and tugged hard.
Overhead, there was a rattle of rocks, but no response.
Prowl tugged again - four tugs, three, four, and then two. Then he let go.
The grappling hook blinked and glimmered as it did a little dance in the air.
The use of the correct tug-code did nothing to ease Prowl's concerns. "I'll go first," he whispered to Smokescreen, who looked at him with down-turned mouth and an unhappy look at the mound of corpses. Prowl nodded. "Just to be on the safe side."
"Safe side?" Smokescreen whispered, looking from his commander to the dead Decepticons and back again, but Prowl didn't answer. He looped Jazz's line twice around his left forearm, then around his upper arm, around his chest beneath his engine and doors, twice more around his right forearm, and took the hook in his right hand. He knew from experience it made a good improvised climbing-hook. Then he gave a hefty tug on the line, pulling harder than his own weight would pull.
He heard the line creak with strain, but it didn't give or slacken.
Uneasy, Prowl put his foot the cliff, hanging onto the line with his left and hooking the wall with his right, and started to climb. Above, Jazz was reeling the line in at a suitable speed. Prowl could feel the line tightening around him. He tightened his grip on the hook and tried not to put too much weight on the line. He didn't fancy another sudden drop.
Suspicions will get me nowhere, he reminded himself. Start with the facts, use the hypotheses they support, and don't wander off into baseless nothings. It's most probable that Jazz just slipped.
Prowl could make out a faint paleness at the top of the cliff, and it separated into two shapes. He looked back down; the pit was utterly black. He couldn't make out any sign of Smokescreen. Under more favourable circumstances, it would be correct to send him up first, but the risk of falling may be greater than the risk posed by eight corpses and a pile of stones, Prowl mused, working his way around an awkward outcrop with the hook. There were scrapes of red paint on the outcrop: Prowl suspected he'd found the cause of Smokescreen's damage.
A few minutes more of clawing and climbing and he could make out Bluestreak, clinging to Jazz's shoulder as the saboteur knelt and reeled in his line. Prowl dug the grappling hook into the cliff and leaned out to get a better look. He saw Jazz lean into the strain with Bluestreak holding onto his shoulders. That does not look safe, Prowl thought, concerned by their instability, and quickened his ascent. He pushed upwards, scraping with the hook and kicking for footholds, all the while clinging to the dubious safety of Jazz's grappling line.
He hauled himself up the last few metres, gouging holes in the face of the cliff for his feet, feeling the line go loose as he climbed faster than Jazz was reeling.
"Hey!" Bluestreak exclaimed, dropping to his knees and leaning forward. "Gimme your hand!"
Prowl looked up, lost a foothold and slipped, jerking on the line.
"Whoa!" Jazz yelped as Prowl's weight yanked him forwards, and Prowl felt the lurch of déjà vu.
Jazz fell on his chest, bumper digging into the ground. Prowl slipped back a few feet, sending down a scatter of stone, but held firm.
"Oops," said a small voice from above.
"Bluestreak!" Prowl said through a vocaliser crackling with the static of restrained ire. "Be careful!"
"Sorry," the gunner replied. He held his hand out again, and Prowl climbed the last few metres to take it, letting go of the line as he did. Bluestreak wiggled backwards on his knees, half-dragging Prowl up as he used the hook to pull himself over the edge of the cliff.
"Did you find Smokey?" Jazz asked, stilling lying on his front.
"Yes," Prowl said, unwinding the line from around his body. "Lower away. He's down there waiting."
"Ain't no hurry," Jazz said, reeling the line in and locking the grappling hook into his wrist. "Mirage still ain't got that sniper."
Prowl squatted next to Bluestreak and wiped himself down. He was wet with coolant and covered in grit. Bluestreak seemed no worse for wear, dust-covered but grinning in the early morning gloom. "What's taking him so long?"
"Don't know," Jazz said, firing the launcher off. It flashed out over the pit and then fell, sparkling into darkness. "But our friend ain't shot at Hound since before I lowered you the line."
"Yes, we noticed the quiet," Prowl said. "Hold still, let me and Bluestreak brace you."
"I'm fine!" Jazz insisted, but Prowl pulled Bluestreak over and made the gunner join him in leaning on Jazz's back and legs.
"One slip and I almost went down again," Prowl said. "Your abseiling safety record does not impress me today."
Jazz ducked his head. "Sorry," he said, sounding miserable.
Prowl leaned closer to Jazz's head and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Jazz, we will talk about this later." He felt Jazz's back move as the tensors beneath the armour tightened; with stress, worry or fear?
Jazz's line tightened. "Ol' Smokey's coming up," the saboteur said, as if they were just climbing cliffs for fun.
Prowl looked around as he leant on Jazz. The sky was as bright as it got; a smear of acidic yellow low of the horizon, surmounted with a band of pink the tone of rose quartz, and then the dirty green that faded into the everdark overhead. Already the light wind had dusted his damp body with more pollen and more ash. All around, the mile-wide clearing of pale ash and burnt stumps was still and silent. The only sounds were the shush-ssh-shush of the trees swaying in the breeze and the soft whine of Jazz's reel.
"Where's Hound?" Prowl asked. Bluestreak shrugged.
"Where we left him, I guess," Jazz replied, not looking back at them.
Highest probability is that he's still there, Prowl thought. The question is what is holding Mirage up. He looked up. The Decepticon cruiser was canted over at an angle, leaning out over them slightly. Not an easy climb, especially barehanded. Still, this is an abnormally long time with no response. He and Smokescreen had sat at the base of the cliff for almost half an hour before Jazz's line arrived, knowing they were ill equipped to climb the steep cliff. "Chronometer check," he murmured to Bluestreak.
"Mission time; ten groons, seven breems," Bluestreak whispered back.
So I wasn't knocked unconscious during the fall, Prowl thought, dark clouds of suspicion obfuscating his projections. He turned his mind to the other conundrum facing him - the pile of dead Decepticons in the pit. They were thrown in already dead. That much was clear from an examination of the bodies. There was no sign of weapon-damage on the bodies, nor of the kind of damage the crash would have caused. In fact, there was no damage at all. They were simply dead.
Prowl frowned. This is not good. These Decepticons did not kill one another or die in the crash, ergo something else killed them. Was it something native to this planet? This ionized pollen, perhaps? Or was it something they brought with them. Why did their comrades throw their bodies out? Fear of a contaminant? If that was so, and the contaminant was still present on the corpses, Smokescreen would be the first to show the signs, followed by himself. Am I putting my team at risk?
He turned towards the cruiser, an inverted castle rammed tower-first into the ground. As he looked, he saw the flash of gunfire from the airlock door, heard the crack of Mirage's rifle.
Then fell the total silence of the assassin, waiting to know if his kill has been heard.
Quiet, pt 8
A cable descended out of the air and dangled before them. Smokescreen started to his feet, reaching out for the grappling hook shining at the end of the line. Prowl put a hand on the diversionist's shoulder and held him still.
Silently, Prowl put a hand on the cable and tugged hard.
Overhead, there was a rattle of rocks, but no response.
Prowl tugged again - four tugs, three, four, and then two. Then he let go.
The grappling hook blinked and glimmered as it did a little dance in the air.
The use of the correct tug-code did nothing to ease Prowl's concerns. "I'll go first," he whispered to Smokescreen, who looked at him with down-turned mouth and an unhappy look at the mound of corpses. Prowl nodded. "Just to be on the safe side."
"Safe side?" Smokescreen whispered, looking from his commander to the dead Decepticons and back again, but Prowl didn't answer. He looped Jazz's line twice around his left forearm, then around his upper arm, around his chest beneath his engine and doors, twice more around his right forearm, and took the hook in his right hand. He knew from experience it made a good improvised climbing-hook. Then he gave a hefty tug on the line, pulling harder than his own weight would pull.
He heard the line creak with strain, but it didn't give or slacken.
Uneasy, Prowl put his foot the cliff, hanging onto the line with his left and hooking the wall with his right, and started to climb. Above, Jazz was reeling the line in at a suitable speed. Prowl could feel the line tightening around him. He tightened his grip on the hook and tried not to put too much weight on the line. He didn't fancy another sudden drop.
Suspicions will get me nowhere, he reminded himself. Start with the facts, use the hypotheses they support, and don't wander off into baseless nothings. It's most probable that Jazz just slipped.
Prowl could make out a faint paleness at the top of the cliff, and it separated into two shapes. He looked back down; the pit was utterly black. He couldn't make out any sign of Smokescreen. Under more favourable circumstances, it would be correct to send him up first, but the risk of falling may be greater than the risk posed by eight corpses and a pile of stones, Prowl mused, working his way around an awkward outcrop with the hook. There were scrapes of red paint on the outcrop: Prowl suspected he'd found the cause of Smokescreen's damage.
A few minutes more of clawing and climbing and he could make out Bluestreak, clinging to Jazz's shoulder as the saboteur knelt and reeled in his line. Prowl dug the grappling hook into the cliff and leaned out to get a better look. He saw Jazz lean into the strain with Bluestreak holding onto his shoulders. That does not look safe, Prowl thought, concerned by their instability, and quickened his ascent. He pushed upwards, scraping with the hook and kicking for footholds, all the while clinging to the dubious safety of Jazz's grappling line.
He hauled himself up the last few metres, gouging holes in the face of the cliff for his feet, feeling the line go loose as he climbed faster than Jazz was reeling.
"Hey!" Bluestreak exclaimed, dropping to his knees and leaning forward. "Gimme your hand!"
Prowl looked up, lost a foothold and slipped, jerking on the line.
"Whoa!" Jazz yelped as Prowl's weight yanked him forwards, and Prowl felt the lurch of déjà vu.
Jazz fell on his chest, bumper digging into the ground. Prowl slipped back a few feet, sending down a scatter of stone, but held firm.
"Oops," said a small voice from above.
"Bluestreak!" Prowl said through a vocaliser crackling with the static of restrained ire. "Be careful!"
"Sorry," the gunner replied. He held his hand out again, and Prowl climbed the last few metres to take it, letting go of the line as he did. Bluestreak wiggled backwards on his knees, half-dragging Prowl up as he used the hook to pull himself over the edge of the cliff.
"Did you find Smokey?" Jazz asked, stilling lying on his front.
"Yes," Prowl said, unwinding the line from around his body. "Lower away. He's down there waiting."
"Ain't no hurry," Jazz said, reeling the line in and locking the grappling hook into his wrist. "Mirage still ain't got that sniper."
Prowl squatted next to Bluestreak and wiped himself down. He was wet with coolant and covered in grit. Bluestreak seemed no worse for wear, dust-covered but grinning in the early morning gloom. "What's taking him so long?"
"Don't know," Jazz said, firing the launcher off. It flashed out over the pit and then fell, sparkling into darkness. "But our friend ain't shot at Hound since before I lowered you the line."
"Yes, we noticed the quiet," Prowl said. "Hold still, let me and Bluestreak brace you."
"I'm fine!" Jazz insisted, but Prowl pulled Bluestreak over and made the gunner join him in leaning on Jazz's back and legs.
"One slip and I almost went down again," Prowl said. "Your abseiling safety record does not impress me today."
Jazz ducked his head. "Sorry," he said, sounding miserable.
Prowl leaned closer to Jazz's head and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Jazz, we will talk about this later." He felt Jazz's back move as the tensors beneath the armour tightened; with stress, worry or fear?
Jazz's line tightened. "Ol' Smokey's coming up," the saboteur said, as if they were just climbing cliffs for fun.
Prowl looked around as he leant on Jazz. The sky was as bright as it got; a smear of acidic yellow low of the horizon, surmounted with a band of pink the tone of rose quartz, and then the dirty green that faded into the everdark overhead. Already the light wind had dusted his damp body with more pollen and more ash. All around, the mile-wide clearing of pale ash and burnt stumps was still and silent. The only sounds were the shush-ssh-shush of the trees swaying in the breeze and the soft whine of Jazz's reel.
"Where's Hound?" Prowl asked. Bluestreak shrugged.
"Where we left him, I guess," Jazz replied, not looking back at them.
Highest probability is that he's still there, Prowl thought. The question is what is holding Mirage up. He looked up. The Decepticon cruiser was canted over at an angle, leaning out over them slightly. Not an easy climb, especially barehanded. Still, this is an abnormally long time with no response. He and Smokescreen had sat at the base of the cliff for almost half an hour before Jazz's line arrived, knowing they were ill equipped to climb the steep cliff. "Chronometer check," he murmured to Bluestreak.
"Mission time; ten groons, seven breems," Bluestreak whispered back.
So I wasn't knocked unconscious during the fall, Prowl thought, dark clouds of suspicion obfuscating his projections. He turned his mind to the other conundrum facing him - the pile of dead Decepticons in the pit. They were thrown in already dead. That much was clear from an examination of the bodies. There was no sign of weapon-damage on the bodies, nor of the kind of damage the crash would have caused. In fact, there was no damage at all. They were simply dead.
Prowl frowned. This is not good. These Decepticons did not kill one another or die in the crash, ergo something else killed them. Was it something native to this planet? This ionized pollen, perhaps? Or was it something they brought with them. Why did their comrades throw their bodies out? Fear of a contaminant? If that was so, and the contaminant was still present on the corpses, Smokescreen would be the first to show the signs, followed by himself. Am I putting my team at risk?
He turned towards the cruiser, an inverted castle rammed tower-first into the ground. As he looked, he saw the flash of gunfire from the airlock door, heard the crack of Mirage's rifle.
Then fell the total silence of the assassin, waiting to know if his kill has been heard.