Regrouping and Moving On, A.W.

[Big Kahuna]

Sighing, Moonhunter leaned an elbow on the table and cradled his face in his palm. The recruiting standards for colonies were sadly not high enough. But it served to reason that mostly misfits who felt out of place on their home world would sign up to start a new civilization on another. He supposed that had been one of this own reasons for signing up, besides protecting Ziggy and learning to unwind. If he wanted to unwind, though, he should have become a cabana mech on a vacation world. So far he had become wound up even tighter, if anything.

“It’s a grown-up word,” Moonhunter answered Cassidy’s question, unphased. “You shouldn’t repeat it.” Why wouldn’t he pick it up while here? So far that day, everything that could go wrong, did. Whoever Murphy was, he had been right. And he had probably died a horrible, gruesome death. Idly he wondered if he was going to have to worry about their resident Predacon Scrounge trying to eat the cub…

[Lilblacknwhitebot]

Scramble watched proceedings from an ideal vantage point, half-covered by the outer casing of a faulty energon dispenser. Crosshare was worse than he was for stirring up trouble and deserved everything he got as a result, but that didn’t stop the little Lemur wearing a very large grin behind his mask as Spanner ‘escorted’ the Jackrabbit from the room.

He returned his attention to the problem of the moment, which luckily for those around him was a simple blocked tube,

“Huntin’ dem glitchmice, la la la-la la… gonna fix dem glitchmice wher’er dey are.”

The ditty sounded strangely like a song called ‘Rat In Mi Kitchen’ only with a distinctive eastern-quarter twang in place of the Jamaican accent favoured by the original artists. No matter how far Scramble was from home, he never lost his accent, in fact in some instances he seemed to assimilate the local accent of the inhabitants, which only made his speedy sing-song slang even more incomprehensible.

Problem area located, the black and white popped his head and shoulders out of the machine and grabbed a few jubilee clips from his toolbox. Then, making sure the supply lines were clipped off nice and tight, he pulled the offending tube free of the machine and dropped it into a nearby tub of cleaning solvent to dissolve the crystalline deposits blocking it.

Leaving it there, he checked the rest of the machine over and spruced it up in the process before taking a pair of rubber gloves and a wire brush and setting to work on the blocked tube. A handful of minutes later, the dispenser was back online and Scramble had moved in to clear up the mess Crosshare had made with a telescopic swiffer-mop and the same tub of cleaning solvent, leaving a red triangle warning marker in the middle of the area to prevent accidents when he was done.

When he was on form, like today, he fully earned his reputation for efficiency. Tools tidied away and cleaning solvent disposed of, Scramble poured himself a measure of energon from the newly-fixed dispenser and found a seat, taking a well-earned break.

Looking around those in the room, he took a sip of his drink, curled his tail around the leg of his chair and then unspaced a datapad and stylus, quickly becoming involved in yet another collection of Sudoku puzzles.

This post has been edited by Lilblacknwhitebot on Nov 24 2009, 12:20 PM

[Slipstream]

ooc: Screw it, I’m joining in the havoc

ic: Widow strode into the mess hall quietly, a Data-slate in the crook of his arm, taking great care to not disturb anybody in their meals or even other’s conversations. He idly scratched at the back of his neck as he stopped beside the energon dispenser and took a measure in a cup,
“Don’t remember this working…” he muttered to himself, taking an experimental sip from the glass, “But still… Better that it does work than complaining about it…
He downed the energon fluid in the glass and filled it again, he sighed and plonked himself at a table, frowning at the data-slate that he swung from under his arm. The green-backed black text that played in front of him took the form of a Terran novel of four-hundred years previous; ‘Of Mice and Men’ by John Steinbeck - the old Terran classics never lost anything on him. He sipped at the energon and read on;

Crooks leaned forward over the edge of the bunk. ‘I ain’t a southern negro,’ he said. ‘I was born right here in California. My old man had a chicken ranch, ‘bout ten acres. The white kids come to play at our place, an’ sometimes I went to play with them, and some of them was pretty nice. My ol’ man didn’t like that. I never knew till long later why he didn’t like that. But I know now.’ He hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. ‘There wasn’t another coloured family for miles around. And now there ain’t a coloured man on this ranch an’ there’s jus’ one family in Soledad.’ He laughed. ‘If I say something, why it’s just a n****r sayin’ it.’

Lennie asked, ‘How long you think it’ll be before them pups will be old enough to pet?’

Widow scratched at his arm as little pains shot up and down his arm, a servo playing up maybe - he‘d have to inspect it later. He glanced up from the data slate to look across the hall to look at the Security Commander and… Something that looked scarily like his Beast mode. A frown formed on his faceplate and he shrugged, meetings and greetings could be made later. He went back to his novel;

Crooks laughed again. ‘A guy can talk to you an’ be sure you won’t go blabbin’. Couple of weeks an’ them pups’ll be all right. George knows what he’s about. Jus’ talks, an’ you don’t understand nothing.’ He leaned forward excitedly. ‘This is just a nigger talkin’, an’ a busted-back nigger. So it don’t mean nothing, see? You couldn’t remember it anyways. I seen it over an’ over an’ over – a guy talkin’ to another guy and it don’t make no difference if he don’t hear or understand. The thing is, they’re talkin’, or they’re settin’ still not talkin’. It don’t make no difference, no difference.’ His excitement had increased until he pounded his knee with his hand. ‘George can tell you screwy things, and it don’t matter. It’s just the talking. It’s just bein’ with another guy. That’s all.’ He paused.

His voice grew soft and persuasive. ‘S’pose George don’t come back no more. ‘S’pose he took a powder and just ain’t coming back. What’ll you do then?’

This post has been edited by Slipstream on Nov 23 2009, 01:42 PM