Adventure&#x27;s out there... right?

The Art Of Bothering Pipes

Eyeing Pipes warily, Scrapper kept a short leash on his emotions. The poor minibot was obviously genuinely miserable and not feigning his sickness at all. He tried to push his nagging guilt and worry to the back of his mind. Although seeing Pipes in pain tugged at his spark, for now he had to focus on Misfire.

'Are we landing at a port anytime soon? I am a medic, but I'm not sure how much I can do for the both of you with the supplies on the ship…'

Misfire seemed creepily attached to Pipes, which he worried could pose a problem for their escape. Fortunately Misfire also seemed rather invested in remaining alive and not dying of a horrific wasting illness, so he would have to try and play that to his advantage.

Any other mech would have been more alarmed about what they could infer from the conversation about Misfire’s actions, but after spending so much time in the Decepticon base, Scrapper’s standards of what could be construed as sane and rational behavior had become even more lax than usual.

Pipes worsening condition notwithstanding, presently he was more concerned about putting a reasonable amount of physical distance between himself and the pink mech than why Misfire had been so oddly overbearing towards Pipes. He had met mechs like Misfire in the past; they never lived long past being sparked and had an unfortunate habit of dragging others back into the well with them. Sometimes entire buildings, too. A vortex of calamity and a six-changer where not his ideal shipmates.

Now it was no mystery anymore to Misfire how Pipes could have possibly fallen sick. It’s no wonder that you catch something (potentially deadly) when you let just about everything bite you once or twice. Even the name of that place…Death Zone. Actually, that name rang a bell, but Misfire wasn’t sure anymore where he had even heard about it first.

Doesn’t matter. He tried to distract himself from the returning queasiness by tuning out Pipes and listening very closely to Scrapper instead. Right! Their next stop came to his mind and he hastily nodded.

"Yes, we will! In a couple of days, anyway. If I calculated the distance right." He made the last sentence sound like a humble understatement of his own skill, when in fact it was the opposite.

Misfire being allowed to do important calculations for something as crucial as their course should be highly alarming in itself, but since he had realized that he was basically the second in command here, he had taken it upon himself to become the pilot; which he thought wasn’t half as hard as he had expected it to be. It was also the cause why their odyssey across space and to the next planned destination had taken a lot longer than it could have had under normal circumstances.

#((feel free to skip Pipes if you need to the next few rounds #he's going to nap now))#subvertedarchitect #justmisfire

Pipes is content to remain silent at this point. He's accomplished his portion of the plan, which had been to make himself convincingly sick, and it hadn't even taken too much acting on his part. Moving and talking weren't high on his list of Comfortable Things to Do at the moment, so he simply lay there, focusing on breathing slowly and steadily (no matter how badly he wanted to make some sort of remark on how amusing Misfire's apparent confidence in his own navigation skills was).

At least the nausea faded when he sat still, and Misfire had stopped prodding at him. The dimness flickers out of his optic band entirely as he closes his eyes and lets his breath out in a soft sigh. He's very close to drifting off again out of sheer fatigue, and unless Scrapper or Misfire approach him or involve him further in their discussions, that's precisely what the minibot will do.

For a very brief moment, Onslaught even actually considers a little vacation on his own, for himself. He just knows that with his team mates, there’s hardly ever a quiet minute. But even the notion of leaving everyone to their own devices for even a day kind of terrifies his more perfectionist side, and so he quickly discards the thought.

"Indeed you aren’t" he replied in reference to Pipes’ valuable insight that their situations really couldn’t be compared, "Which is why I don’t think you understand. But you probably know this."

He drank what was left in his cube, and as soon as the empty container touched the desk, the Combaticon’s mask was back in place. It was then when he started asking himself what had really made him feel better - the talk? Or the high grade?

"In any case, this is all I have to say on the matter" he concluded, sounding much sterner again, "Is there anything you want to add or are we done here? This conversation has gone on far too long by now for my tastes."

"Nah," Pipes waves Onslaught off rather casually. "That's all the advice I've got for today. Any more and I'll have to start charging you." He grins to himself underneath his mask. Like Onslaught, he isn't sure if the talk seems to have calmed the Combaticon, or if the energon (high grade, by the looks of it) has worked to soothe him, but either way, he seems a lot less agitated that before.

This is something Pipes has found himself doing more and more often, and he can't say he minds it. It's kind of satisfying, in an odd way. Onslaught and Misfire have been the more recent recipients of his care and sympathy, and of course there was Scrapper, but... well, there was more than sympathy at work there.

He flips the Decepticon a lazy salute. "Good luck."

The Art Of Bothering Pipes

Scrapper scowled at the mention of touching, feeling a faint pang of protectiveness. He continued to stare balefully at Misfire as he rambled on, trying to make sense of the sputtering torrent of words.

Receiving Pipes transmission, he gave a slight nod in response. He was taken aback by Pipes offhand comment about finding Misfire amusing. Wondering if he was a bad person? Especially at a time like this? Although he appreciated Pipes almost ever-present sense of levity, it was a strangely…Autobot thing to say. But right now he had to make it seem like they should both be ejected from the ship at the nearest port.

Misfire’s mystery illness wasn’t something he’d been mentally prepared for-he was worried if he verbally misstepped they’d be ejected into space instead. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, a plan forming.

'It looks like you dragged this minibot out of a scrap heap. Did you decontaminate him before bringing him aboard? He probably has all kinds of diseases. Contagious ones, maybe even fatal.'

After a suitably dramatic pause he continued on before anyone could interrupt ‘There are a number of pathogens that can destroy a mech from the inside out. Some of them have a significant incubation period, making them highly contagious, showing no symptoms until…’ He trailed off. He wanted Misfire scared, not hysterical.

He turned to Pipes ‘where you attacked by anything purple, with a forked tail? Sharp teeth?’

Hearing Pipes mention the following thing probably shouldn’t have felt as awkward as it did, because when he did it, Misfire had felt obliged to do it. Right now, when hearing it out of someone else’s mouth, it seemed a little…creepy. Which in turn made the flier feel a little betrayed, since there really was no need to phrase it like that.

But before he could even try to right the impression of him that Pipes must have had created, Scrapper caught his full attention again. Even if those words hadn’t been meant to freak him out more, they achieved exactly the opposite, although the flier at least managed to not let it show enough to keep the volume of his voice down. No need to make the situation worse for everyone.

"I-….I did not! He just showed up, I think. I just picked him up from Sixshot’s room!" That was probably not even information he would normally be allowed to share with a guest, but if you looked close (or maybe not even that close) it was obvious that despite his almost calm appearance Misfire was still screaming on the inside at the moment. It was more of the resignation a mech who knew his end was inevitable would display. "Maybe the others decom- decont— did it, I don’t know."

#subvertedarchitect #justmisfire

Pipes shudders a little, both because his frame is uncomfortably cool, and also from Misfire's statement bringing to mind the unpleasant circumstances surrounding his arrival onto Sixshot's ship. "Hopped ship," he interjects. Misfire would probably recall they had a brief encounter with another terrifying six-changer: Overlord. Pipes isn't up to explaining it fully.

At Scrapper's question, Pipes stirs slightly, half-raising himself again. "I got bit by a lot of things," he answers, quite honestly. "Could be something like that got me. I dunno." He gestured to the various scratches and gouges on his frame (the most distinct of which are tooth-punctures across his hood). He pauses to vent, and his speech becomes choppy as a fresh wave of nausea slowly rises. "All this. Chewed up. Death zone. Lots of monsters. Tend to run together... after a while."

Apparently satisfied by this information, he lies back down again, his visor going dim as he shuts his optics and tries to stop his head from swimming.

The oh so familiar frown returns to Onslaught’s features, although due to his visor there’s still only half of it visible. Which, in his case, is more than enough though.There is something that bothers him about the phrase ‘targeting you constantly’ that he can’t really put his finger on right now, but ends up not addressing it.

"What an interesting analysis, doctor. But unfortunately, as dull as they are, I still have duties here. Could you imagine how much more of a mess everything would be if I just took a little trip to another dimension?”

It’s probably obvious from the distinct lack of a full counter statement that Pipes’ assessment is very close to the truth. With so many less mechs around to take his frustration about the circumstances and the non-existent progress out on, it feels even worse. Which is probably the only reason why Onslaught would ever vent to a minibot from another dimension. But on the other hand, he does feel a little better now.

"Take your men with you," Pipes replies with a shrug. "If you guys aren't getting anything done there, then take the whole operation on the road. Maybe shaking things up a little bit will help. And I didn't necessarily mean to another dimension. Trust me, that's not exactly what it's cracked up to be," he adds with a snort.

It's kind of odd to be talking to Onslaught while the other mech is unmasked. He's used to the unwavering, inscrutable wall that the Combaticons' leader normally puts up. Something about that, about the ability to watch emotions flickering across Onslaught's face, makes Pipes feel a bit more competent in dealing with him: he seems less like the cold and untouchable master strategist and more like a mech who just looks fed up with the world--which is actually kind of amusing...

"But take my words with a grain of salt, I guess. I'm not the leader of any kind of squad, so what works for me might not work for you." He punctuates this with a shrug.

#oh BOY #mechanicalonslaught #loose-cannon-dino

Onslaught snorts, unable to decide whether he finds it more foolish or more amusing how easily Pipes agrees to playing agony aunt for a mech he would probably be better off not talking to at all. Most likely an equally concerning amount of both.

"I suppose I will go for a combination of the two then," he replies. "Let me see….where do I start? Maybe with the fact that absolutely nothing worked out the way I intended it to, which is quickly starting to become the most infuriating circumstance I had to deal with since my reactivation. I counted on my team being there and our numbers being much greater. Our ‘leader' is the very incarnation of second-hand embarrassment and the 'war’, as they call it, a goddamn joke.”

His voice remains calm the whole time, although he pauses in between to take a couple of sips from his cube.

"I am grounded here in a dead wasteland on a foreign planet that is so primitive that it’s almost impossible to learn anything useful about it without investing an unreasonable amount of effort and resources; with an insubordinate loudmouth who cannot go for a day without getting himself kidnapped by psychopaths from outer space. The most intellectually challenging activities I am able to participate in are debating on long outdated philosophical concepts with anonymous fleshlings, getting myself intoxicated out of sheer boredom and frustration,-“

To illustrate his struggles, he lifts up the cube a little before downing a good portion of it.

"-voluntarily making myself the target of a faction-confused minibot’s antics in what I guess must be a distress-induced case of mental masochism on my part, and educating a brat who thinks he knows it all about the basics of consent and respect.”

There is a brief moment of silence where he mentally makes sure that he didn’t leave out any of the important parts. He concludes that this is not the case and gives Pipes a weary glare.

"Do I need to elaborate further or is that a sufficient description of the reasons behind my current state of mind?"

He also considers mentioning how out of place he’s felt after being re-introduced to a world and time he barely recognizes after having been completely isolated for millions of years, but that is something he expects Pipes to be clever enough to figure out on his own. And even if that isn’t the case, Onslaught really doesn’t want to talk about it on top of the other annoyances he mentioned anyway.

During Onslaught's speech, Pipes shifts slightly to make himself more comfortable, placing an elbow on the table in front of him and resting his chin in the palm of one hand. He doesn't immediately speak after the other is done, and the thoughtful silence furthers the impression that Pipes has been really listening, and not just waiting for his turn to talk.

"First of all," he begins, "I am not faction-confused. I'm well aware of where we stand. If you're referring to my willingness to communicate and be friendly towards Decepticons, well, that's part of being an Autobot." Pipes can and will fight when he needs to, but he even more aggressively fosters the chance, however slim, of peace--provided that no-one gets hurt in the process.

"Second of all, I can see how that'd be frustrating. You're used to things going smoothly, right? Or, if not smoothly, at least with a sort of controlled chaos. A familiar string of disasters," he goes on, his tone adopting a dry air, "comforting in their familiarity even though they are in themselves quite unpleasant. And maybe painful."

All at once Pipes is reminded how his own personal string of disaster came to an end. He remembers, with a jolt, what Waverider told him about his eventual fate at the hands (or, well, foot) of Overlord, and the minibot goes very still for a moment. Onslaught can't see his face, and the flicker of distress that passes over it, but the sudden pause isn't hard to miss. Pipes's visor flickers as he blinks and goes on.

"But now things are a mess. Mechs popping in and out through dimensional tears. People going back and forth in time. Dead Cybertronians hanging out, chatting it up like it's no big deal. So, it all makes sense. Well, seems to me like you've gotten yourself in a rut. Maybe you should travel."

He shrugs. "After all, there's a whole multiverse out there, now. If you're not getting anything done at base, and people are targeting you constantly, why not look for a change of scenery? Doesn't seem like there's much of a reason for you to stay."

"Hmph."

Onslaught fully realizes that his attempts at brushing Pipes off with half-hearted insults are a complete failure, not that he expected any great results to begin with. The smile vanishes, being replaced by a thoughtful frown as he’s carefully considering his next step. There’s always the option to just cut off the connection and sulk in private, but what if he just gives Pipes what he wants?

His optics narrow further behind his visor for a brief moment. The decision is made.

"Hold on."

He stands up and vanishes from the screen for a moment, returning only a moment after, a cube of energon in his hand that he sets down in front of him as he sits back down. Leaning back, he folds his hands, fingers interlocked.

"Fine, let’s talk. Do you want the full story or would you prefer the abridged version?"

Pipes flips his own end of the vid-comm on, and this presents a much less-impressive view than the Combaticon leader has given him. He's the same battered-looking prisoner that he was before, sitting in a dim lounge somewhere against a shadowed and indistinct backdrop.

Months ago, he'd probably have been staring hungrily at that very ostentatiously-placed energon cube, but Misfire has been allowing Pipes to get a proper amount of fuel--one of the few mercies of his situation.

"Whichever you feel like telling," he responds frankly, shifting to get a bit more comfortable. "If you think venting the whole thing would help, that's fine, but I won't pry." It honestly feels kind of odd to be talking to Onslaught in such a frank and friendly manner, but it's not as difficult as he might have otherwise expected.

The Art Of Bothering Pipes

Scrapper glanced at the table, then back at Pipes, opening his mouth then closing it again without saying anything.

He lowered his hand and took another step into the room.

Pipes certainly looked like he was dying. He thought the minibot was prone to understatement, so he became very concerned that Pipes wasn’t going to be alright at all. But what in the name of Unicron was wrong with Misfire? Well, a lot of things were wrong with Misfire, but some were more urgent than others.

Under different circumstances he would have rushed to Pipes side. He took a few more halting steps forward, but stayed at a safe distance, stopping just out of vomiting range.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't. I don't know where the airlock is and I'd rather not leave your bodies just lying around for Sixshot to trip over.'

He took a long and hard look at Misfire, who was watching him with wide cyberpuppy optics.

'Did Pipes bite you? I think he might be venomous.'

Still standing by his message of doom, Misfire however was confident that he was going to last for about an hour or so longer at least and he also didn’t feel the immediate urge to throw up, so he shook his head at Pipes. “I’ll try not to” he said in an unnecessarily quiet voice, as if the statement was intended for the minibot only, then turned to Scrapper to negate the other mech’s question as well.

There was no doubt for the flier that Pipes was indeed poisonous, as was obvious to him by what he had done to the floor. But he didn’t believe that this mysterious illness even required being bitten. He wouldn’t even be surprised if he was told that it was transmitted by mean looks. The dark humor went over his head completely.

"He didn’t, b-but he touched me at least once. Or I him. Or both- I-…" Realizing that he was starting to make no sense again, he fell silent for a moment, then started a more collected attempt. The sixchanger being mentioned made him realize that he hadn’t even considered yet that not only he himself might have fallen sick. And while he wouldn’t have minded being tripped over (since Sixshot most likely wouldn’t get hurt by that) it had still contributed to making his momentary disorientation worse.

It was probably a good idea to pull himself together now and at least try to explain the actual state of affairs instead of just verbally flailing about. ”I tried to get him to move earlier. And we kind of spent some time together but not a lot and he wasn’t even sick yet then.” With a frown he added, “…or…at least he didn’t look sick.”

#subvertedarchitect #justmisfire

Pipes gives up his attempts to scoot away from Misfire and simply curls up on the floor again. He's past the point of caring how ridiculous he looks, and is only concerned with his own comfort for the time being. It would have been difficult for him not to laugh at Scrapper's offhand comment had he been feeling one hundred percent, but suppressing his mirth is not, under the circumstances, hard to do.

"Misfire follows me around a lot," he mumbles, "in general."

As the other goes on he prepares another message. I don't know what's up with him. Power of suggestion or something. There's a pause. Not going to lie, it's kind of funny. I wonder if that makes me a bad person. Pipes doesn't feel too guilty, considering the things Misfire has put him through: most of them petty, all of them unpleasant, and only one of them actually serious.

He draws a long, slow sigh through his vents and goes quite still. It's honestly just him relaxing and settling so that the spinning in his head will go away, but to Misfire, who's currently suffering the fear of his own life, the gesture probably looks somewhat ominous.

thunderedskies-deactivated20161

excursionistonwheels started following you

thunderedskies-deactivated20161

Thundercracker’s wings just barely move back at the rather booming voice. His optics flickering some. Rather surprised by the mech’s enthusiasm but not nearly too surprised, given he’s an Autobot. He was one for observations and little things like this, he could easily catch glimpse of.

He was about to interject about why he called him an Autobot in the first place but the other mech speaks first. “I’m fine I suppose. Annoyed with the Decepticons here.” But that was the usual anyways, he was never really one for the cause and only stayed because of Skywarp and Starscream. “Anyways, about your appearance, I could easily pick up given your frequency type and rather overall the way you carry yourself as one for an Autobot.”

Waving a hand dismissively, “How is your side of the galaxy anyways?” Little things like this could potentially give him more information on how things flow and run. Stuff like this was always an interest towards him. Releasing a grunt, “Who are you anyways? I don’t believe I got your designation.”

"Well, I'm glad you think it's obvious. Not everyone else seems to," Pipes says with a sigh. "I guess that just means you're quicker on the uptake than some of the other mechs on these channels."

He leans back. Thundercracker will be able to determine a few things about Pipes from the video feed, which shows Pipes from the chest-up and a bit of the scenery around him. He's inside a ship, and it's obvious from his relative size compared to the furniture that he's a very, very small mech: nearly minibot-sized. He's rather scuffed and beaten-up looking, and a curious device encircles his neck, something strangely collar-like.

"As for my neck of the galaxy, eh, things could be better, but they could also be a heck of a lot worse, so I won't complain." In fact, Pipes is currently the prisoner of a terrifying Decepticon, but that's not something he feels the need to tell Thundercracker at the moment. "And I'm Pipes, by the way."

#thunderedskies

The Art Of Bothering Pipes

Scrapper had been occupying himself by pretending to examine the Sixshot’s vessel’s small medbay. He didn’t want to actually touch anything though, and in practice he was mostly just hiding from the ship’s terrifying owner.

He responded to Misfire’s vague comm, and after entering a few storage rooms by mistake, found his way back to where he’d left Pipes. He stepped into the room and stopped dead in the doorway, lifting up one hand slowly to smack it against the top of his helm.

For some reason he could not fathom, there was a smoldering crater underneath a table between himself and the port window. Misfire and Pipes were sitting on the ground in front of the couch rather than seated on it, looking jittery and wretched, respectively.

His optics darted between the two mechs, confused about why Misfire was sitting there hugging his knees with his wings hiked up nervously, next to a miserable-looking Pipes, who had folded in on himself like he was trying to transform into a lump of coal.

'……what happened?' He wasn't a very good actor, but for now, his confusion and surprise didn't need to be feigned.

Pipes’ advice isn’t as helpful as Misfire hoped it would be. It normally would have been, but he’s convinced that he was too vague to get more specific help for his very specific problem. Maybe he should ask Sixshot about it later, the sixchanger knows much more about the incident after all. That is, if Misfire survives this.

As Scrapper enters and more or less interrupte confession time, his sight once again reminds Misfire of his terrible sickness…well, actually Pipes’ sickness, but he’s managed to convince himself that he feels *at least* as equally miserable as the Autobot. Despite trying to calm himself down only a few moments ago, he finds himself panicking again.

He lifts his head to look at Scrapper with a tremble running through his frame and the weltschmerz in his eyes as he announces gravely, “We’re dying. I’m so sorry.”

#subvertedarchitect #justmisfire #((scrapper bby u deserve better than this ahaha))

Pipes gives a soft huff through his vents, but doesn't immediately speak. First, he comms Scrapper on a private frequency, a quick burst of hastily-assembled data. I'm not seriously ill, but I feel awful. Those radium-inhibitor things didn't sit too well with me, I think. I honestly can't get up right now, but I'll be okay, I'm sure. Pipes, of course, is unable to give Scrapper anything like a proper diagnosis, but when the Constructicon examines him closely, he'll see that Pipes is right. The little mech's system is violently rejecting the substance, but all he needs to recover is a bit of time. Though highly unpleasant, it's a very mild upset.

Out loud, he croaks, "Purged. Don't touch the floor." After a moment, he clarifies, with an unsteady wave of his hand towards the corroded hole in the floor, in which the table is leaning somewhat unsteadily, "There." Pipes, of course, has failed to mention that any energon he regurgitates shares the same corrosive quality as his gas, but that's not something he felt would be prudent to bring up while trying very awkwardly to woo an enemy soldier from another dimension.

He begins to unfold his limbs and scoots a little ways away from Misfire, but he's too dizzy to try anything more dramatic than that. "If you purge," he mumbles, "don't do it on me." He knows Misfire can't possibly be sick, since Pipes isn't currently contagious, but it's best to act as if he doesn't.

"Offering mental support to a Decepticon? You must be out of your senses." he growls, but it sounds more defensive and less biting now.

With a sigh, he tilts his head to rub his temple, then adds, “But you have a fair point, I’ll give you that.” For a moment it seems like all the cynicism has been drained from him, but it’s a very short moment.

It’s true, when he started the conversation the idea definitely wasn’t to let Pipes rile him up, but the minibot has this very special way of prodding and poking and pushing his buttons that makes Onslaught realize his slip-up only by the time it has happened already. As he looks at the other mech again, his attitude has returned full force and the Combaticon is smiling frostily.

"Nevertheless, I must decline your offer. It would be incredibly selfish of me to burden your mind with such maddeningly complicated problems. These are not the kind of matters simple foot soldiers can be expected to concern themselves with.”

Pipes resist the urge to laugh. If Onslaught wants to accuse him of being out of his senses, he knows there are other things the Combaticon leader can claim he's offered to a Decepticon which would be even more incriminating evidence towards the claim...

He also doesn't rise to the bait, responding to Onslaught's rather haughty response with a shrug. "I'm not offering a full therapy course or anything. I'm no Rung, after all." Besides, only one gestalt leader is privy to the full force of Pipes's attention and care. "But if you need to vent, I don't really mind. Our intellectually-stimulating witty back and forth banter isn't any fun if you're distracted, after all."

Aside from not being willing to have his feathers ruffled, Pipes also readily accepts that he is, after all, just a footsoldier. He is no-one of significant importance, except to a few scattered mechs, and that has never really bothered him before.

thunderedskies-deactivated20161

excursionistonwheels started following you

Thundercracker grunts, “Another Autobot I see.” He had to hide his frequency or something, so many Autobots are finding him, which isn’t such a good sign. “Is there something that you need from me?”

The very first thing Pipes does is throw his hands in the air and cry, "Thank you!"

He shakes his masked head, bringing his hands down to gesture emphatically as he speaks. "Of all the people I've talked to in the last few months, you're the first one, the very first, to call me an Autobot right off the bat. Everyone takes a look at me and thinks just 'cause I've got red optics and just 'cause I have a dark color scheme with a little bit of purple that I'm a Decepticon. I was constructed with these optics, thank you very much."

He shakes his head. "You have no idea how annoying that is. Anyway, uh..." Hmm. It seems he's gotten a bit carried away. After a somewhat awkward pause, Pipes simply blurts, "Hi, how are you?"

#thunderedskies

Onslaught’s reply is delayed by a brief pause. He leans back and retracts his mask, and though his voice sounds almost as patronizing as before, he now openly glares at the minibot.

"Well done! You saw right through me. How did you do it? Did someone recently reveal to you that I am a gestalt leader with duties and responsibilities or did you figure that out all on your own?”