robothell | something in your bones calls you here

Entry tags:

something in your bones calls you here

Who: Sentinel Prime and whatever lucky sods as happen across him.
Where: Pretty much the other end of the city from the Crater. First on the extreme outskirts, then later, somewhere in the city proper.
When: Nnnnow. Ish. /vague gestures
What: Sentinel Prime sees victory torn from his hands only to be replaced with a different opportunity – and another Cybertron in need.
Warnings: None as of posting but violence possible?

In one instant, chaos. Cacophony, sunlight glinting off sheared parts, the stench of burnt metal and boiling asphalt in the air, thick in his olfactory sensors. It's enough to make even his head pound, but Sentinel Prime sets that aside. In this instant, sword held high, Optimus beaten and kneeling before him, he has won. It's a pity; he always did like his student, but the younger Prime is the biggest obstacle he faces. The only thing really standing in the way of Cybertron's rebirth. It cannot be tolerated, not even from his former friend, his successor to the Primacy. His weight shifts and Sentinel brings his blade down to take Optimus' head and end the fight once and for all. In that last instant, he does his friend the small mercy of shutting his optics as he strikes – no Prime deserves to be seen executed as such, even by the headsman.

His mistake.

In the next instant, his blade slams hard into the ground, momentum burying the tip a full foot deep. The light fades, deepening to twilight blues and greys. Immediately he opens his eyes again, rips his sword free and brings it to bear, shield on his other arm as he circles, ready for the attack that doesn't come.

"Who dares–?" he hisses, then falls silent. He blinks and looks again at his surroundings, puzzled, wary. This is not the human city – this is not the bridge. It seems… familiar somehow, and yet not. The far-spanning vista to his left, barren and dull for trackless miles under the darkening night sky, reminds him of a plain he hasn't seen in aeons; the rusted shapes and spires rising behind and to his right, perhaps a city that was once one of a dozen glittering jewels on the face of the world. Sentinel turns slowly, taking it all in with a scowl of growing displeasure.

None of it is right. There is rust and decrepitude to every side and it scratches at his optic lenses like fine grit in the wind. This is home, surely. But it is dead, or very near to it, and strange to him besides. It is not his home.

Slowly, sword and shield still at the ready, he starts toward the city proper. Something – someone? – is calling him there. He feels it in his frame, in his very spark, tugging at him like a summons. Was his arrival not a malfunction of the Space Bridge, then? Was he perhaps brought here against his will? The thought deepens the look of fury on Sentinel's face even as he presses on. He may have been called here, but though the pull he feels echoes a much older, much more profound longing, he will answer to no-one if he so chooses. He is, after all, a Prime.

The more of the city he sees, the more unsettled Sentinel grows, anger fading gradually with each step he takes. This is Cybertron, he's certain of it now. But it is a Cybertron he has somehow never seen. There is simply no way the Space Bridge could have brought him to this place, no means for it to send him beyond its own reach; he didn't design it with such power in mind.

Then how?

The question continues to plague him as he forges deeper and deeper into the canyons between looming, empty buildings, the night thick here on the street with only the stars high above to light the way. He could use his own lights, but he'd give himself away too easily like that in this unfamiliar territory. No idea if anyone here is friendly, though the odds are stacked solidly against that for him, he decides with a shallow sigh. His security is a small sacrifice in the end, but just now, he might regret it. A little.

Sentinel finally pauses a block away from a sprawling, open intersection. He has a better view of the sky here, and the stars form no constellations he recognises. He frowns at them, then turns his attention back to the ground. He still feels that draw guiding him further into the city, so he hasn't reached whatever place he's expected to be and he has no idea how much more lies between him and there. Somewhere past the spires rising high above him is the faintest glow of moonlight tinting the purple-black sky. It hasn't risen high enough to light his path just yet. He'll wait until he has the moon in his favour, then, and he eases into a nearby crumbling entryway for shelter while he waits. The temptation to sit and rest is strong, but he makes himself remain standing. Only when he's sure he's safe, he tells himself.

Whenever that may be.

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Unlike his counterpart - who'd arrived with a certain degree of dignity - the once-gold Sentinel had pretty much resigned to bumming around, simply trying to stay alive. He wanted to put some grand plan into motion, but the fact was he simply couldn't. He cursed the fact he'd become so comfortable, so reliant on the network he'd built for himself. Started out alone, did he not?

At this point, all he's missing is a robot 5 o'clock shadow and a bottle of robot vodka in a brown paper bag. He fell and he fell hard.

Failing to notice the red mech thanks to previous damage to his optics and just straight up not caring to pay full attention, Sentinel happens down the same street, cracked headlights on and no real clear goal in mind. He's just doing what he usually does; wander around and hoping to find something worthwhile. Admittedly, even if he did have a purpose here, no uprising or war leaves one with plenty of spare time.

Maybe he'll luck out and find one of the senate buildings. That would certainly make for a nice hovel. Or fun to burn down. However he feels, really.

Sentinel catches the flash of lights from the corner of his eye, as he's looking skyward again, building a map for himself. He steps back slowly into the shadows of the entryway lest he be spotted and pulls up his shield just in case.

He doesn't recognise the bot staggering his way. At all. But then he recognises few these days; most of those he knew were dead long before Optimus revived him. This one looks more heavily armoured than Sentinel is accustomed to seeing, and his optics narrow in speculation. Native to the area? They look as beaten and run-down as the rest of the city, at the very least.

Still, Sentinel waits until the stranger has passed to make his move. He rushes forward shield first, intent on knocking the other bot to the ground with a strike to the back of either knee.

While he doesn't expect being whacked in the back, Sentinel just accepts the fact he's being attacked with a sort of dull resignation.

He manages to avoid behind knocked onto the ground, just barely. Extremely ungracefully, he lurches forward from the impact then swings around and aims his wrist gun at his attacker.

There's barely a hint of the frustration he's feeling in his voice, however.

"Odd way of saying hello."

ZING

The banal comment goes largely ignored in favour of the weapon now being pointed at him. Sentinel pivots on one foot low and to the side of that gun-arm, then snaps back with the flat of his blade to the stranger's head. Reflex.

He should have stopped instead.

It hits with a no doubt satisfying thunk. Sentinel makes a sound not unlike GAHFUCKDAMNIT and stumbles, annoyed he didn't see it coming. He really should go for that check up. He drops the gun and just about manages to avoid letting off a string of obscene curses, instead raising one hand, palm out, and wiping his face with the other.

"Listen! I don't want a fight," he lies. "Stop with this pointless hostility!"

In other words: WHAT THE FUCK BRO

Pointless? Sentinel scowls over the edge of his shield.

"We are at war," he says in a low voice, thick, gravelly. "And you bear no markings." After a moment's thought, he stands a little straighter but remains wary, keeping a cautious eye on the other's movements. The dropped gun he gives a look of mild distaste, then flicks it further away with the tip of his sword.

Just in case.

"If you truly mean me no harm," he goes on, stiff but sincere, "then I… apologise. But I do not know who can be trusted here and you are no exception."

Wow who is this asshole Sentinel hates him already!!

"Everyone deserves a chance." he says, though it's clear from his tone he seems sceptical of his own statement. He's got a lot going on, alright.

"I would never harm a fellow Autobot," another lie "My name is Sentinel Prime."

He cautiously holds out a hand. He wants to get at least one right.

One brow rises significantly higher than the other and Sentinel looks this stranger up and down again with ice cold optics. His gaze lingers on that offered hand before sliding up, expression flat, stony.

"Your words ring… hollow," he says slowly, as sceptical as his counterpart. "But I will give you the benefit of the doubt, as a fellow Autobot." He pauses and considers his next words; if this is the state of his kind here, it may be ill-advised to reveal himself. On the other hand, this duplication is curious. Finally, cautiously, he adds as he lowers his shield, "And as a fellow Prime. To say it is a pleasure to meet you seems oddly self-congratulatory."

Sentinel, of course, has no reason to suspect or know that this is his duplicate. He wonders, though. He knows of most of the Primes that came before him (something he had to memorize for that stupid oath) maybe this was one from the far future? His body shape was certainly strange enough. Of course, the fact that this mech might be from another universe crossed his mind but at the end of the day, Sentinel doesn't give enough of a shit to give it too deep thought.

He's not surprised his hand isn't taken. He's rather glad, almost.

Fellow Prime, though. Sentinel frowns; this guy sure does say a lot of words that aren't important at all. He always did hate the dull political formalities.

"If you say so," he doesn't bother to hide his exasperation. Honestly, he still wants to shoot the guy. "A name would help."

"…I am Sentinel Prime," the elder announces after a moment to mull over how, exactly, he should respond. He has no idea what sort of reaction he'll get. Behind his shield, he flexes his hand.

He can't help but let out a Ha! - Sentinel was never good at being two faced. This is what he wanted. This is exactly what he wanted. Sure can't wait for that new t-cog!

Raising a hand, he tries to wave his initial reaction off, "That's not-- the answer I expected. You look like more of a... Nominus." he says quickly.

Nailed it.

Well. He's not being fired upon (yet) nor being cursed for a traitor and murderer. A moderate step up, at least.

"That name means nothing to me," he says, brow quirked, in one go both acknowledging and dismissing the matter. He looks around them again, then back to this other Sentinel and adds, somewhat more respectfully, "Tell me what you know of this place. Is this…" He pauses and gestures to their surroundings with dismay. "…Actually Cybertron?"

He shutters his optics and exvents tiredly. They really should start handing out brochures. 'Welcome to Cybertron, yes it really is as awful as it looks!'

"Yes," unfortunately goes unspoken, "we were not the only ones who awoke here, either."

God knows they'd all be fucked if it was just a load of different Sentinels around.

"Curious." Sentinel's optics flicker in thought. He wonders what criteria exactly determine the ones brought as he was, if there are indeed more than himself and this other… lesser Sentinel Prime. It doesn't seem a question the other can answer, however. He shunts the matter back to a subprocessor and refocuses on the immediate issue, turning a critical eye on his newfound companion. "And are they all in a similar state?" he wonders, pointedly taking in other-Sentinel's shabby and beaten condition. "The war has come with us?"

His flat tone and calm expression never waver. Internally, he boils with rage that he was so close and now he is… wherever this is. This run-down, rusted out Cybertron. This sad world that is not his.

He snorts angrily. "Megatron is here," he spits, "Of course it did."

Whether the Autobots and Decepticons are actively trying to murder each other or not. His optics narrow and he taps his chin.

"Tell me, what of the war you know?"

He kinda missed his own. Came down with a nasty case of 'Megatron punched a hole through him.'

Megatron. Could prove useful, thinks Sentinel, if he can manage the situation properly. Lacking familiarity with the territory and the personalities therein, he needs time. He needs information.

His other may be a decent enough start.

"The war?" he says, voice low and hard and heavy with regret. "It destroyed our world. Killed Cybertron. We were forced to flee our home." Some… earlier than others. But he needn't share that irrelevant detail just now. "Megatron could not be stopped. And you say he is here already?" It's a marvel that things haven't already imploded. "That I do not stand in burning ruins tells me he has been kept well in check," he murmurs and looks around them.

He'd already been told of what happened in his own universe, but knowing it happened in more than one... Sentinel may be what he is, but the entire planet dying is a Big Thing. He wonders if whatever version of himself existed on this planet had as big of a hand in the war as he did. It's a depressing thought he pushes away, along with the fact Megatron had gutted him like a fish. Embarrassing.

"Lacking in Decepticons and weak willed to do anything alone, more like." Yeah he'll just settle comfortably into denial. Mmm, comfort zone.

A weak-willed Megatron? This sounds incrementally better as the conversation carries on.

"I see," is what Sentinel says, circumspect. "Then we are fortunate indeed, to face such circumstances with superior numbers." Megatron is always the one with greater forces. Strange to hear the tables turned.

He turns to leave; they can talk and walk, surely. And he expects to be followed.

"We must be lacking for medical aid," he says meaningfully.

Seeing as he doesn't actually know the status of Megatron's Decepticons here beyond throwing shade, Sentinel merely makes a Hmmm noise. Ambiguous!

He follows, of course, though with a bit of a limp. That awkward encounter with Megatron is still screwing him over months later.

"I would've thought supply issues would've been obvious from first glance."

They're fine. Mostly. He's still not sure how he didn't cark it.

"They are," Sentinel replies in a low, crisp voice. "Else I cannot imagine the Autobots would allow a Prime to carry on in such a state."

There, he finally said it outright. This other Sentinel Prime is an absolute wreck. Trying to be a good example to one's followers by not seeking medical aid for every little problem only works until so many problems accumulate. That point passed some long months ago, by his guess.

Outwardly, he shows no reaction to the comment. Internally, however, he curses this red asshole in a thousand different ways. Regardless, he'll take that theory over the real reason. It makes him feel slightly better about himself, even if it's a lie.

Silently, he nods.

"Then you know the current priorities, too."

"Mm," is Sentinel's only real answer on that count. Stating the obvious irritates and bores him, so he tries to do it as little as he possibly can. It has been millennia since he last took the helm during war, but he still knows. He remembers.

"I assume you have centralised what supplies there are and organised access to them," he adds. Because it seems only logical for another Sentinel Prime to have been leading.

"Sure."

Nailed it.

Epps has been doing his absolute best to stay out of all the bullshit that the robots been up to. It's been pretty easy, to be honest, as the bots don't tend to look down a lot. Staying clean and fed has been a bitch, but he's a soldier and he always finds a way.

So things sucked but they were a tolerable amount of suck.

Seeing that particular asshole walk by goes beyond tolerable.

Unfortunately Epps is very weaponless, so all he can do is follow him to see where he was going.

Sentinel Prime especially is one of those who rarely troubles himself to look down, particularly where humans are involved, so Epps goes unnoticed as Sentinel settles into his bolt-hole. The Primax blade he allows to leave his hand, resting it against the wall instead; his shield, he keeps ready, and he watches the street and sky with caution and curiosity. Even in other spectrums, the surrounding structures remain a largely monolithic, homogeneous mass.

It makes the waiting tedious, but then Sentinel Prime is little if not patient. He reviews the stars he mapped on his way here, though he cannot make a proper chart until he has oriented it by the poles. No matter which way he turns the images, they do not match the skies he knew when Cybertron was in her glory. This world, itself so like Cybertron and at the same time not, alarms and intrigues him in turns. Even more, he burns to know the means by which he was brought here.

And so his thoughts run as he spends his time in silence, listening, watching the street come into stark relief as the moon breaches the tops of the buildings and light spills down.

He'll have to move. The call hasn't ceased all this time and he wants to see what waits for him at the end. He sighs, very softly, and picks up his sword.

Edited 2015-04-13 14:16 (UTC)

There's something huge walking through the lightless streets not too far away from Sentinel's cover. Its presence is heralded by booming footsteps, each one sending small pieces of debris rattling over the rusting roadways.

The giant machine's armor was pale enough in parts that even in the darkness, it was possible to make out some pf the creature's form. Clawed forelegs, long, narrow wings, and a lupine head with rows of sharp teeth and bright, red optics.

... That may or may not be staring right at Sentinel as the beast mech slows to a stop on the intersection.

Sentinel feels the vibrations carrying through the ground well before he hears anything, and what he finally hears is virtually deafening after the long, quiet walk. He winces briefly at the sound, then scowls. He frowns even more deeply when that massive beast comes into view. It reminds him somewhat of the quadrupedal assault troopers that cropped up late in the war. This one, however, is much larger.

Slowly, warily, Sentinel bends to take more cover behind his shield and reaches back with his free hand for his sword. All without taking his optics off the beast.

"You're not going to win."

It was said with the bland, ominous confidence of someone who had won nearly every single battle in his life.

There was not hostility in the giant's stance however, just distant curiosity. Whoever this was, was a newcomer here- or at least a stranger whose scent Sixshot hadn't yet encountered.

That's a tone Sentinel knows all too well. He uses it himself. He pauses mid-reach but does not lower his shield and watches the stranger warily.

"I will defend myself," he replies, brushing off the notion of a challenge to fight. "Should you choose to attack." Neither knows the other's capabilities, it's true – but Sentinel will not be felled here and now. There is too much he has yet to know about this place. Still a chance he could find a way back. "If you will not," he adds, "then identify yourself."

"Sixshot."

It was still strange to introduce himself. Normally it's someone else introducing him or, well, just straight up murdering as was par for the course for a Phase Sixer.

"Are you lost?"

Edited 2015-05-17 17:25 (UTC)

"No." That would imply he had any clue where he was in the first place, and be a dangerous admission to make at all. And he feels that as long as he still senses that pull towards some other, inner part of the city, he will never quite be lost here. Sentinel adds as he looks around slowly, never quite letting Sixshot leave his field of vision, "I have been… displaced."

Is it worth asking Sixshot for information? The worst the behemoth can do is tell him no.

"Are you responsible for bringing me here?" Sentinel asks, eyeing the larger mechanism with suspicion. Oh, he doubts it, but it seems the natural thing to ask of one so strange-looking.

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something in your bones calls you here

drunkenly stumbles into the second one

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At the city

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