Alright. Better do this smooth. “Vector Sigma, were there any names given to any specific quintession troops?”
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“No quintesson has ever been known to give its name, if personal identities even exist in their culture,” Vector Sigma tells Kitai. “Quintesson soldiers could be mass-produced drones, for all we know, with no sense of individuality or self.”
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“Vector Sigma, I know a name.”
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“You do?” Vector Sigma says, quite surprised. “Well, visitor, you’re now one of the few beings in this universe who has ever had me at such a disadvantage. Congratulations.”
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Conjoint wheeled along sideways, casually looking about with his arms folded behind his back. So, she’s here too, then? Guess this will be remarkably interesting.
…
Wait, we’re not going to go see the terrorists, are we? This could go VERY badly.
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“It’s me.” Kitai said softly. " I’m it."
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It seems that Watchdog is leading the group away from the detention level, toward a conference room at the end of a hall branching off of the main reception area.
None of the other visitors in the Vector Sigma chamber seem to hear Kitai, so absorbed in their own studies as they are.
“Very interesting,” Vector Sigma comments. “Well, now I have so many questions for you, visitor. Quintessons have visited Kaon before, but none have ever been as well-behaved as you.”
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“Very well. Just know my knowledge is very limited. My memory had been lost, and I had hoped you would have something that was part of my past.”
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“I might,” Vector Sigma tells him. “Now that I have a better idea of what to look for, I could scan your physical form and look for anything resembling you in my records. Do I have your permission to do that, visitor?”
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" You have my permission."
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Snowblind immediately notes the new limb as she transforms, taking care to place Nova on her shoulder as she does so.
He might notice that Snowblind stays near the back of the crowd, hesitating as she crosses the threshold and for a moment looking like she’s about to be lost in the crowd. But moments later she’s caught up with the back of the group, as if nothing ever happened.
A bit easier to notice, in all likelihood, is the constant swivel of her head, seeming to linger on each detail for only a moment before moving onto the next. Her goggles are working overtime, trying to note and capture every last detail they can. About her surroundings, and about her new compatriots.
Nova might be able to feel how tense Snowblind is as she does so, far more than one would expect from just walking through a building.
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Nova wasn’t exactly all too comfortable being in such a crowded space. But Snowblind’s tension still felt like a bit much.
“Hey. Everything alright?”
She asked quietly.
Axis nodded again.
“I’ll be sure to fill you in soon after I’m informed myself.”
She then got back to her feet.
“So, is that all?”
Watchdog, as well as some of the others in the back of the group, might be surprised to notice a new individual had joined their ranks. A tall and friendly looking Eukarian had somehow joined the group at some point without anyone noticing. Not until now at least.
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“Huh?” She sounds distracted. “Did you say something?”
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“You just seem stressed out. I was asking if you were alright.”
Nova repeated.
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“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” she mumbles quickly. “Just… focusing.”
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OOC: Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be? 
IC:
“Well that is true. You can’t really replace a brain module as easily as a lost limb.” Aralysa replied, glad for this sudden change of pace in the conversation. The Hecatan bot then asks,
“How’s your progress overall?”
Meanwhile, Stonefist had been taken inside the station by Watchdog, and was now leading the group past the detention level
and towards a conference room.
“Hmmm. Looks like it’s time for a conversation.” Stonefist comments upon viewing the room.
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Nova shrugged.
“Alright then. If you say so.”
Standing behind her however, Low-Tide thought differently. Tensed shoulders, rapidly shifting focus. Her vibes were definitely off. Though now didn’t seem like the best time to offer his usual wisdom, so he simply filed these thoughts away.
The towering Eukarian then gently tapped Snowblind on the shoulder. Though to her it likely seemed as if he appeared behind her out of thin here.
“Excuse me dudette. Could you tell me what we’re all doin’ here?”
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Tokamak follows quiet easily, though his movements were like an awkward Roomba as he sidestepped around to the busy office.
“Nearly there, just about forty-five minutes and Headbite should be fully refurbished.” Roaster said as she reconnected other parts.
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Snowblind shifts her weight onto her heels. A million thoughts flash through her head as she spins around. A vendetta, the cops deciding to turn on her, passerby trying to pick a fight-
“Oh. It’s you again.” Her goggles helpfully supply Lowtide’s name for her. “Uh, some questioning about the attack earlier, not anything you would have to worry about. Unless you were there too?” She searches her memory, trying to pick out the Eukarian amongst the rest of the chaos. Maybe…?
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A moment later, a video begins to play on the central holo-screen. A timestamp in the righthand corner tells Kitai that it had been recorded during the Fourth Quintesson War.
“Done,” Vector Sigma proclaims. “And here is what I’ve found…”
The video is shaking, the quality fading in and out as it played, but it showed a platoon of cybertronian soldiers charging across a grey cratered landscape beneath a murky sky. Bulky human mechs marched behind them, artillery cannons mounted atop them booming as they arced shells into the opposing quintesson horde across the pits and dunes. The two armies clashed, and the video froze and zoomed in on a section of the lefthand side. The still frame showed a figure that looked much like Kitai tearing a human pilot out of the cockpit of her mech, ripping through the robot’s hull with a pair of sharp talons.
“Is this more what you’re looking for, visitor?” Vector Sigma asks.
“Indeed it is,” Watchdog says, motioning for our heroes to enter the conference room. It is wide and rectangular, with a screen mounted on the wall to the right of the entrance, and various holo-emitters that projected images of the captured terrorists, and the journal of Sentinel Prime. The screen was playing footage of the attack on the Hall of Records, which had been pieced together from traffic cameras and amateur videography from various interstellar social media platforms.
“Have a seat, if you’d like,” Watchdog invites them, motioning toward several rows of chairs, “though I’ll try not to keep you too long.”
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