UNWANTED ASSIGNMENTS

 

Logged by Enfilade, March 2001

 

Newly arrived in Darkmount, Enfilade is wandering the halls of the fortress when she catches sight of another Decepticon in the repair bay.  Although she’d rather be out in the field with her old division, the Fightin’ 58^th, Enfilade is determined to make the best of her current situation…

 

Enfilade glances in the doorway of the repair bay.

 

Whiplash is over in the far corner, having taken up a position on one of the repair tables, from where she can get a good overview of the whole room. A gleaming silver battle blade is held at relaxed readiness in her hands, and her tentacles thrash around her in continuous motion.

 

Whiplash looks up sharply at the movement in the door, her violet optics flashing a little brighter.

 

Enfilade pauses, regarding Whiplash with mild curiousity. The tentacles attract her attention....

 

Enfilade doesn't know the rank of the tentacled Decepticon, but just in case...Enfilade comes to attention in the doorway, not wanting to provoke a superior. She doesn't salute, however... "Greetings from the new transfer. Field Commander Enfilade."

 

Whiplash's optics narrow a little as she takes note of an individual she does not recognize.

 

WHIPLASH:        A Decepticon of medium height and slender but decidedly female build, her colors are black-on-black, liquid darkness, of such high gloss that any nearby illumination reflects on her plating in half a hundred highlights. The only splashes of color are her intense, deep-purple eyes, and a Decepticon symbol of the same shade that adorns her chest. A writhing mass of glistening-black tentacles covers her back, coiling forward over her shoulders and around her waist, and snaking restlessly about her legs.

 

The tentacles continue to thrash, but the vaguely suspicious expression shifts a little into something closer to curiousity. "New transfer, eh? And here I was thinking you were another one of those who spent their time inside, and that's why I've never seen you around before."

 

Enfilade replies, "Inside? Why would I..." and she catches herself. "No, I just got sent here from the boondocks."

 

Whiplash's manner isn't in any way of military bearing, indicating that she's not really expecting the other to react with a predefined protocol. She is, however, alert and watchful, the battle blade remaining in her grip, as she looks the newcomer over in appraisal. Finally one corner of her mouth quirks upward in the trace of a smile. "Welcome to Darkmount, then. Here's hoping you don't get stuck with an assignment like mine."

 

Enfilade seems rather confused as Whiplash doesn't tell her to stand easy, and she hesitantly relaxes a little on her own and takes a step in from the doorway.  "And your assignment is...ah...ma'am?"

 

Whiplash shoots a glare around the mostly-empty room. The only other individual there is an unconscious robot on one of the tables, held in place by a faintly glowing stasis field.

 

Enfilade nods, having seen that robot before...doesn't really understand, but that glare suggests asking may be tactless. She plops herself down somewhat heavily on the nearest chair that can take her weight.

 

Whiplash's attention comes back to Enfilade as her tentacles flicker a little faster. For a moment her expression wavers between annoyance and amusement, and then amusement seems to win out. "Do me a favor - Enfilade, was it? Don't call me ma'am. The name's Whiplash."

 

Enfilade nods. "Whiplash it is, m...uh, you got it."

 

Enfilade glances around, seeming not much happier than Whiplash to be where she is.

 

Whiplash says, "And my *assignment*-" she snarls the word as though it tastes bad - "is to watch over this flyboy from Intel division so no one offs him while he's recovering." She shakes her head as thouth to forstall further questions on the matter and says, "Intel division stuff. Don't even ask.""

 

Enfilade snorts. "I know a bit about Intel...enough that I don't want to know any more. Heh. The only place where what you do know can get you killed as fast as what you don't know."

 

Whiplash says, "And personally-" she leans forward a little - "I hate this room.  Not that fond of the interior of the base, for that matter. My guard post is out in the wastelands where I belong. But here I am, stuck with the job, 'cause they couldn't find anyone else dumb enough to do it.""

 

Enfilade actually laughs at that. "Damn, you've got that straight!" She glances at Whiplash. "So how long you stuck here in Head-Shed?"

 

Whiplash favors the unconscious Skyburner with another glare. "Until he recovers and can look after himself." She shakes her head as though disgusted at herself, and adds, "Sometimes I think I should just leave 'em to their own devices."

 

Enfilade glances up at her. "The 'Cons?" She shakes her head a little, thinking of something she does not speak of. "You took the oath, didn't you?""

 

Whiplash specifies, "Intel division. It's full of kids playing warriors, let me tell you."

 

Enfilade elaborates, "Truth, Duty, Valour and all that? We said in the...we used to say....never mind." She looks up. "They're all kids," she says softly. "Or most of 'em."

 

Whiplash growls softly to herself, revealing a glint of gleaming-white serrated fangs. She shakes her head again as though to dismiss the train of thought that has her griping to a complete stranger, and re-focuses on Enfilade. "Truth, duty, valour, right. Where was it you said you came in from?"

 

Enfilade says, "I was with the Fightin' 58th out in the boondocks...just got back on planet yesterday."

 

Whiplash's optics glint a little brighter in interest. "You've been out travelling the stars?"

 

Enfilade snorts. "No, I"ve been dug in into a trench and a field headquarters for the last ten-odd vorn, fightin' Autobots."  Enfilade adds, "Where *I* belong." She glances at Whiplash, noting her interest.  "Space travel's creepy. I can't fight for crap on a spaceship. Leave that to the starburners and space cadets."

 

Whiplash says, "Oh, I don't mind being entrenched and knocking off the occasional dumb 'Bot that thinks they can get past me - been almost too long since one's tried - but I always figured I'd travel the stars after we've mopped up here. Help build the empire, see new things, meet new challenges, all of that."

 

Enfilade shrugs. "I'm a soldier, I'll go where they post me..." but from the tone of her voice, it's obvious that she doesn't like /some/ of her postings, namely here.

 

Whiplash says, "Darkmount's not a bad place to land, though. As long as you're not stuck *inside.*" Again the annoyed growl, the momentary increase in the rate of thrashing tentacles. "But you got a decent set of commanders here, and a group of fighters worth defending." She adds almost as an afterthought with a look toward Skyburner, "Sometimes.""

 

Enfilade glances up sharply at the word "commanders." "Good...I sure hope so.":

 

Whiplash's optics narrow a little again as she appraises the other Decepticon again with a careful visual evaluation. "You had problems with the high-ups in the past?" she guesses.

 

Enfilade's optics betray a flash of guilt, perhaps an internal chiding at being too obvious...but the bulky commander simply leans back, puts her feet up, and says, "I don't have a problem with authority...I have a problem with /stupid/ authority."

 

Whiplash considers this for a moment and then says, "Not a whole lot of that around here, from what I've seen. Megatron wouldn't have put Shockwave in charge if he didn't trust him, and I can vouch for him from having watched from the outside for a while now."

 

Enfilade nods, as if considering, and then says to Whiplash, "Different situation too. You wanna know what it's like, where I was from?"

 

Whiplash says, "Same for the others. I don't always agree with their decisions, but I trust 'em enough to know they've got their reasons. Maybe a longer-range view than my perspective.""

 

Enfilade grumbles something into her mask which may be words or may be simple muttering in a noncommittal tone.

 

Whiplash turns the blade a little in her grip so the overhead lights flash off the polished surface, a completely nonfunctional gesture meant only to alleviate her boredom and aggravation. "Yeah," she says. "I'd like to hear it."

 

Enfilade clears off a nearby table with a sweep of her arm, brushing the supplies on that table into a heap. She selects a handful of bolts and puts them in a line down the middle of teh table. "This is the Decepticon lines." Lying down a large bolt, she says, "This is our HQ."

 

Enfilade points out a line running down the middle of the table, parallel to the Con lines. "This was contested..." On the other side of it she puts a row of washers. "And this is the Autobot lines, kind of in a valley thing...a defile..."  The largest washer becomes Autobot headquarters. Enfilade begins setting up some scalpels around the Autobot lines, especially around the HQ, just a bit behind....

 

Whiplash watches with a faintly puzzled expression, never having seen repair supplies used in this manner before.

 

Enfilade continues constructing her field map right there on the table. "Those scalpels..." Her voice harshens. "Are the Autobot anti-aircraft missile net."

 

Whiplash keeps watching, and finally nods once, beginning to visualize the analogy

 

Enfilade indicates "Decepticon Headquarters." "This was where I was. Recoil...ah, GENERAL Recoil, was way back here..." She puts a transistor far behind the Con lines.

 

Enfilade leans forward over her map. "Okay, so the Bots are dug in the valley, and covered by their missile net. And we're dug in over here...not as deep, but the Bots have no flyers. So what do we do?" She glances at Whiplash for her opinion.

 

Whiplash says, "Is there a way to get in around the back, sneak in and take out the missiles?"

Whiplash says, "Then sweep in from the sky?"

 

Enfilade shakes her head. "The lines went on for miles. But you...heh...I thought like you. My plan was to go /under/...dig a tunnel under the lines, undermine the missiles. You got it."

 

Whiplash nods.

 

Enfilade glances towards the door and her tone grows bitter, mocking. "Recoil wouldn't approve it. Wouldnt' work, he said. Didnt' have the equipment, he said. Seekers can't work underground, he said, they were scared of small spaces." She slams her fist down on the table. "I'll tell you what they were scared of. They were scared of making suicide dives on those missile launchers every damned week...."

 

 

Whiplash says, "You guys had no infiltrators that could get in and at least make enough of a diversion for someone else to come in and catch the missiles unaware?"

 

Enfilade sighs. "We tried. Bots tried similar things, to flush us out...flash bombs, smoke, corrosives. But how do you get an infiltrator in across..." She indicates the line on the tabletop, "...this no-bot's-land? Anyone not familiar, you shoot...it's protocol..."

 

Whiplash says, "Hmm. Not much cover out there, I'm guessing?"

 

Enfilade says, "There was a bit of cover at the beginning...but it got destroyed pretty quick. You have Cybertronians fightin' over a few astromiles of land for vorn upon vorn, everything gets shot to slag, if not by the Bots, then by us...land wouldn't grow a damned thing after a few vorn of that..."

 

Enfilade says, tersely, "I would like to find and punch all the individuals who thought that mass rushes on the enemy would eventually bring victory."

 

Enfilade adds, "It was great fun when the Bots did it...sitting in the trench mowin' 'em down. Kind of soured to know we'd be doing it in a day or two."

 

Whiplash growls softly. "On Cybertron the 'Bots are hiding somewhere in the underground just now. Iacon's dust and ashes, but we haven't found the rock they crawled under, yet.”

 

Enfilade jerks her head up, staring at Whiplash. "You took out IACON?"

 

Whiplash smiles. "We sure did. Or the air power did, anyway. I didn't get to be part of that battle."

Whiplash's smile fades back into an expression of annoyance. "Unfortunately their leaders got away."

 

Enfilade seems to be grinning...it's hard to tell under the purple plate that masks her lower face. "Damn. Your leaders DO know their slag."

 

Enfilade offers, "Might not be so bad here...how the hell'd they do it? Some kind of souped up bombs, or what?"

 

Whiplash says, "Yeah, I'll give 'em that. Don't ask me why they haven't taken out Crystal City, though. That's one of those things - they got their reasons, and I'll trust 'em, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

 

Enfilade pauses. "Crystal City? What you got against Crystal City?"

 

Whiplash shakes her head. "Like I said, I wasn't part of it, but they must've gotten someone inside to kill the early warning systems, so the bombers could come in. Fortress and one of his proton bombs, I'd gather. As for Crystal City-" her her optics darken noticably and she bares her fangs in a silent snarl - "they're bad news all the way around. In league with the 'Bots and too two-face

d to admit it. Can't trust a damn fence-sitter further than you can throw theirscattered parts."

 

Enfilade says slowly, "In league with the Bots?"

 

Whiplash's grip tightens unconsciously on the hilt of her blade. One might almost think she detests Crystal City even more than the Autobots, or at least in a more personal way.

 

Enfilade notes the change in Whiplash's demeanor. Her optics are...questioning, but noticeably hidden of emotion.

 

Whiplash confirms, "Absolutely. They shelter Autobots, and 'exercise their authority' over any Decepticon that makes a misstep inside their precious walls. Who are *they* to impose *their* laws on *us*? Yeah, I know Shock and Onslaught have their reasons for playing along, but like I said, I don't have to be happy abou t it."

 

Enfilade says, "No right at all...on /our/ turf. But if we go into their walls,

we're on /their/ turf."

 

Whiplash says, "Their turf's going to be ours someday. Just a matter of time." M Whiplash's optics flash brilliant violet for a moment, then cool back to their usual shade.

 

Enfilade seems a little dismayed at that, but says nothing. M Enfilade wordlessly deconstructs her "field map" back into orderly piles of medical supplies.

 

Whiplash demands, "Don't tell me you think it's perfectly alright for them to live it up while the rest of the planet's battling it out over a few survival rations here and there?"

 

Whiplash says, "Hiding behind their pretty walls and pretending like they're above it all ... but the whole while helping out our enemies. I don't know about you, but that's not alright by me."

 

Enfilade says, "The Bots are enough. We're strained to the limit dealing with the Autobots. We don't need any more enemies right now."

 

Whiplash nods, though her optics flicker in aggravation. "Right, that's what Onslaught used to tell me."

 

Enfilade says, "And will they be living it up, when we spread our empire to the stars? On that day I'll gladly rather to be a Decepticon...their choice is little risk for little gain."

 

Whiplash chuckles, the glint of fangs gleaming again in her dark face. "By the time we spread our empire to the stars, there won't be anything left of 'em."

 

Enfilade's optics darken again...or is it a shadow behind that visor? The purple lights are indistinct. "Why bother picking a fight with them at all? Leave them in their city, if that's what they want. They aren't worth our time."

 

Whiplash's tone lowers to a dangerous growl. "Speak for yourself. I got a scoreto settle."

 

Enfilade nods slowly. "Personal honour, then."

 

Whiplash says, "You could say that."

 

Enfilade replies, "If I'm ordered to fight them, I'll fight them. Professional honour, if you will." She says it as if to reassure Whiplash that she's no traitor or lukewarm Decepticon.

 

Whiplash returns her attention to the play of reflection off the surface of her blade. "Here's hoping you'll have your chance. For now, you just want to watch your back if you're out there. Keep in mind where their sympathies are. For my part, I've been in here too long, I can tell. I should be out patrolling the borderlands."

 

Enfilade nods. "I'll keep your warning in mind." She glances at Whiplash. "You like patrol? I did that once...got real boring after a while."

 

Whiplash says, "Ah, but there's always a chance you'll run across some foolish invader. The lure of the hunt, you know. Nothing quite like lunging out of the shadows at an enemy that thinks they haven't been spotted."  Whiplash says, "That's my realm out in the wastelands - nothing gets past me."

 

Enfilade eyes Whiplash. "A hunter, eh. Well, if you enjoy it, better you be out there than a couple foolish kids who spend their time kicked back in the guard hut playing Sirian poker all night."

 

Enfilade chuckles a little. "Those are the ones /I/ would hunt...wait for 'em to get nice and comfy, then chuck in a smoke grenade and greet 'em with "Bang, I'm a Bot and you're both dead."

 

Whiplash says, "That's for sure. I guess I've been given a lot of freedom. I just showed up one day and took on the job."

 

Enfilade mutters, "Lucky you." She pauses, adds, "Nothing worse than some idiot breathing down your neck who just happens to outrank you."

 

 Whiplash says, "So what happened to this commander of yours? Is he still off-planet trying to stamp out those 'Bots?"

 

Enfilade nods. "I left, he stayed." She pauses. "Correction, he kicked me out.”  She raises her head skyward...the optics blaze a brilliant lavendar. "By all the gods of war, I hope my troops are all right."

 

Whiplash's thrashing tentacles slow their pace just slightly. "You were looking after them, hm?" she guesses, her tone softer now and without the edge of malice from earlier.

 

Enfilade says, "Digging the tunnel was better strategy, woulda knocked out the Bots...but more importantly...digging the tunnel would mean I didn't have to watch my troops limping in shot to rags by those missiles, didn't have to struggle for an answer when they asked me what their comrades were dying for in those suicide rushes, didn't have to deal with the light in their optics, that dim flicker, while they lived, and the expressions of betrayal on their faces when they died."

Enfilade slams both fists on the table. "At least they would have had a /chance/...a /reason/ for it all."

 

Whiplash lowers her gaze to the floor for a moment. "Could be they learned something from you, though." She looks up again. "And there's retribution someday. You gotta believe that, or else it *is* all for nothing."

 

Enfilade snorts. "Damn straight there's retribution...and I got it in spades." She pauses. "Gods, I hope they learned something from me. Learned how to /think/...learned about honour, and hope."

 

Whiplash says, "Retribution against the enemy, I mean. Everything they've got coming. Those of us that can manage to survive until then, well, after that point life will be good again. Maybe have a chance to travel the stars, for instance, or whatever the others want to do. Decepticons are survivors by nature, I figure you know that, from looking at you."

 

Enfilade says softly, "Would you believe I don't hate the Bots nearly as much as I hate Recoil for ordering that slaughter."

 

Whiplash says, "Yeah, I'd believe it. If I had to deal with someone that clueless, I'd feel the same way. I'd be likely to take his head off myself, in fact. I was tempted once."

 

Enfilade's faceplate twists in what might be a smirk. "Take his head off...oh, I daydreamed about it, but never seriously considered it. Professional honour...and not to mention, that'd be one hell of a courtmartial."

 

Whiplash says, "Hm. Maybe. Or one hell of a medal."  Whiplash gives Enfilade a quick conspiratorial smile.