081027 - Quiet pt 14
Oct. 27th, 2008 02:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koilungfish3/9/08 - Ill
4/9/08 - 1232 words on Glass Diamond, editing
5/9/08 - 1090 words on Glass Diamond, editing
6/9/08 - 1040 words on Glass Diamond, editing
7/9/08 - Ill
8/9/08 - Day Off
9/9/08 - 11/9/08 - Ill
12/9/08 - Fail
13/9/08 - Blocked [social]
14/9/08 - Fail
15/9/08 - Ill
16/9/08 - Fail
17/9/08 - Ill
18/9/08 - Ill
19/9/08 - Fail
20/9/08 - Blocked [social]
21/9/08 - 24/9/08 - Ill
25/9/08 - 3 hours editing
26/9/08 - 3 hours editing
27/9/08 - 3 1/2 hours editing
28/9/08 - Day Off
29/9/08 - Art; It Hurts!; assorted sketches
30/9/08 - Art; Variations on a Theme of Surly
1/10/08 - Art; Liege Maximo
2/10/08 - Art; Liege Maximo
3/10/08 - 5/10/08 - Blocked [social]
6/10/08 - Ill
7/10/08 - Ill
8/10/08 - 3 hours editing
9/10/08 - 26/10/08 - Ill
27/10/08 - Quiet, pt 14
Most of the shrapnel was out. The remaining pieces were dug in deep, so he snapped the protruding pieces off and let his internal repairs deal with the rest.
Prowl stayed seated in the airlock, one foot resting on the back of the dead Decepticon, the other leg drawn up. He held his rifle ready, listening for a break in the quiet. There were occasional muffled machine noises from deep below - Jazz getting through the section interchange? Probably.
Then dead quiet - dead quiet, the silence of a powered-down ship with nobody in it alive. Except us.
We've walked into a tomb.
Prowl shook his head to clear the fanciful thought. We've walked into a crash site. Some contaminant has killed off all the crew ... except this car and those three helicopters ... but did the contaminant cause the crash, or did it come afterwards, from this world? The back of his right door itched. Prowl scratched it.
His upholstery came away on his fingers.
Prowl stared at his hand, at the plasma-proof synthetic that had just torn like rotten aluminium foil. The tough fabric, designed to stand up to gunfire and shrapnel and acid, was disintegrating as he watched, collapsing into a soft, soggy foam.
The backs of his doors really itched. With a sense of precognition, Prowl reached back and scratched gently. He came away with a handful of disintegrating upholstery. It left stains on his hands.
This is bad, Prowl thought. There was not rationalization behind the thought, just the immediate understanding that what started with simple plastoid fabric probably wouldn't stop there. I should have checked the Decepticon bodies for ...
He flicked the mess from his hand and leant forwards to examine the dead Decepticon. The corpse's small driver's compartment was on his back, exposed to the air. The upholstery - a tight, dark plastoid, some sort of stealth fabric - was intact and unblemished.
Interesting, Prowl thought, filing the comparison into his maturing hypothesis. He continued scratching at his doors, hoping that removing the upholstery might slow the contamination. When he was done he pulled out a pinch of the insulation between the upholstery and the machinery.
It was stained on the outer surface, the same murky grey-brown stain as the upholstery had left on his hand, and showing signs of rotting, but the inner surface that lay against his machinery was clean. Prowl pulled all the insulation off. Perhaps that will stop the contamination. If it travels through the upholstery, into the insulation and then the wiring ... yes, this might work. Soon he was surrounded by chunks of his own insulation, his door hydraulics and wiring exposed to the cold air.
If my hypothesis is correct, Smokescreen will be suffering in the same way, Prowl thought, frowning. It is probable that someone will notice, even if only when he starts scratching his doors. Jazz, Mirage and Smokescreen are all intelligent mechanisms. There is no reason why they should not think to remove Smokescreen's insulation and check the spread of the contaminant.
He leant back, resting his head against the wall of the airlock, and listened. Outside he could hear the soft shush of the wind in the trees; inside, nothing but the faint hum of the light emitters in the walls, powered from what Prowl suspected were the last of the ship's power cells. And when that dies ... how long until the lights go out?
We should abandon this mission. If the contaminant is spreading this rapidly we should abort and return to base to decontaminate ourselves ... but the Decepticons must have had a decontamination chamber here!
Unless their crew was entirely without technicians or scientists ... but no, that would be ridiculous.
And why did the helicopters survive?
The soft quiet broke with a faint hum.
Decepticon momentum thrusters!
Prowl sat up, raising his doors to listen more carefully, and realised he was half-deaf. Without the tight membrane of his upholstery he could hear nothing with his doors, He was entirely dependent on his chevron for audio reception, giving him basic hearing but none of the triangulation or sensitivity of his doors.
The whine grew louder, closer. Prowl caught odd clicks and bangs of metal on metal and a faint chuntering, as of a voice mumbling.
He looked outside; nothing but trees and dark sky. He looked inside.
A three-fingered hand hooked over the edge of the airlock and a helicopter the size of Inferno hauled himself into the tiny space. Five optics, some blue and some purple, flickered and blinked at him. Three layers of shearing mandibles clattered together.
"Can you dance?" said the Decepticon in a narrow, nasal voice a wire's breadth from a laugh. "I don't think you can." Prowl he kicked himself backwards, raising his gun to shoot the Decepticon in the face. He backed into a wall that shouldn't have been there.
Prowl froze. His doors were pinned back against something lumpy and he couldn't feel properly with them. Keeping his launchers' sensors locked on the helicopter, he allowed himself to turn his head a fraction.
He had backed into a helicopter as big as Ultra Magnus.
One hand clamped onto Prowl's shoulder, pinning him with gestalt-like strength. The other pulled the rifle from his hands. A tiny red optic in the centre of his forehead flashed, aiming a laser sight right into Prowl's face. The blue-black monster's face split up the middle, circular grinding pads spinning with thoughtful, hungry menace as he raised Prowl's rifle and, with slow menace and deliberate display, ate it.
"Greetings, Autobot," said the blue-black helicopter in a deep, smooth voice like flowing sludge. Prowl tried not to react to the rain of metal shavings and drops of acid that sprayed from the helicopter's mouth. "My name is Counterblast. You shot my partner."
"Prepare to die!" chirped the green and yellow helicopter.
4/9/08 - 1232 words on Glass Diamond, editing
5/9/08 - 1090 words on Glass Diamond, editing
6/9/08 - 1040 words on Glass Diamond, editing
7/9/08 - Ill
8/9/08 - Day Off
9/9/08 - 11/9/08 - Ill
12/9/08 - Fail
13/9/08 - Blocked [social]
14/9/08 - Fail
15/9/08 - Ill
16/9/08 - Fail
17/9/08 - Ill
18/9/08 - Ill
19/9/08 - Fail
20/9/08 - Blocked [social]
21/9/08 - 24/9/08 - Ill
25/9/08 - 3 hours editing
26/9/08 - 3 hours editing
27/9/08 - 3 1/2 hours editing
28/9/08 - Day Off
29/9/08 - Art; It Hurts!; assorted sketches
30/9/08 - Art; Variations on a Theme of Surly
1/10/08 - Art; Liege Maximo
2/10/08 - Art; Liege Maximo
3/10/08 - 5/10/08 - Blocked [social]
6/10/08 - Ill
7/10/08 - Ill
8/10/08 - 3 hours editing
9/10/08 - 26/10/08 - Ill
27/10/08 - Quiet, pt 14
Most of the shrapnel was out. The remaining pieces were dug in deep, so he snapped the protruding pieces off and let his internal repairs deal with the rest.
Prowl stayed seated in the airlock, one foot resting on the back of the dead Decepticon, the other leg drawn up. He held his rifle ready, listening for a break in the quiet. There were occasional muffled machine noises from deep below - Jazz getting through the section interchange? Probably.
Then dead quiet - dead quiet, the silence of a powered-down ship with nobody in it alive. Except us.
We've walked into a tomb.
Prowl shook his head to clear the fanciful thought. We've walked into a crash site. Some contaminant has killed off all the crew ... except this car and those three helicopters ... but did the contaminant cause the crash, or did it come afterwards, from this world? The back of his right door itched. Prowl scratched it.
His upholstery came away on his fingers.
Prowl stared at his hand, at the plasma-proof synthetic that had just torn like rotten aluminium foil. The tough fabric, designed to stand up to gunfire and shrapnel and acid, was disintegrating as he watched, collapsing into a soft, soggy foam.
The backs of his doors really itched. With a sense of precognition, Prowl reached back and scratched gently. He came away with a handful of disintegrating upholstery. It left stains on his hands.
This is bad, Prowl thought. There was not rationalization behind the thought, just the immediate understanding that what started with simple plastoid fabric probably wouldn't stop there. I should have checked the Decepticon bodies for ...
He flicked the mess from his hand and leant forwards to examine the dead Decepticon. The corpse's small driver's compartment was on his back, exposed to the air. The upholstery - a tight, dark plastoid, some sort of stealth fabric - was intact and unblemished.
Interesting, Prowl thought, filing the comparison into his maturing hypothesis. He continued scratching at his doors, hoping that removing the upholstery might slow the contamination. When he was done he pulled out a pinch of the insulation between the upholstery and the machinery.
It was stained on the outer surface, the same murky grey-brown stain as the upholstery had left on his hand, and showing signs of rotting, but the inner surface that lay against his machinery was clean. Prowl pulled all the insulation off. Perhaps that will stop the contamination. If it travels through the upholstery, into the insulation and then the wiring ... yes, this might work. Soon he was surrounded by chunks of his own insulation, his door hydraulics and wiring exposed to the cold air.
If my hypothesis is correct, Smokescreen will be suffering in the same way, Prowl thought, frowning. It is probable that someone will notice, even if only when he starts scratching his doors. Jazz, Mirage and Smokescreen are all intelligent mechanisms. There is no reason why they should not think to remove Smokescreen's insulation and check the spread of the contaminant.
He leant back, resting his head against the wall of the airlock, and listened. Outside he could hear the soft shush of the wind in the trees; inside, nothing but the faint hum of the light emitters in the walls, powered from what Prowl suspected were the last of the ship's power cells. And when that dies ... how long until the lights go out?
We should abandon this mission. If the contaminant is spreading this rapidly we should abort and return to base to decontaminate ourselves ... but the Decepticons must have had a decontamination chamber here!
Unless their crew was entirely without technicians or scientists ... but no, that would be ridiculous.
And why did the helicopters survive?
The soft quiet broke with a faint hum.
Decepticon momentum thrusters!
Prowl sat up, raising his doors to listen more carefully, and realised he was half-deaf. Without the tight membrane of his upholstery he could hear nothing with his doors, He was entirely dependent on his chevron for audio reception, giving him basic hearing but none of the triangulation or sensitivity of his doors.
The whine grew louder, closer. Prowl caught odd clicks and bangs of metal on metal and a faint chuntering, as of a voice mumbling.
He looked outside; nothing but trees and dark sky. He looked inside.
A three-fingered hand hooked over the edge of the airlock and a helicopter the size of Inferno hauled himself into the tiny space. Five optics, some blue and some purple, flickered and blinked at him. Three layers of shearing mandibles clattered together.
"Can you dance?" said the Decepticon in a narrow, nasal voice a wire's breadth from a laugh. "I don't think you can." Prowl he kicked himself backwards, raising his gun to shoot the Decepticon in the face. He backed into a wall that shouldn't have been there.
Prowl froze. His doors were pinned back against something lumpy and he couldn't feel properly with them. Keeping his launchers' sensors locked on the helicopter, he allowed himself to turn his head a fraction.
He had backed into a helicopter as big as Ultra Magnus.
One hand clamped onto Prowl's shoulder, pinning him with gestalt-like strength. The other pulled the rifle from his hands. A tiny red optic in the centre of his forehead flashed, aiming a laser sight right into Prowl's face. The blue-black monster's face split up the middle, circular grinding pads spinning with thoughtful, hungry menace as he raised Prowl's rifle and, with slow menace and deliberate display, ate it.
"Greetings, Autobot," said the blue-black helicopter in a deep, smooth voice like flowing sludge. Prowl tried not to react to the rain of metal shavings and drops of acid that sprayed from the helicopter's mouth. "My name is Counterblast. You shot my partner."
"Prepare to die!" chirped the green and yellow helicopter.
