Recoil Reaction:  Crisis of Command

 

Darkmount - Command Center(#227Rnt)

 

     Before you lies the heart and soul of the Decepticon empire. You find yourself standing on a wide walkway spanning a three-quarter circle overlooking the 100 foot deep command center. The central stairs are just to your right and descend through three levels of sensor monitor stations. The entire height and length of the wall in front of you is covered with massive sensor viewers relaying information from the Tower Outpost Communication Center to Darkmount so that Decepticon leaders may survey their holdings without moving very far from the tools of power at their disposal.

     In the first work level below you are various computer terminals available for the officers to review logs of troop reports while the lower two levels are strictly dedicated to sensor monitoring and are constantly manned. In the pit of the room, various holomaps display the information interpolated from the sensor inputs that the currently assigned duty officer is constantly updating.

 

 

The computer banks glow softly, containing all the information known to the Empire in their banks. High above on the main screen is Enfilade’s map...solid purple, purple cross hatch, and the bright blue star that is Crystal City and its holdings.

 

Recoil is seated at one of the computer consoles, his face twisted in concentration under the grill of his mask. He types in a couple of clicks, hesitantly, looks over his shoulder, and types in a few more. His eyes narrow as he checks the new readout on the screen.

 

The beginning of the file comes up. AIRLINE: BUILT BY SKYLIFT ENTERPRISES, CRYSTAL CITY. Date given. RECRUITED: Another date, several centuries later. OFFLINE: Another date, coincidentally the same as that given for Enfilade’s date of creation. The next page promises to reveal even more.

 

Whiplash stalks into the room on the upper level, her tentacles thrashing around her. Having spent the previous day wandering the wastelands, she’s now looking for some answers, and glares around the room. Not finding the individual she seeks, she does notice the unmistakable form of Recoil on the lower tier at the computer console.

 

Whiplash’s optics narrow a little as the burning-violet gaze settles on Recoil. With a silent glint of fangs in a momentary sneer, she moves downward in silence like a piece of the darkness come to life and stalking through the indoor realm.

 

Recoil nods to himself. ...Bingo. He pulls up the second page of the file.

 

Whiplash comes up right behind Recoil, apparently content not to have been noticed, and peers carefully over his shoulder. Best to find out what he’s up to before she makes her presence known.

This is a memo. UNIT AIRLANE, COURTMARTIAL, REBELLION AGAINST SUPERIOR OFFICER, ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION, it says.

 

Whiplash’s optics flicker a little in a “blink.”

 

The rest of the memo, written by someone who was evidently Airlane’s troop commander, is a blazing indictment of being abandoned in enemy territory when Airlane usurped command. The vitriol is dripping. The tale is terribly one sided of course, but at that moment, is that really what’s going through the readers’ minds?

 

Recoil smiles darkly. He leans back in his seat, and reads the memo again, going over every word. “Beautiful....” Then, suddenly, he blinks, and almost falls out of his seat, seeing Whiplash reading over his shoulder. “What are you staring at?”

 

Whiplash shakes her head a little. Yeah, she was sporting for a confrontation, but *this* wasn’t what she was expecting to hear.

 

Whiplash turns her attention from the screen to Recoil. “Going fishing?” she asks.

 

The records reveal a little more about Airlane--a Crystal City Cargo Carrier. The author remarks her as “typical of the breed--a hard drinking, poorly educated hell-raiser, but at least she can carry cargo.”

 

Recoil replies, “As a matter of fact, I AM. And it looks like I’ve caught a big one, too. See for yourself.” He points up at the screen, tracing under the inflammatory words with his forefinger. “Of course, YOU knew all this, did you?” His tone of voice signifies that he’s already noticed her surprise at the content of the file.

 

Whiplash glance flickers toward the screen again, noting the words with a scowl, but her tentacles bristle at Recoil’s tone. She does not reply.

 

In another corner of the file is a mention of a commendation, but is anyone looking at that right now? The other information is so much more interesting...

 

Recoil asks, speaking over Lash’s silence, “So what’s the deal with Crystal City? If the Autobots are already out of the way, what’s stopping us from taking it out?”

 

Whiplash replies through another glint of fangs, “Autobots have only been out of the way a short time. There’s been reasons for letting Crystal City stand, *up to now.*” She grudgingly repeats the rationale of the High Command.

 

Recoil stands up, and gestures again to the records on the screen. “And I bet ‘High Command’ will KEEP finding reasons not to rub it out, so long as Combat Command has...HER in it.”

 

Whiplash rumbles a soft growl, but doesn’t directly contradict him.

 

Speak of the devil...the doors open, and in walks Enfilade herself, examining a datapad, the big swing-wings swaying behind her...looking just like business as usual.

 

Whiplash is in somewhat of a face-off stance opposite Recoil, but she keeps throwing glances at the screen glowing behind the two of them. The pace of her tentacles betrays a very definite agitation.

 

Enfilade doesn’t notice Recoil and Whiplash as she heads across the room to the main console, calling up the current border reports, datapad in one hand and sipping oil through a straw inserted in her mug held in the other hand. She looks so /normal/...just one more day in the life of the Chief of Combat...only now that mug looks even more out of place.

 

Iron Hitch mug(#4297n)

A very old, slightly chipped mug for energon. On the front is a logo so badly weathered that half of it has almost worn off, but on close glance the words can still be read in red lettering: Iron Hitch Refueling Bar and Warehouses, Crystal City.

 

Recoil calls out to Enfilade from across the room, ignoring Whiplash’s agressive stance. “Hello, Airlane.”

 

Enfilade at first seems not to notice over the usual bustle of the command center...surely she couldn’t have heard what she thought she heard...but just in case, she shoots a glance over her shoulder and sees Whiplash...and Recoil.

 

Whiplash looks toward Enfilade, gauging her reaction with close attention.

 

Enfilade decides she couldn’t have heard that, but regardless, she walks closer. “Hey there Whiplash...never expected to see you hangin’ around in here again so soon.” She shoots Recoil a /look/ and gives him only the barest nod.

 

As Recoil sees Enfilade turn to look at him, he steps across the room toward her, leaving the now not-so-secret file up on the screen for all to see. “I don’t think you heard what I said, so I’m going to say it again. Airlane.”

 

Whiplash doesn’t reply, just keeps watching.

 

Enfilade folds her arms and says, “What the frag are you talkin’ about, Recoil?” Her optics are flinty shards of purple through that visor.

 

Solar snores from a console not too far away.

 

Enfilade is facing off with Recoil. This is written on the screen of a computer nearby: UNIT AIRLANE, COURTMARTIAL, REBELLION AGAINST SUPERIOR OFFICER, ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION, it says.

 

Whiplash finally speaks up, keeping her gaze locked on Enfilade. “That *is* your name, isn’t it? Airlane?” The question is spoken almost softly, but there’s a puzzled suspicion in her expression.

 

Recoil stops walking, stands with his hands on his hips, confronting the field commander head-on. Under his grill-mask, he smiles, waiting to see exactly what she will say.

 

Enfilade says, a little sardonically, “If you want my file, try looking under Enfilade.”

 

Whiplash says, “Yeah, well. We did that.”

 

Enfilade suddenly jerks her head towards Whiplash, the first crack in the armour of sarcasm and attitude. “You? Why?”

 

Whiplash says, “I was along for the ride. Didn’t think we’d find ... what we found.”

 

Solar looks up as the snoring fades and he idly tosses a datapad to Enfilade. “According to that,” and he nods at the pad, then he nods to the screen flashing Airlane’s file, “That is your file.”

 

Enfilade’s optics slide from Recoil to Whiplash, a very obvious insinuation that Whiplash and Recoil were slinking around together. Then, when Solar speaks, she almost spins around. The hand, clutching the Iron Hitch mug, shakes slightly.

 

Recoil says, smugly, “That it is. Why don’t you REAQUAINT yourself with it, AIRLANE?”

 

Enfilade catches the datapad, staring down at it. “Militech,” she mutters. So /that’s/ where they went last night.

 

Solar says, “I hate secrets Enfilade, and I don’t care much for those who lie to me either. Remember that and we’ll get on infamously.”

 

Enfilade finally flares up her wings and says, “This ain’t none of your business, Recoil...” Her gaze slides back to Solar. Funny, she’d figured the Intel mech for her friend. Well, so much for trusting Intel...those paid to slip around and get into everyone else’s private concerns.

 

Whiplash realizes the way the individuals in this section of the room are arranged, it *does* look a bit like she’s standing on Recoil’s side facing off against Enfilade. She flashes the visitor a look of contempt, no more trusting of him than she ever was, and circles around and away from him, moving with slow and deliberate motions to come around on Enfilade’s other side. This has the inadvertent effect of now looking like she’s boxing in the Field Commander in the middle of the gathering.

 

Recoil accuses: “Oh, I’d say this is more than a secret. I’d say this’s downright criminal.” He rants on... “Attempted assassination? ...Crystal City cargo. And all this time, I thought you were one of US. Well, should have guessed, huh?”

 

You paged Solar with ‘The rest of the memo, written by someone who was evidently Airlane’s troop commander, is a blazing indictment of being abandoned in enemy territory when Airlane usurped command The vitriol is dripping. The tale is terribly one sided of course, but at that moment, is that really what’s going through the readers’ minds?’.

 

Enfilade notices Whiplash’s movement and takes a step backwards...then another. This is starting to be hideously reminiscent of the Ice Planet disaster...surely Whiplash isn’t out to get her too? She says to Recoil, “You ought to be in the military long enough to know that the official truth is what the files say. Go look in my file...ENFILADE’s file...that’s all that matters!”

 

Whiplash says, “So there’s ... *official* truth, and there’s real truth?”

 

Enfilade wants to nod to Whiplash, but right now isn’t sure how the other femme would take it. “You know I’m not a traitor, don’t’cha, Lash?” Enfilade asks, forcing herself to sound sure of herself.

 

Solar says, “The question that should be on our minds now is ‘Do current actions replace past crimes?’“

 

Whiplash doesn’t want to come right out and throw accusations at Enfilade in front of Recoil, so instead she answers the question with a question of her own. “If all’s well and good, Fil, what would’ve been wrong with telling us who you were, to start with?”

 

Recoil says to Solar, “PAST crimes?” And to the other Decepticons, he gives individual glances before he accuses, “What makes you so sure she isn’t a spy?”

 

Enfilade forces a smirking tone into her voice. “Yeah, okay, Recoil, I confess. I really am a spy because my true identity is Optimus Prime in drag...there...ya happy?”

 

Whiplash says, “Not really funny, Fil.”

 

Enfilade responds to this threat with her usual bristling sarcasm...but at Whiplash’s comment she suddenly feels an awful chill. “Aw, come on Lash, you dont’ really /believe/ that spy garbage, do ya?”

 

Solar says, “I am a spy and a fraggin good one Recoil. If she were a spy I can GUARANTEE ya that I would have handed her, her fuel pump by now.”

 

Recoil retorts, “I ain’t talkin’ about the Autobots. Hell...GREAT JOB, with the Autobots. I’m talking about THAT.” He points to the blue blot on the otherwise Decepticon-marked map. “The untouchable territory you were BUILT in. Airlane.”

 

Enfilade looks over at Solar and says, “Yeah, you’re my good buddy there Solar...so why were you over in Militech, diggin’ up stuff shoulda been let lie?”

 

Enfilade follows Recoil’s line of pointing up to Crystal City on the map. Aw slag...she’s really set herself up for this one, hasn’t she? “I’m a /Decepticon,/” she retorts firmly.

 

Whiplash looks to the blue patch on the map, then back to Enfilade.

 

Solar says, “Ya lied to me Enf, I knew ya lied to me Cause I knew Shox would never allow information to be destroyed entirely. It would be too illogical. So ya gave me a puzzle and I had to solve it.”

 

Enfilade /wants/ to tell Solar to look at what his little puzzle dredged up, but instead she just looks at Whiplash, and Recoil, and takes another tack. “Yeah, okay. Know what, Recoil? I ain’t the only mech the Cons have ever recruited from Crystal City. Why don’t you go after some’a them instead?”

 

Recoil replies, “Yeah, you’re wearin’ the badge, Airlane. But what’s that got to do with it?” He takes a step toward Enfilade, standing toe-to-toe with her. “But no matter where she was put together, a real chief of combat would be planning on taking out Crystal City now that the Autobots are destroyed. But that’s not in YOUR long-term goals.”

 

Whiplash really *doesn’t* want to have this discussion in front of Recoil, but can’t help saying, “They’re not all buddy-buddy with Phalanx!”

 

Solar says, “Or how about us mechs that were not created in the Empire. I joined it later Recoil, wanna slag me too?”

 

Enfilade argues, “It don’t make no /sense/...that’s what Onslaught always said too.” Unfortunately Onslaught isn’t here to back her up. And at Whiplash’s comment, she gets a horrible sinking feeling that her best friend and her worst enemy are on the same team.

 

The blue patch on the map shines down, almost condemning, casting its glow in Enfilade’s visor.

 

Whiplash shakes her head a little. No, she doesn’t want to believe the ugly thoughts that are going through her mind.

 

Enfilade says, “You leave Phalanx outta this, it’s my own business who I associate with.”

 

Whiplash says with careful enunciation, “*He’s* the enemy.”

 

Enfilade snaps back, “What’d he ever do to you, Lash? All I ever saw was yer two trainees makin’ their own choices fer their lives. Just like I did.”

 

 Solar says, “It’s all shades of grey....”

 

Whiplash’s optics flash fury in return at that. “He attacked our warriors, stole our troops, sheltered deserters! Why should I think he wouldn’t--” she bites off the sentence before she can finish it. Too horrible a thing to say.

 

Recoil stands back and watches. Smugly. Not saying a thing.

 

Whiplash growls in anger and frustration, realzing she’s giving Recoil ammunition too.

 

Enfilade doesn’t want to get into this now, especially not in front of Recoil, so finally says, “Okay. So what does this little revelation actually change? I still got a job to do no matter what /he/” she points to Recoil, “is calling me.” She glares at her former boss. “Though maybe you better just call me /GENERAL/ from now on.”

 

Recoil shakes his head. Unlike the other officers, he doesn’t feel he owes her any respect or schmoozing whatsoever. “Nope. I don’t think I will. In fact, I don’t think anyone should. Not until this is settled out.” He looks to Whiplash, “Don’t you agree? Guessing you know more about this Phalanx character than I do.”

 

Enfilade says, “Oh, that’s gonna be a real big help for the Empire. This war ain’t over yet--for all we know there still might be Bot survivors.”

 

Whiplash growls at Recoil, “I’m not agreeing with *you*, fella.”

 

Recoil says, “Oh-ho, well, maybe you should get ON that assignment. See if your friends in Crystal City are still harboring any of the enemy. Not that you’d rat them out.”

 

Solar says, “Cripes, I’ve seen kidlets get along better than youse. If you’re gonna continue this smeg take it to the training arena and let off some steam.”

 

Enfilade eyes Solar. What kind of suggestion is that? “Are you talkin’ ‘bout some sorta...duel?”

 

Solar says, “No what I am suggesting is that you two are fraggin’ morons and should be leaving the past where it is.”

 

Enfilade says, acidly, “I woulda, Solar, if /someone/ hadn’t dug the past outta those old files.”

 

Recoil mutters, “I dunno...” His optics flicker. “_I_ like the idea of a duel.”

 

Enfilade snorts to Recoil. “You would...” She really doesn’t want to take him seriously. She never did care for that old Decepticon notion of official challenges for positions...though she is now more aware than ever that they exist, and are sanctioned....

 

Solar says, “Thats my Job Enf, part of it is knowing what to do with it when I’ve found it. Somehow giving it to Recoil was not my first choice.”

 

Enfilade says, “Oh yeah? Then how’d he find out?” She looks suspiciously at Whiplash.

 

Whiplash draws back and skulks along behind Solar, keeping wary optics on both Enfilade and Recoil, then reverses direction and paces back toward Enfilade again, the tentacles in constant agitated motion around her. “Don’t look at me. I got questions of my own still.”

 

Enfilade looks at Whiplash. “Oh, now yer the court martial?”

 

Whiplash says, “No. I’m just the one wondering why you told me all those fairy tales and half-truths.”

 

Recoil says, “‘Cause she’s got something to hide.”

 

Enfilade won’t talk in front of Recoil. All she says is, coldly, “The official story is what’s in my file...Enfilade’s file. The classification system demands I uphold it.” She looks at Recoil. “You didn’t have clearance for those.”

 

Recoil doesn’t even balk at this accusation. “I will when I take yer job.”

 

Whiplash favors Recoil with a glare. *This* concept doesn’t please her either.

 

Enfilade seems absolutely shocked over that statement. Just when she thought Recoil couldn’t get any lower. “Oh yeah? Over my non-functional carcass, carbonslagger!”

 

Solar says, “We all got stuff to hide Recoil. Take for instance why the 58th has lost 131 mechs and femmes in the time Enf has left. Or the fact that you have changed your TwoIC no less than 7 times in that same period. Or the fact that according to records your group was just sent a set of supplies that have seem to have gome missing. Or the fact that your personal account has jumped by 25,000 credits. I’m great at finding out secrets.”

 

Recoil gets into Solar’s face. “LISTEN UP, you oil-slobbring intel PUNK! My personal affairs have NOTHING to do with the current ISSUE here, which is that the Decepticon Empire’s OWN Chief of Combat is working for another source!” His wrath is aimed now at Enfilade, “And if I have to take your rank over your NON-FUNCTIONAL carcass, then THAT’s what it’ll have to be!”

 

Solar says quietly “...is that an official challenge Recoil?”

 

Whiplash’s tentacles rise and come forward, powering up with a crackling blue light, though she doesn’t immediately escalate her threat. If Recoil physically assaults anyone in here, she’ll be on him - and what a disastrous incident *that* would be! - but she restrains herself, so far.

 

Enfilade’s optics darken. She isn’t one to settle arguments by beating the slag out of whoever disagrees with her--it’s not her nature. But she knows damn well this is a challenge. And if she turns it down...is anyone /ever/ going to listen to her again, or are they going to just laugh at the cargo carrier who thinks she’s a general?

 

Recoil meets Enfilade’s gaze darkness-for-darkness. “THAT, is an official challenge.”

 

Solar stands and walks over to rise above Enfilade “If that is an official challenge, and if Enfilade accepts then I offer her my servise as her second in the challenge,” and he calmly lays a hand on Enfilade’s shoulder.

 

Enfilade draws in a deep breath. “Okay...okay, /Colonel/. You’re on.” She breaks her death-stare to look at Solar. “Thanks for the support, but no. I ain’t havin’ no one else get hurt because this sludgesucker has an issue with me. This one is gonna be...” she jerks a thumb at Recoil, “just /him/...an’ me.”

 

Whiplash powers down the tentacles and turns away. If all were right with the world, she should be standing up for Enfilade like Solar is.

 

Recoil says, “So, that’s an accept?”

 

Enfilade’s answer is a stiff nod.

 

Whiplash doesn’t look back. She heads for the exit, drawing the tentacles around herself.

 

Recoil says, “Well, then I’ll be sure the general is on top of the situation.” He points back to the files. “And I mean, the entire situation. See you in the arenas, Airlane.”

 

Enfilade says, “I’ll be waiting for you...and the name is Enfilade.” She grabs up her mug and also stalks out, having nothing more to say to him.

 

 

Enfilade’s Hooch(#870en)

You might think you’ve walked into the quartermaster’s room. Practically everything is military issue, from the recharge cot in the corner, to the neatly filled shelves of kit, to the computer on the desktop. The whole room is held to exacting military standards except the area near the computer, which is cluttered with datapads. A flag bearing the logo of the Fightin’ 58th Attack Division hangs from the wall; similar 58 division logos adorn much of the gear. There are a few chairs for guests, a box of energon rations on the table, and a nice collection of weaponry.

 

 

Whiplash was waiting outside the command center among the statues until you came out, then followed. You may or may not have noticed something trailing you...

 

Enfilade has gone into her room and slammed the door so hard that it remains open a crack.

 

Whiplash has followed Enfilade like a silent shadow from the Command Level. Heading toward her quarters, she pauses as the door slams shut violently ... then moves forward again, transforming to notice that the force of the slammed door bounced it back out of its lock enough to remain open a crack. She pushes against it as quietly as possible and peers inside a little.

 

Enfilade pops open the catch on her mask, flinging it open, and sits down heavily in her chair. All the things she’d been worrying about when she entered the command level--weapons shipments and troop movements and border surveillance--suddenly don’t seem important. She wastes little time delegating them, then turns off her comm link. She reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk, brings out a bottle, and pulls the stopper out of it with the vestigal mouth enhancements that pass for “teeth.” She takes a long drink directly out of the bottle, not even bothering with a mug.

 

Whiplash edges herself fully inside. The movement and the faint creak of the door might be enough to draw attention to her.

 

Enfilade spits the stopper across her desk, rests her head in her left hand and her elbow on the desktop, and mutters to herself, “Hasn’t /today/ just gone straight to Hell.” Her right hand slams her visor up, then caresses the bottle as she wonders what the slag she’s supposed to do /now/...that’s when she notices the movement and jerks upright, looking back over her shoulder. “Whiplash,” she says, cautiously, trying to judge the MedusaSaur’s mood, or why she’s come.

 

Whiplash keeps her expression mostly neutral, though there’s a guardedness about her. “Mask’s off,” she remarks on the obvious.

 

Enfilade says, “What’s the point?”

 

Someone knocks at the door.

 

Enfilade now reaches for the strap, rising the mask back up and knocking the visor down. “Who is it?”

 

Solar pages: It’s me Solar

 

You paged Solar with ‘Eh....come in.’.

 

Solar has arrived.

 

Whiplash moves away from the door as someone knocks on it, taking up a position against the wall next to the door as Solar comes in.

 

Enfilade is holding her mask up, and has her visor down, but as she sees it’s Solar, she lets the mask drop and gives Solar a good look at...Airlane’s face. She’d actually be passably pretty save for that scar she got on Paragon, running down her left cheek.

 

Solar says, “If ya want I can attach a dead mech bomb to Recoil.”

 

Enfilade says, “You guys better not be the assassination team.” She’s trying to joke but it’s far too weak.

 

Enfilade looks at Solar. “You know, I love the idea...but no. Ain’t no one gonna respect me if I don’t beat the fragger fair an’ square.” She looks at the open bottle of energon on her desk. Old stuff, cheap stuff, also bearing an Iron Hitch logo. “I ain’t gonna live my life listenin’ to rumours that I couldn’t hack it.”

 

Whiplash once again doesn’t find it amusing. She just folds her arms and observes in silence.

 

Solar sits down Univited like. “I wanted to set the record straight Enf. I is still your friend. I didn’t find anything in either of your files to rate any of this Frag.”

 

Enfilade says to Solar, “What, you don’t believe that I’m a Militia officer in disguise?”

 

Solar shrugs “If you are then so am I.”

 

Whiplash tilts her head and listens carefully.

 

Enfilade whuffs a little, it now coming out as a bit of a laugh without the mask muffling it. “It really was just your own curiousity that set you snoopin’ thorugh my files, wasn’t it?”

 

Solar says, “What other reason could I have had?”

 

Enfilade says, “Well, you coulda been like Recoil.../lookin’/ fer a reason to nail me. Or you coulda been thinkin’ maybe I’m a troublemaker, an’ I’ll admit my record ain’t spotless but I ain’t never done nothin’ to hurt the Empire.”

 

Enfilade says, “It’s nice to know /someone/ believes me,” to Solar. She’s still keeping a wary optic on Whiplash.

 

Solar slyly replaces the common energon on the table with his premium stuff.

 

Whiplash hangs back, not giving away her thoughts, but she observes every move intently.

 

Enfilade says, “Hey, Solar, I appreciate the gift, but I want that there back. That’s Dax’s blend.”

 

Solar puts back the bottle, but leaves the other one. “What ya need Lash I got a bottle of blue Medusasaur on me somewhere.”

 

Whiplash shakes her head. “Don’t need anything.” She smiles very slightly, though, and comments, “Going to smooth over all the world’s problems with a nice supply of high-grade, eh?”

 

Enfilade rises her visor and says, “Yeah, well it takes the edge off.”

 

Solar thinks a moment “Nah I don’t think so. Some things take a different mixture.” and he starts playing with one of his explosive globes. “I call this a Boom Ball.”

 

Enfilade mutters, “Frag, Solar, not in here. My nerves are /already/ shot.”

 

Solar says, “It’s not activated.”

 

Enfilade sighs,wishing that made her feel better, and sinks back down in her desk chair.

 

Solar puts it away anyhow.

 

Enfilade says, “So now I actually got to /fight/ that loser...damn. Maybe I can Vulcan him an’ be done with it.”

 

Solar says, “I think I can find some explosive tip ammo for ya.”

 

Enfilade nods. “Yeah...an’ some’a those armour piercing rockets...that’d be great, Solar...”

 

Solar grins “I’ll put em on your tab.”

 

Enfilade seems...very tired suddenly, as she takes her old bottle of Dax’s Special Blend, whatever that is, and starts sipping on it. The mask dangles, casting strange shadows across her face.

 

Whiplash responds merely, “Yeah.”

 

Solar says, “Care to share ya thoughts?”

 

Whiplash finally muses, “Sliver comes from the Autobots. Enfilade comes from the fence-sitters. But you’re pretty damn sure of both of ‘em.”

 

Solar shrugs and gets serious “It’s faith and trust Lash. Neither one has ever done anything or said anything that would ever dislodge my respect. Respect is earned Lash, by actions, and cannot be broken by mere accusations. One is my brother the other could surely be considered my sister.”

 

Enfilade snorts to Solar. “Heh. The planet could do with a few more mechs with that thinking.”

 

Whiplash says, “Respect is earned, sure. But, isn’t that what undercover agents do?” She shoots a look toward Enfilade and adds, “Talking in general, now. Get themselves into a spot where they’re trusted? Tell just enough of the truth to make it sound right?”“

 

Enfilade had never, ever in her life thought she’d stand accused of being a spy. Lose her position if the truth came out, sure. Have to deal with scorn and backtalk, definitely. But go down in history as a traitor--a menace to the Empire? That is worse than her nightmares....

 

Solar says, “Lash, could you homestly believe that someone whose loyalties are with the fencesitters, could entirely destroy one of the 2 warring factions? Th unaffils whose only reason to be is to stay out of the war entirely?”

 

Whiplash says, “You know I don’t buy *that* about Crystal City, Solar. They’re just a lot more sneaky about it.”

 

Enfilade nods in agreement with Solar. Finally, someone who gets it.

 

Solar says, “If I was them I would have an officer in the ranks destroy the faction they’re in, not the other one.”

 

Enfilade mumbles, “Any money Recoil accuses me of plannin’ to do just that next.”

 

Whiplash says, “Isn’t that how it goes, though? One of your own guys, Solar - Eclipse, wasn’t it? - was all set to infiltrate the Autobots and pose as one of ‘em. It happens.”

 

Enfilade says, “I ain’t denyin’ it happens, Lash, I’m basically askin’ if ya think it of /me/.”

 

Whiplash finally steps away from her place against the wall, unfolds her arms, and pulls up a chair near Enfilade, staring at her intently. “Let me run a scenario past you,” she says. “Purely hypothetical-like.”

 

Enfilade nods, guardedly. “Okay.”

 

Whiplash says, “You keep saying not to underestimate Phalanx. You keep talking like you admire the guy. So he’s gotta know, this whole cease-fire treaty drivel with Crystal City, that’s just a stopgap measure. Gather our resources, lure ‘em into letting the guard down. He’s gotta know his days of ‘peace’ are numbered. So if he’s that smart, he’ll do something about it, right?”

 

Enfilade thinks about it, and replies quietly, “He trusts my intentions, but he keeps remindin’ me I’m only one cog in a real big machine. And to be quite frank, he don’t trust some’a the rest’a ya farther’n he c’n throw ya.”

 

Solar shrugs “I think he already is, but he’s a military strategist Lash, he’ll go for a frontal assault.”

 

Whiplash says, “Wouldn’t he have better chances if he had someone on the inside? Someone who could come back and visit now and again and bring along some info?” She edges backwards and shakes out her tentacles as though ridding herself of something sticky at the very notion.

 

Enfilade sits there...lets out a breath, and says very quietly, “This looks real bad, don’t it?”

 

Whiplash barely notices when Solar heads out, having been suddenly called away on duty. Though this removes the influence of the individual who was entirely secure in his trust for Enfilde.

 

Whiplash leans in a little again, and says, quite honestly, “Looks bad to me, that’s for sure. What am I supposed to think? First you tell me one story, then another one, then a third...” Now she’s getting down to looking for the answers she really wanted, which she didn’t want to air out in front of Recoil.

 

Enfilade’s mask dangles limply...the pale lavendar optics are strangely expressive after the almost blank countenance everyone in Darkmount had gotten used to. “The truth ain’t so great,” she says quietly. “It’s something I wanna get away from...but frag...I ain’t no spy! I...never thought an accusation like /that/ would ever stick.”

 

Whiplash recalls what the Airlane file said. “‘Attempted assassination’?” she quotes.

 

Enfilade’s optics flash a little. “/That/ was taken /entirely/ out of context.” She eyes Whiplash. “You wanna hear the story behind that one? The story the way I remember it, not the story that got written in some stupid file somewhere?”

 

Whiplash looks away. “You’ve told me a lotta stories in your time, Fil.”

 

Enfilade says quietly, “So that’s what yer upset about, eh?”

 

Whiplash looks back at Enfilade with an expression close to indignation. “Well, sure! That, and I’m thinking, what’s to hide that’s so horrible, unless there’s something a lot worse going on here?”

 

Enfilade says, somewhat testily, “Yeah, you /wouldn’t/ get it, would you? You were a gladiator in the State Games. That’s a position that comes with a measure of respect. How would you like to be one of those too low to even be allowed to /watch/ something like that?”

 

Whiplash says, “Being an arena fighter doesn’t come with respect. You gotta *earn* it! Otherwise you’re nothing, you’re dead, or worse, you’re a joke.”

 

Enfilade retorts, “An’ bein’ a cargo carrier means that it don’t matter /what/ you do, nobody thinks yer worth /nothin’/.”

 

Whiplash says, “So you tried to take out your superior to climb to the top of the heap?” She’s looking at Enfilade like she just can’t picture it.

 

Enfilade shakes her head. “Frag, no. Like I said, it was a misunderstanding. We were takin’ heavy fire from the Bots an’ I just wanted to get the slag outta there, an’ so did the others, but she insisted we hold our ground. Okay. Fine. Then a Bot torpedo comes through the wall’a the bunker, an’ blows the place to slag.”

 

Enfilade says, “So here’s me, the others are gettin’ slaughtered, an’ through the smoke an’ debris I see my superior not movin’, all covered in oil, lookin’ pretty damn deactivated...an’ she ain’t respondin’ to me. So I take the radio an’ tell the crew to withdraw. Nothin’ wrong in that, eh?”

 

Whiplash agrees carefully, “I wouldn’t think so.”

 

Enfilade says, “So imagine my shock the next day when not only is my superior still alive, but she’s accusin’ me of deliberately leavin’ her there, an’ tryin’ to take over her command. I didn’t fire the fraggin’ torpedo! An up comes scandal an’ charges an’ fer a Crystal City Cargo carrier, it’s lookin’ like the scrap heap fer me.”

 

Whiplash says, “So you joined the Decepticons real quick?”

 

Enfilade says, “I was /in/ the Con army at that point...haulin’ freight...but you know, they never /would/ let me forget where I came from. Like it was some big favour I got to do their dirty work....but I knew I could do more, if only I had a chance. Why do you think I wanted that information buried, Whiplash? I wanted a chance to start over on an /even/ footin’ an’ let me prove myself that way.”

 

Whiplash says, “Well, you told me that part. Sort-of. Mistakes in the past, rebuild, another lifetime. When I find out about your real origin all unexpected, and I know you’re all friendly with the CC leadership, what do you want me to think? Maybe you’re protecting ‘em, ‘cause it’s your home. For sentimental reasons? Or as a favor to an old friend? That’s what I wondered when I saw those files.”

 

Enfilade sighs. “An’ I c’n just imagine the troops thinkin’ it too...damn...I /got/ to beat Recoil in this fight, prove I’m as much a Decepticon as anyone.”

 

Enfilade suddenly looks every day of the age on Airlane’s file. And evidently she’s had a long road “growing up” too. “I got real sick of everyone holdin’ my build against me,” she says quietly.

 

Whiplash says, “I couldn’t give two bits about your build. But what about this association with Phalanx?” Her eternal obsession.

 

Enfilade says, “That one I told you straight out. He was my instructor at the War Academy. Don’t believe me? Go into Darkmount’s records and find /his/ file.”

 

Enfilade mutters, “An’ are you sure? I ain’t a /real/ Decepticon, I’m just a flyin’ box-car with delusions of grandeur.” It seems, generals’ bars or no, part of her still believes that.

 

Whiplash says, “You know something? I told you way-back-when, when I still thought you were missing half your face under that mask, that your friends weren’t about to walk away from you for what you looked like. What *I* want to know-” the optics blaze up in brilliant intensity - “is if Phalanx sent you here. If you’re working for *them*. Can you give me a yes or no answer on that?”“

 

Enfilade says, “Yeah, I can, an’ the answer is no. Frag, you shoulda seen my surprise when I found out he wasn’t a Con no more.”

 

Whiplash says, “Who?”

 

Enfilade says, impatiently, “Phalanx. The guy we’ve been talkin’ about. My former prof, now the Militia Commander.”

 

Whiplash says, “He was ... a Decepticon?!”

 

Enfilade snorts, “How else do you teach at the War Academy?”

 

Whiplash gives Enfilade a baffled look. “You mean that bastard ... ran out on us and built a city against us, and you think this is okay?” The tentacles pick up their pace again, the optics flashing brighter.

 

Enfilade says, “Yeah, an’ I ran out on my creator’s company...which is /another/ story...an’ came /here/, so who the frag am I to criticize?”

 

Enfilade mutters, “An’ CC was there long before Phalanx was.”

 

Whiplash says, “Brilliant, just brilliant. So you’re not only hanging out with the enemy, you’re hanging out with a deserter who took up arms against our warriors. *Now* what am I supposed to think about that?”

 

Enfilade says, “He was the one who taught me what’s what at the Academy, Lash, an’ looked out for me more’n my /own/ family ever did, ‘cept for Skylift...what’m I supposed’ta do? But believe me on this...he /did/ teach me to do my job an’ do what I thought was right. An’ doin’ /that/ is what brought me here in the first place.”

 

Whiplash looks thoroughly disgusted. For a moment she simmers in one of her favorite fantasies of retribution, then looks back at Enfilade. “He was another one, then? Another one that went bad without any reason that made any sense?”

 

Enfilade looks at Whiplash and says quietly, “Yeah...that’s what my brother said ‘bout me.”

 

Whiplash says, “Why? ‘Cause you wanted to make something better of yourself?”

 

Enfilade says, “Cause I wouldn’t stand for gettin’ spat on an’ kicked around fer bein’ a cargo carrier. I was constantly gettin’ in fights, all the law enforcement knew me way too well fer all the wrong reasons, an’ all Starlift thought was me wreckin’ company business by bein’ a trouble maker. Fine. So I joined the Con army an’ I /still/ couldn’t get away from it entirely...that “gutter trash” label just stuck, an’...an’ I know my attitude ain’t so great neither.” She pours a splash of Dax’s Special Blend into the Iron Hitch mug.

 

Whiplash looks like she doesn’t really know what to think anymore. “It’s not like I’m backing up Recoil, you understand,” she says a little defensively as the scene from earlier in the evening crosses her mind.

 

Enfilade looks at her, seeming grateful. “You had me scared fer a minute.”

 

Enfilade doesn’t look at Whiplash as she takes a sip from the mug, optics fixed on nothing visible to others’ optics, and says quietly, “But it ain’t the same no more, is it.” It’s not a question. “Because now you’re always gonna wonder...am I really one’a you...am I really someone you c’n trust. An’ maybe that’s somethin’ else I been scared of all this time.”

 

Whiplash mutters mostly to herself, “Earning respect through actions, right ... if Sliver can come from the ‘Bots and be a Decepticon, I suppose you can come from Crystal City. Just wish I hadn’t found out like *this*.”

 

Whiplash says, “It’s just that I always found out in bits and pieces. That whole business with Phalanx. Now this. I suppose...” she considers, looking puzzled again for a moment, “if you’d have come right out and said so, knowing how I felt about it, I wouldn’t have reacted so good either.”

 

Enfilade nods a little. “Damned either way, it seems. Lucky me.”

 

Enfilade mutters, “An’ now I got the fight of my life to prepare for.”

 

Whiplash smirks, though it’s more an expression of wry disgust than any humor. “From bad to worse. Well. I’ll be around. For what it’s worth, I think you can take out that walking piece of scrap.”

 

Whiplash rises and makes to leave.

 

Enfilade says, “Thanks, Lash.” and raises her mug in toast as Whiplash leaves.

 

Whiplash glances back briefly, and then slips out the door.