“Well,” He sighed wearily, “I’ve only got myself to blame for that. Lovely place you have here, although I hope you’re not offended if I don’t return, much as I’d like to. This,” He lifted the glass and glared angrily at the bottom of it, “Was my last respite - only thing I had left.”
Setting it down gingerly, he turned to go. “Now the whole world’s upside-down.”
Two seconds later, the whole world was upside-down. Conjoint blinked repeatedly, eyeing his perspective curiously since the floor was now the ceiling, and his head was against it.
“Must’ve slipped on something.” He murmured. The moment he struggled back onto his rear, he placed one foot to get up and was again tasting the dust of Iacon tracked in by the many visitors.
Snowblind leans against the counter, watching Conjoint tumble with no shortage of confusion. She had no idea what was going on there. She leans forward to offer her hand, only for the bartender to beat her to it. Instead, she leans against the counter, once again content to let things play out in front of her.
Maccadam offers a hand to help Conjoint onto his feet. “Maybe the Gorlam Red took a bit more out of you than you thought?” he says.
Stonefist’s sonar reveals nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps what they’d seen was merely a trick of the light…
“We don’t know for certain if what we saw was real, remember,” Headcase reminds Kitai. “Our session ended rather abruptly before we could dig any further. I wouldn’t go calling yourself a killer just yet.”
Machina made her way into the building, her direction drifting to the older sections of the Hall, looking for where the history of the Stagnation ended.
Argyros Asrar woke, finding himself near the statue of Asrar. He took off for the space ports, hoping that perhaps there was a slim chance that his father might be there.
Jade Dragon founds himself wandering the cybertronian streets, looking for a place to hone his practices.
Windstripe could be found near the edge of Iaxon. He was simply walking letting his thoughts wander with his feet.
“Absolute nonsense.” Conjoint said from between his legs, struggling to right himself enough to actually pinpoint Maccadam’s hand. “I’ve been drunk enough to- well, do things that weren’t exactly legal, but that’s been years.” Yes, four years. “I think I’d know if- WHOA!”
Conjoint had almost gotten completely standing before his knees buckled and he did a five-second dance with one hand planted on Maccadam’s, trying desperately to not actually use the owner’s hand for leverage. That’d be just plain weird, and if there’s one thing Conjoint didn’t want as he struggled to maintain the slightest sense of balance, finally resorting to throwing his upper half on the seat he had just left to keep himself somewhat grounded, it was to appear weird to people.
“What in the world?” He looked with reproach at his legs; how dare they pull a stunt like this!
“That’s odd.” Stonefist commented quietly. He was sure he had seen something; his optics were in good enough condition. Who - or what - was the strange man? Sighing, the rocky bot went back to where Aralysa was standing. She, too, was staring at the spot where the apparition had been. He shook his head.
“Nothing.” Stonefist replied. “Could’ve been a trick of the light.”
“Oh.” was Aralysa’s response, clearly disappointed that Stonefist’s scan had revealed no trace of the mystery man.
“No shame in it, friend,” Maccadam says to Conjoint. “Maybe you should sit a while longer.”
One of the Hall’s staff took notice of the two, and stopped by to check in with them.
“Good morning!” he greets them. “Is there anything I could help you two with?”
Inside the tower, clerks went about on various tasks- some were hard at work behind desks, while others escorted visitors to the lower floors. Machina could ask any one of these people for assistance. There were also holographic signs that could direct her to where Stagnation-era relics were kept.
At Iacon’s spaceport, Argyros Asrar sees a plethora of starships from a great many worlds. There are civilian transports from each of the cybertronian colonies, and diplomatic shuttles from Earth and Avalon Prime.
“‘Want to’, what?” Headcase asks. “Continue the procedure? I suppose we could, if you’re up to it.”
Machina followed the holographic signs, wishing to not be a disturbance to anyone. Despite her expectations she began to feel something well up inside her. It was a feeling she couldn’t descibe, but this place felt like that of a home to her. She knew it wasn’t, but the atmosphere was undeniably like so. She stood for a moment staring at the holographic sign before making her way to the Stagnation-era exhibits.
the predacon immediately searched for any ships heading to Eukaris. He frantically called out for his father, both using the name of Asrar and the word ‘father’. The predacon was met with no success beyond began to felt like a search in vain.
“Well there is one thing. Me and Aralysa here,” Stonefist said, gesturing to the female transformer, “saw what looked to be a human man in a black suit around this area.” He gestured vaguely at where the strange visitor had disappeared. Aralysa moved over to where Stonefist was conversing with the bot.
“That’s not even the strangest part. As soon as we got a good look at him, he vanished! Stonefist here did a sonar scan, but couldn’t find anything.” she replied. “Maybe you guys should look into this.”
“Now that’s enough.” Conjoint frowned up at Maccadam. “I assure you, sir, I am in full possession of my faculties, and am not in the slightest capacity intoxicated.”
Careful, Conjoint. He owns the place. And he seems inclined to believe your legs over you.
“I was certain as to the cause for this… Inability,” He once again glared sharply at his lower limbs, testing the servos once more to see if they had yet regained their strength, “but now I am at a complete and total loss. It makes absolutely no sense for me to-”
“Oh.” His eyes lost their fury as he looked down not on his own legs, but those of some poor soul who had died over four years ago. “Oh.”
“Well, fortunately for you, you’ve happened to catch me in an open spot in my schedule,” Headcase says. “Very well; let us continue.”
The Epoch of Stagnation had little of note to leave behind- not as much as the other eras of cybertronian history, anyway. There are only a few relics on display: ruined pieces of Dire Wraith technology, a broken Primax Blade from the Simfur Temple on Caelum, and other assorted odds and ends. Most of the data that Machina would find from this time period would be mundane things like shipping manifests or census reports. It wasn’t until the aforementioned Dire Wraith attack that things would start to get interesting.
The clerk is certainly concerned to hear tale of mysterious vanishing people roaming about.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this person?” he asks. “Did he have a weapon, or any strange devices on him, or-… hold on, do either of you hear that noise?”
“Gorlam Red hits everyone a little differently,” Maccadam assures Conjoint, not quite understanding what was truly causing the junkion’s malfunction. “Maybe I should start making people sign a waiver first, or something…”
There was a eukarian shuttle docked nearby, likely for the ambassador from the colony, but Asrar was not to be found here, either.
There was a weird noise, sounding something like a laugh comprised entirely of air.
“You’re right, I must be reacting to it weird.” Conjoint replied, his response sounding infinitely artificial. “Never did think I could only get drunk in my legs, but what do I know?” The empty laugh repeated for a moment. “I should have known it wouldn’t work out. Thank you, I think I will sit here a while.”
His upper half slowly slid off the seat until only his arms were still holding on, his knees almost touching the floor, his eyes cast downwards in dejection. The shadow of the counter made for an excellent mood-setter.
Machina read all the details, her mind cosumed with the information and cataloguing it into her mind. It felt natural, like she had done so before… however she felt as if there were bits and pieces missing, like what was here was part of one whole incomplete puzzle. Her eye went to read of the data concerning that of the Dire Wraiths, it was here she froze.
Why?
Machina fell to her knees. Her eye unmoving from the data. Dire Wraith? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?.. Why do I know this? Why… does it feel to have been only hundreds of years ago? Was it so recent? Why? Her left hand came up and clenched her face with her right arm acting like a pillar to hold her up, the clockwork humming as she pressed against the ground. In every sense she was crying, in all except through tears… and she did not know why.
The predacon looked around before running back into the city frantically shouting for his father.
With the sun already greeting the city, Roaster slowly got out of the hotel bed. Not hungover, she didn’t drink nearly enough for that. No, just sheer exhaustion kept her asleep for that long. At least the bed was nice, best sleep she had in years.
Never paid, but the Junkions did provide accommodations…if you could call it that. They had her live in her changing room. Correction, it wasn’t a changing room. It was a little corner backstage that had a rusting foldout charging bed in the wall, a small desk next to it, and a mirror. She slept, got ready, performed and filmed, and then went back to bed all in the same space.
While still booting up, she looks for a mirror before remembering that’s uncommon for most Cybertronian facilities. Instead, she finds the nearest holo-display and has it change so it shows her reflection. It was still her. Really her. Nothing to hide it with.
“No, stop that. You’re free, it’s not needed.” Roaster groggily chastises her hands as they reached about for nonexistent containers.
The Junkions were big into replicating human production styles, even down to the use of makeup. Just the idea was repulsive. She’s from Hecate, her body was perfectly crafted. This form was made with intention, hand-crafted, even the minor imperfections. It was just as sacred as the art of construction itself to her.
They never saw it that way. Uneven hammering here, a weird seem line there. This paint could be more polished, this bare metal could shine more, there’s little scratches to fill. No camera could pick it up, but they still forced her to doll up.
The only hidden blessing, in their weird cheapness and replication, was that the makeup would wear off and needed to be reapplied each day. So each night and morning, she could see herself again before getting taking by a false, imperfect toy.
And now the product is gone, I never have to use makeup again. I can be seen.
Now more awake, Roaster changes the display to see the latest gossip and news. Surfing through, she finds the stories of some odd robot attack against the Prime. Nothing definitive, but seeing all the images and chatter of the various mechs and suits used by organic races got her brain glowing.
Maybe that’s it! See how all the organic races build their pilotable robots! I bet I can make something better.
With that new goal in mind, Roaster leaves the hotel and heads out into the streets of Iacon. It was time life resumed - and that was to build mechs for squishies. Now to just find more info on their current construction methods.
Tokamak, meanwhile, was sleep-driving. Rather than book some hotel or find a cheap place to sleep, Tokamak went into his vehicle mode and set a preprogrammed path for him to drive. Did his body really get rest this way? Sort of - not really, but it would do for now.
When he finally came to a stop, he woke up and transformed. Stretched, cracked any joints that had stiffened, and looked to ensure he ended up in the correct place. It seemed to be so, not too far out from the space ports.
He had yet to decide what he was going to do today. There was more to see on Cybertron still, no point in going back home yet.