toss these dice [ open-ish ]
who ; Barricade and two weensy friends~ And possibly Barricade's stalkers
what ; Barricade doesn’t get what he wants, but he does get what he needs
where ; Residential Zone 05, Gibson
when ; Today!
warning(s) ; M-maybe some sad angstyness?
notes ; Mostly a narrative, but anyone that’d have reason to be following him/be in some random house in Gibson is free to come bug him!
Ever since that hatchling… incident… Barricade’s been on the lookout for something. Not one something in particular. Just… something. Something from his world. So he’d been sending out pings every once in a while, to see if anything would ping back. He promised himself it would just be for a month. One month he’d look, for… whatever he was looking for. He didn’t even know what. Just someone or something that’d know him, maybe. Others here didn’t know him, not really. They couldn’t. Shockwave and Convoy knew his faction, and Ratchet knew… well, whatever Tyran Autobots knew of him. But that wasn’t knowing him, was it? Not exactly. So he’d been pinging out along Tyran Decepticon lines, hoping for something.
And three weeks after he started, something pinged him back.
So he’s headed out to Gibson to track the ping down. He has to duck to get into the house though the backyard doors - some stupid prefab furnished shitbox - and finds exactly what he’s looking for. Scattered on the couch are a bunch of little bodies. Easily recognizable, to him. Lensmeters. Medics, not that he’d ever cared to go to them. The smartest of them, Scalpel, had a reputation for taking parts from his patients, after all. Not that he’d wish this fate on any of them. Looks like the impact from the Junkyard broke them.
But something had to have brought those bodies here, had to have sent that ping. Unless this is one of those things like the last time his ping was answered. But there weren’t any Primaxians here, retooling Tyran comms for their own use. Good news, sort of. He crouches down and lets out a series of chirps and trills. “I know someone here pinged me. Where are you? I’m not going to harm you, I swear.” Barricade spreads his hands, palms open and raised to the ceiling; not rotating out any weapons, see?
After a few moments, one of the pillows on the couch moves. A couple Lensmeters skitter out, looking up at him with big optics framed by glasses. Oh, little ones… “You’re the ones? And this was the rest of your clan?” They chirp the affirmative. He settles in, offering a hand to them and flicking a look to the others. They aren’t fixable. And these two need somewhere to stay. “Come on. You can’t stay here; it’s dangerous. We could use each other.”
They look from his hand to each other and back again, whistling and trilling at each other. They’re debating his offer. The larger of the pair eventually scuttles over to the offered hand and rests its small hands on one of Barricade’s claws. It then darts onto his hand and up his arm, six legs skittering unpleasantly on his armor and the gaps between the plates. His armor shivers for a moment, which prompts the Lensmeter to stop, reach down, and pat the plate it’s now clinging to. There, there. The other one picks this time to join its fellow in examining their new ‘partner’.
They need protection. He needs company. Things work out.
what ; Barricade doesn’t get what he wants, but he does get what he needs
where ; Residential Zone 05, Gibson
when ; Today!
warning(s) ; M-maybe some sad angstyness?
notes ; Mostly a narrative, but anyone that’d have reason to be following him/be in some random house in Gibson is free to come bug him!
Ever since that hatchling… incident… Barricade’s been on the lookout for something. Not one something in particular. Just… something. Something from his world. So he’d been sending out pings every once in a while, to see if anything would ping back. He promised himself it would just be for a month. One month he’d look, for… whatever he was looking for. He didn’t even know what. Just someone or something that’d know him, maybe. Others here didn’t know him, not really. They couldn’t. Shockwave and Convoy knew his faction, and Ratchet knew… well, whatever Tyran Autobots knew of him. But that wasn’t knowing him, was it? Not exactly. So he’d been pinging out along Tyran Decepticon lines, hoping for something.
And three weeks after he started, something pinged him back.
So he’s headed out to Gibson to track the ping down. He has to duck to get into the house though the backyard doors - some stupid prefab furnished shitbox - and finds exactly what he’s looking for. Scattered on the couch are a bunch of little bodies. Easily recognizable, to him. Lensmeters. Medics, not that he’d ever cared to go to them. The smartest of them, Scalpel, had a reputation for taking parts from his patients, after all. Not that he’d wish this fate on any of them. Looks like the impact from the Junkyard broke them.
But something had to have brought those bodies here, had to have sent that ping. Unless this is one of those things like the last time his ping was answered. But there weren’t any Primaxians here, retooling Tyran comms for their own use. Good news, sort of. He crouches down and lets out a series of chirps and trills. “I know someone here pinged me. Where are you? I’m not going to harm you, I swear.” Barricade spreads his hands, palms open and raised to the ceiling; not rotating out any weapons, see?
After a few moments, one of the pillows on the couch moves. A couple Lensmeters skitter out, looking up at him with big optics framed by glasses. Oh, little ones… “You’re the ones? And this was the rest of your clan?” They chirp the affirmative. He settles in, offering a hand to them and flicking a look to the others. They aren’t fixable. And these two need somewhere to stay. “Come on. You can’t stay here; it’s dangerous. We could use each other.”
They look from his hand to each other and back again, whistling and trilling at each other. They’re debating his offer. The larger of the pair eventually scuttles over to the offered hand and rests its small hands on one of Barricade’s claws. It then darts onto his hand and up his arm, six legs skittering unpleasantly on his armor and the gaps between the plates. His armor shivers for a moment, which prompts the Lensmeter to stop, reach down, and pat the plate it’s now clinging to. There, there. The other one picks this time to join its fellow in examining their new ‘partner’.
They need protection. He needs company. Things work out.