Transformers Universe MUX

Log Title: Finding the Trojan Horse

Characters: Nighthawk, Trojan

Perspective: Trojan

Location: California/Nevada

Date: 2009 12 15, 1200 hrs

TP: Non-TP

Synopsis: Nighthawk discovers a surprise amid an ancient derelict Autobot ship that crashed to earth...

California/Nevada - North America

Beautiful and warm, California and Nevada are the western most states. California is known as the entertainment center of the United States, as most movies, television programs, and record albums are recorded there. It's also known for some of the worst traffic, smog, and riots in the world, especially in Los Angelos. Nevada, on the other hand, could be considered the Sin capital of the world. Home of Las Vegas, it's the land of casinos and gambling, where people lose their fortunes in the blink of an eye. Incidently, it's also one of the only states with legalized prostitution.

There would have been a report. Some quiet, somewhat dubious rumble about some object hurtling from the sky. Observers would likely think it a small comet, but one can never be sure now days. Whatever it was, it ended up slamming into the Nevada desert sands.

Given the proximity to Autobot City, Nighthawk has taken off from the city to do a sweep of the desert, his enhanced sensor array on full as it sweeps the hot desert sands below while he flies along, headed for the general coordinates of the strike.

It wouldn't take Nighthawk long to figure the trajectory - that's his specialty, right? Recon! And it will not take him much longer to determine that whatever fell from the sky was *not* a comet nor a meteor. Zooming in on his advanced sensor suite, the com-trail bleeds semi-dangerous levels of secondary radioactivity across the spectrums, but given where it hit, it isn't
going to be too much of a problem to contain or control. What might be of even more keen interest to him is what the object was: A ship. Not just any ship, either - judging by the markings upon what part of the aft protrudes out of the skid, it's an Ancient Cybertronian ship - the markings are of Ancient Autobot.

The craft looks completely abysmal - unsalvagable - battered by several milennia of drifting in space. It appears to have been rebuilt and shortened sometime during its journey. The electrical systems appear to be dead, and what it had for weapons seem to have been sundered off long, long ago. In short: It looks derelict.

"What in the...." Nighthawk mutters from his vocal synthesizer, banking around to come in for a landing near the ship. Transforming, he heads up closer to get a better look. "It's Cybertronian.... and been out there a good long while from the look of it.." he mutters to himself as he studies the ship's markings.

[        The wings of the F-117A split from the fuselage and fold to form a pair of arms, and the tail section splits and folds to form a pair of legs as Nighthawk rises from his plane mode, his cockpit folding down to form his chest and his head rising up from within to complete the transformation.

Nighthawk stands at approximately 26 feet tall, painted a flat black color. His arms are formed out of the wings of his alt mode, while his legs are formed from the engine/tail section, the two pieces of the 'V' tail attached to the back of his calf. The rest of his plane form forms his back, while the cockpit forms his chest, the Autobot symbol displayed prominently. His head appears like a square block, with bright blue optics set into his face.  ]
If he understands the markings, the ship was designated CC-III - or was, at one point. If he possessed diagrams of millions of years ago, the aft section appears to have been that of a long-range scout ship; his hand may need to wipe away some of the debris to read further, there is reference to Crystal City as its point of origin. The Ancient ship groans as stressed Cybertronian metal starts to settle against gravity; pieces that weren't knocked off and strewn along the skid drop off like shaking sand from a blanket. The radiation levels are, coincidentally, of cosmic origin: The ship had been in space so long without repair and shielding that the hull absorbed some of the universe's more notorious wavelengths of radioactivity. There is a very large, semi-sealed door along its right side, right near the obvious welded seam from where the entire ship was shortened by about 75 feet - taken right out of the center.

Being one of the older crew of Autobots, he makes out some of the markings, and when his optics spot the door, he figures to take the plunge and head in to see what's inside, shifting his optics to night vision to compensate for the darkness within. "Might not be flyable again from the look of it, but there's got to be something inside we might be able to use."

The door... comes right off in his hands. Brittle from exposure, damaged upon impact, and barely on the seals to begin with, it doesn't take much to just take the door off. The yawning abyss of blackness pierced by pinpoints of light from holes in the hull awaits....
Inside? Well, inside is fairly sizable, able to accomedate any Cybertronian of average side comfortably; anything larger would need to stoop or squat down from the second level - if that second level floor hadn't been entirely *removed*. The same welding pattern runs the seam along the inside, where the interior second floor subdivision used to be, but is no more.
To his immediate left, is the cockpit - or what remains of it. It had been, once upon a time, some complex array of sensors and computer, similar to Teletraan, but now, lifeless, and obviously subsumed for parts. To his right, a vast area of nothing but... a couple hundred strewn and jostled containers, metal boxes, cybertronian sepulchers, and scrap, sitting right in front of the engine reactor.

"Hmm... cargo ship?" Nighthawk mutters, and looks among the various bits of junk and containers within, and a glance at the reactor itself. "Wonder if this thing would even work any more..." he wonders, looking over it and the control systems.

It isn't terribly likely, but the reactor could probably be salvaged. It's not leaking, and looks to be in fairly good condition - if knocked offline from the crash. And then... there is movement. A sccrrrrrrrape.... He's looking at the controls, so it came from *behind* him. There's another screech and a heavy, metallic *thud* that echos in the walless interior. Maybe the thing isn't so abandoned...

Nighthawk whips around and puts his hand on the hilt of his rifle, but doesn't draw it... yet. "Who's there?" he calls out.

Nothing, yet - but as his enhanced optics tell him, he certainly isn't alone. Those cargo containers, crates and crypts are realigning, shifting, twisting, *building* something on their own accord. At first, gradually, one by one, and then building to a crescendo of frantic locomotion, until something shoots up about 119', and *leans* forward, eerie, green, irradiated eyes fixed upon the much smaller mech.

[         Like the rising of some ancient, monolithic horror, strewn metal containers shift and dissimilate, twist and reconfigure, building one upon the other in a cacophony of grating screams. Cybertronian-corpse components and steel boxes give rise and form, finally, to the terrifying, hexapedial, quadra-armed femme-mech, Trojan.


         Spawned from madness and twisted into a ghoulish form by some eldritch, cosmic horror, the very presence of this ghastly mech brings forth some primal, frigid terror. At 119' long from tip of a scorpion-stinger tail to the top of her head, this mech resembles a six-legged, four-armed battleship gray dryder instead of the classic bipedal mech. Six arachnidan legs, girthy and boxy at the base of a jagged ovular abdomen end in lethally sharp points. A long tail ending in a giant metal spike curls in a menacing arc high up over her head, while a trio of sharp metal fangs click and clasp just at the fore.
         The torso is decidedly of feminine persuasion, and in that the humanoid similarity ends: She bears two sets of arms, with the lower pair ending in a savagely tined melee weaponry - a flail and a mace, respectively. The upper set of arms are hulking and boxy, ending in fists even larger, with two massive spiked pistons protruding from the elbows. Set between two risen shoulder guards is her head, both veiled and protected by slats of metal, masking a grim visage and a pair of two eerily toxic irradiated eyes.
         Meshed within the ultra-dense armor, one could swear they could make out bits and pieces of other, less fortunate mechs - at least two dozen or more. The gray, crushed appendages and bodies scrape, grind, and creak, as ancient mechanical faces with lidless, lifeless eyes seemingly whisper omens of grisly death from metal lips that do not move...

Nighthawk's optics widen considerably at this sight.. "What the slag!?" he shouts, the rifle still held with one hand ready to draw. "Who are you?" he inquires, looking over the... monstrosity before him.

Poor Nighthawk. The... thing... inches closer. Trojan looks the bot up and down for an instant, and from beneath those metal slats that protect the cranium, its head tips in... thoughtful introspection. One of those four arms - the one without the permanent weapons - lifts, to point at the Autobot symbol Nighthawk so proudly displays.

Nighthawk looks down where it's pointing... it takes a few moments for the meaning to register, but something clicks. "You're an Autobot?" he asks in confirmation.

"Autobot," it confirms, although... *her* voice is low, an in disharmony with a dozen other actuators taken from the corpses of the deceased. She is having a difficult time understanding - if she's as ancient as the ship, it's no wonder. It then gestures to itself, "Tasinia, Trojan," those scratchy, nightmare voices hiss. That's... an introduction?

"Ummm... I'm Nighthawk." he offers in return. "Nice to.. uh.. meet you."

"Nighthawk." The Mech moves out of the pitch with a lumbering pace, allowing more light to hit the battered gray... thing... that comprises her form. "Autobots... here?" It leans away from the smaller Autobot, although because she's so tall, she still has to remain somewhat stooped. This is probably the reason why all the walls and the second floor were removed.

"Uh... yeah... there's a good many here..." Nighthawk says.

<OOC> Nighthawk says, "I've got someone coming to my office for an app demo in about 10 minutes so I'll have to bail."

That transition from old Autobot to the new dialect is going to take some doing. Insofar, she does not seem in the least bit hostile, but the general sense of her being suddenly frustrated is manifested by a heave and crossing of all four of her arms.

<OOC> Trojan says, "Have fun :)"
<OOC> Trojan Can hang out on Metroplex's Doorstep.
<OOC> Nighthawk noddles
<OOC> Nighthawk closes out... I might be back later. :)
<OOC> Trojan nods :)

[I figured Nighthawk would have lead Trojan to Metroplex's Outer Security Checkpoint. :)]