Mutual Understanding

 

A group of Decepticons joins two pacifist Cybertronians on a voyage on the newcomers’ ship back to their home planet of Paragon.  Field Commander Enfilade accompanies Whiplash and Firestarter to the starport in order to watch the liftoff.  But once they are gone, Enfilade’s thoughts are not resting easy.

 

 

Crystal City Starport

 

     The once dilapidated and run down hangar has been restored to its former glory. The enormous space within is ablaze with marker lights directing incoming vessels to berths, passengers to transports, and so forth. The centerpiece of this reconstruction is an ivory-colored control tower, equipped with new and refurbished radar and communication feeds. A short, gleaming steel runway runs parallel to the berths, manned by a crew of red droids and yellow mechs, ready for any

emergency. Antigrav units and refueling trucks move through the hustle and bustle to waiting ships. Tentacle-like waldos snake around repair bays, servicing the new flood of traffic, some directed by technicians, and others working on their own for less complicated repairs.

 

     Dark blue Militia patrols march purposefully around, making sure everyone is safe. Welcome back to the all new Starport.

 

 

Phalanx strides purposefully into the area, just in time to catch the liftoff of the ships. Once they take to the sky, he surveys the area and grimaces slightly... they’re gone... good riddance. He notices something else, though, that being the newly appointed Decepticon general. After a moment of contemplation, he approaches.

 

Enfilade startles as someone walks towards her, and then recognizes Phalanx. She stands there as if uncertain, as if for some reason she should not be here.

 

When within range to speak in a normal tone, the Militia Commander offers a quiet, “Greetings,” and then turn shis gaze to the sky for a moment, “Seeing them off, I take it?”

 

Enfilade nods. “Whiplash and Firestarter went with ‘em,” she says quietly.  Enfilade is obviously less than happy about the whole business.

 

Phalanx nods once, folding his arms, “Though they’re not the only ones, from what I’ve heard...” He frowns slightly, “They should have taken a Decepticon ship.”

 

Enfilade looks curiously at Phalanx. “Why’s that?”

 

Phalanx arches a questioning brow, “Would you place your trust and life in the hands of those you’ve only just met? Who make such outrageous claims? It seems foolish to me.”

 

Enfilade nods. “I didn’t trust ‘em either an’ that’s a fact.” She glances up again. “Damned arms race...”

 

Phalanx looks back to the sky, asking, “You’ve made arrangements to stay in contact, and you’ve confirmed the coordinates of their destination, yes?”

 

Enfilade says, “They’ve got a homing beacon, but that shieldin’ on the shuttle stops us from confirming any coordinates...” She seems more and more displeased, and suddenly turns away from him. “’Scuse me a sec.” She mutters into her radio, and you can hear... “Darkmount? Get me Skyjack.” *pause* “Hellpits, last I saw of him. Tell him to call me immediately.” She turns to Phalanx, jaw set, mask protruding enough to give the illusion of a very short, blunted muzzle. “Frag this, I’m goin’ after ‘em.”

 

Phalanx offers an approving nod, “Likely a wise decision. No need to become involved at this point, of course, but under the circumstances keeping an optic on them would be advisable. Remember, however, that should they require assistance, you’re dealing with an unknown enemy. Take as much support as possible.”

 

Enfilade shakes her head a little, says, “Lash will never forgive me...” And then she adds, firmly, “An’ I’ll never forgive myself if I do nothin’.” She pauses. “Hurry up, Skyjack, hurry up an’ call me...” she says to herself, obviously unable to do anything until she can contact her shuttle pilot.

 

Phalanx hehs, “Whiplash has far too much pride for her own good, most of the time...” he notes consolingly, “And be patient. Your people will get back to you when they can. Sometimes, however, they make require a forceful reminder... Worrying about things beyond your control, which do not directly affect you, is pointless.”

 

Enfilade nods. “Yeah, I got some time to spend waitin’. Ain’t a Golden Blaster night though...I gotta stay sharp.”  Enfilade looks around. “And for frag’s sake, let’s get away from this slottin’ starport.” She really does /not/ seem to like this place at all.

 

Phalanx looks to the Decepticon, nodding once, “As you wish, though I wasn’t aware that the location was that undesireable.” He looks back over his shoulder, asking, “Did you have a particular place in mind?”

 

Enfilade mutters, “I don’t care, pick.”

 

Phalanx shrugs and turns, “I suppose that the plaza will suffice. I’m sure that you’re tiring of my office by now.”

 

Enfilade nods, seeming glad to escape from here.

 

 

Crystal City - Commercial Sector(#3455Rnt)

 

     Every place has a smell to it. You could pick out the energon being sold as a smell here, or the creditpads shuffling and being exchanged. But the predominant smell is impatience. Buyers waiting for shipments, sellers waiting for goods. Squat, well-lit buildings line the streets, all with different displays aboutthe wares to be had inside.

 

     Lying in the east/southeast are the largest, flashiest, gaudiest, and most reputable stores. Travelling toward the Industrial Sector and Spaceport, the shops get seedier and more clandestine about their affairs. The dark alleys where shadier types make not-so-legal deals beginning there. One alley seems to have a line of Cybertronians in it, however. It leads to a dimly lit building with the words ‘Golden Blaster’ on it.

 

 

 

Enfilade looks to Phalanx--now that they’re away from the starport, she’s ready to follow him.

 

Phalanx continues on his way, looking aside to the Decepticon as he asks, “Is something bothering you? Aside from the obvious, of course...” His gaze then shifts back to the path ahead.

 

Enfilade says, “Bad memory. I was there when that shuttle crashed not too long ago,” she says. Some explanation--you’d think a combat soldier would be used to wreckage, fire, and death.

 

Phalanx nods once, seeming to accept that at face value, “I suppose that would make for some unpleasant memories, yes.” He’s seen his own share of such things, and been involved in a few along the way. He rounds the corner of the last shop, and steps into the plaza.

 

 

Crystal City - Plaza(#3450Rnt)

 

     A large open square, clear of most of the highrise towers and businesses in other parts of the city, the Plaza has plenty of space and features winding walkways, the occasional ornate wrought-iron bench, and small metal and crystal sculptures artistically arranged around the centerpiece of the Plaza, the huge crystal fountain, or what’s left of it. It has apparently been removed, leaving nothing but an empty space at the center. Skirting the perimeter are the main roadways, the detour around the Plaza forcing drivers to slow down and pay attention, and maybe even stop and look at the crystals.

 

 

Enfilade winces--the optic lights flicker behind the visor. “I hate shuttles, Phalanx. Hate ‘em. An’ now I’m gonna get on one an’ go chasin’ after Lash an’ the fraggin space hippies...an’ I don’t even get a fraggin’ drink.”

 

Phalanx nods slowly, now wondering aloud, “Is there more to this than the shuttle crash? I’d think that you’d be used to travelling on them by now...”

 

Enfilade says, “I hate travellin’ on ‘em. Always /have/, always /will./ I don’t let it interfere with work ‘er nothin’, but it don’t mean I gotta /like/ it...” And indeed, she looked like absolute hell after the Triumph mission. “Frag, look at what happened to yer spaceport, that’s the kind of thing can happen. An’ I know it’s happened to that port more’n once.”

 

Phalanx nods once, his tone remaining level, and cold, “And it will likely happen again at some point in the future. You can’t let that stop you, though. If it’s a fear of dying, you’re far more likely to die in any one of a dozen ways... You’re a soldier. What happens if an Autobot gets the better of you? Or if you’re shot down? You always have to acknowledge that the possibility of dying or being hurt exists, but you can’t afford to dwell on it. It doesn’t help the situation at all.” It sounds as though he’s given these things some thought of his own.  Phalanx adds a moment later, a touch of wry humor in his tone, “Not many of us get a chance to live forever.”

 

Enfilade says back, a little /too/ shortly, “It ain’t just the dyin’ part!”

 

Phalanx arches a brow, wondering, “Then what is it?”

 

Enfilade’s temper is up, and she says to him, optics flashing brightly even through that visor, “It’s hangin’ there on the side of a seat while the shuttle goes into free-fall, knowin’ damn well my own flight engines ain’t enough to save me, knowin’ I can’t reach the controls in time an’ even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to do. That ain’t a battle, Phalanx. There ain’t no one to fight. All the ammo, all the combat skill in the world don’t do slag.” And she says it like she lived it...but there is no such record of a crash in the files of Field Commander Enfilade. At least, certainly not in her Academy days.  Enfilade mutters, “An’ you die for /nothin’/. Didn’t help no one, didn’t do nothin’ of any use with yer life.”

 

Phalanx remains icily calm, replying, “No one ever has full control over the way in which they die. Don’t fool yourself into believing it to be true. It could be a sniper, it could be a mine, it could be an accident. You can minimize the risks, yes, but you can never eliminate them all. As for a crash... I know what it’s like. I’ve survived one.” He adds a thought-filled moment later, “And it sounds as though you have too...”

 

Enfilade grouches, “I was real young at the time, maybe /that’s/ what has me so fragged up...and yeah, I know it’s irrational, you don’t need to lecture me, /Professor/ Phalanx. Only all the logic in the world don’t stop me from seein’ it when I shut my optics to rest.”

 

Phalanx grimaces and pauses for a minute, giving the situation some additional thought, “Try occupying your mind elsewhere, then...” It’s a last, quite probably futile attempt to offer some sage advice. The next words come with a hint of audible contemplation, “I don’t remember any crash being listed in your files... Was it after you left the academy?” He already knows that seems improbable, as she already said that she was young at the time.

 

Enfilade is mumbling that she already /does/ try to think of other things when she absolutely /cannot/ avoid flying, when Phalanx asks his question and she realizes her mistake. Damn, and she is usually so careful....but even this /talk/ of shuttles has her fuel pump pounding, her swing wings tips flicking madly with her nervousness. Pull it together, soldier! She lies, “Yeah, right after my posting to the Fightin’ 58th.”

 

Phalanx looks aside for a moment, optics narrowing slightly. Looking back, he nods once and states, “I see...” though his subdued tone carries a healthy dose of skepticism. But... it’s not polite to press, is it? Must remember etiquette...and to look into it on his own later.

 

Enfilade looks a bit unsettled as well, as if she also suspects that Phalanx isn’t going to buy her story for very long. Changing the subject she asks, “What’s your security clearance...when you left the Empire?”

 

Phalanx shrugs, replying evenly, “High enough, I suppose. I was a colonel when I left... I had access to classified and other restricted documents.”

 

Enfilade nods a little. “Then you know what it sometimes takes to keep that stuff secret, eh?”

 

Phalanx nods in response, optics focusing on a building in the distance as he replies, “I suppose that I do, yes...”

 

Enfilade relaxes a bit. “Yeah, once again we understand each other then, eh?”

 

Phalanx nods, looking back to the Decepticon and nodding, “We do.” Well, so much for plan A... “And I suppose...” he adds, “...That sometimes there are things others just do not need to know.” That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t like to, mind you...

 

Enfilade says, “It’s easier that way...in the long run.” But easier doesn’t translate into the same thing as “easy.” “A lot of bots don’t get it, what it means to be a soldier, an Academy grad.”

 

Phalanx nods, “So I’ve noticed... But it’s hardly surprising under the circumstances... they’ve acquitted themselves well, despite their shortcomings...” Realizing that he’s strayed somewhat from the original thought, he notes, “That’s one of the reasons that this war will go on. No one can understand each other...”

 

Enfilade says quietly, “Some of ‘em are so wrapped up in their own little side they don’t get anythin’ other than “we’re right an’ everyone else is wrong.” She pauses. “I’m where I am because I need to be...I wonder about the others.”  Enfilade glances over at Phalanx. “Is that why you’re here in Crystal City...because you think the war’s unwinnable?”

 

Phalanx nods once, his voice quieting, “It’s part of it, yes... And it’s not so much that I think it’s unwinnable... It is. I just believe that the cost is too high. It’s futile.”

 

Enfilade says quietly, “An’ what’s the alternative? I mean, if everybody gave it up. Bots wouldn’t let us strike out, expand. We’d be sittin’ here on Cybertron, takin’ stuff from point A to point B and back.”

 

Phalanx hehs and leans back against a low wall, sitting, “And you can only expand for so long before you collapse back in on yourself. Communication and control can only reach so far. The further you expand, the more difficult it becomes to maintain influence in any given area. There has to be a point where enough is enough... There has to be more to life than the next battle. The Autobots are too complacent, the Decepticons too aggressive. As for the alternative? Tolerence. The galaxy is big enough for all Cybertronians. We’ll never agree with each other, we’ll never live in ‘harmony’.”

 

Enfilade grumbles, “There /also/ has to be more to life than some damn joe-job any idiot could do.” She looks at him, nods a little. “I ain’t sayin’ to run rampant over the galaxy, Phalanx. That’s foolishness. We couldn’t expand beyond our means. But we ain’t never gonna /get/ our means if we keep gettin’ hit by the Autobots again an’ again. What is it with them...spite? That they won’t just let us go, if they don’t wanna come with us?”

 

Phalanx folds his arms and offers a shrug, his tone remaing low and even, “The Autobots don’t see it that way. They see what’s been done to them in the past, and they see the Decepticons doing the same to others. You only have to look at the doctrine of the Empire to see that some of their fears are justified. Does that make them right? Not necessarily, but it does mean that they have their own, equally strong point of view. Both sides believe that they’re doing the right thing for Cyberton and the galaxy at large.”

 

Enfilade snorts a little. “Hey, I don’t bear the Autobots no malice personally. They’re just doin’ their business. But I can’t do their business, that ain’t enough for me.” Yes, there’s an ambition in this one, but that was clear back in the Academy...that burning drive to be the best in the class. In fact, sometimes it became a downright challenge, as if she felt she had to prove something to someone.

 

Phalanx nods, “I’d never suggest that you should.” He looks from side to side, offering a hint of a smile as he realizes the irony of the location in what he’s about to say, “I would, however, recommend balance in your thinking. There’s a time for aggression, and a time to let things go.”

 

Enfilade turns to him and says, rather bluntly, “Are you tellin’ me to quit the Decepticcons an’ come live here?”

 

Phalanx shakes his head, his expression hardening once again, “No. That’s never a decision I’d ask someone to make. I don’t advocate coming here unless you already believe it’s what’s best for you. I know that’s not the case here.” His tone makes it immediately clear that asking such a thing was never his intention.

 

Enfilade seems rather surprised as she looks at him. The big swing wings, flared up all ready to yell at him, collapse back down again. “Yeah,” she says, very softly, “you /do/ understand me.”

 

Phalanx doesn’t flinch... or react in any way, for that matter, seemingly willing to take the brunt of whatever she was about to throw at him. He arches a brow as she finishes her muted response, wondering, “Was there more that you wished to say?”

 

Enfilade shakes her head. “I don’t have to,” she says, very softly. Is she smiling under that mask? She’s not doing that old squinty-optic look, but there’s something in the voice... “Ain’t no need to...” And then she laughs. “You just missed out on my “don’t you dare tell me what to do” justification speech.”

 

Phalanx offers a hint of a smile at that, noting, “I think that you probably get  enough of that from Decepticon command... You don’t need an old ‘neutral’ telling you what to do.” He shrugs, the smile fading, “You’ll always know what’s best for you. You may not always have the power to act on it, but when you do, I know that you won’t let anyone tell you what’s best for you, nor should you.” The smile reappears as he adds, “And despite what Whiplash may have told you, I’ve never lured anyone away from the Empire... I’ve just let people make their own decisions.”  Phalanx adds as an after thought, “...The terrible crime that such a thing is...”

 

Enfilade shakes her head. “That Whiplash...” Enfilade doesn’t seem to know what to do about her friend’s hatred for the neutrals, though right now she seems almost to be humouring Whiplash...and then she remembers her job. Whiplash is one of her own. Snapping back to Phalanx, she catches his last comment and snorts. “Yeah, I hear ya,” she says, for reasons of her own. “Well, I’d be stayin’, but looks like I got a mission to run...an’ a shuttle flight. Lucky fraggin’ me.”

 

Phalanx nods and gets back to his feet. Offering a deep nod as a parting gesture, he notes, “I’ll be waiting to hear from you upon your return.” And there’s nothing in his down to cast doubt on the fact that he believes she will return in one piece.

 

Enfilade nods. “Thanks for the vote of confidence...” and she adds, “it makes me feel better.” In parting she gives him a wave, instead of a salute, and is off...looking fairly cheerful, considering the task ahead.