Post by Nines on May 8, 2020 21:18:29 GMT
(@04515 )
The afternoon sun beamed upon the heaps of metal that constituted the scrap yard. Mountains of discarded car models and rusted metal reached for the heavens with filthy dejection. Shards of jagged broken glass mirrored the suns relentless glare. The vacated vehicles and the decaying plating sat lifelessly like forgotten dreams and promises. Yet an audible clank echoed its way around the corner of one rust mountain.
“What a lovely place this is.”
His step was brisk and his chassis posed a coat of maroon and bone white paint, the medical cross printed upon his shoulder pad. The mech was skeletal, as if constructed with the bare minimum resources save for a new wholesome and humanoid plastoid left arm. His helm was angular like a polygon, as if many triangles seamed themselves together to shape his mouth guard. His visor was raised above his eyebrows, silvery blue optics darting with almost a playfully pleased spark. The helicopter’s bio-lights brightened upon opening the hood of an aged speeder wedged in a pile that a palace could’ve hidden behind. His left arm shifted into a fusion cutter as he began to pinch hardware free, tossing an engine into his built in pack subspace.
His visor slid over his optics before Nines released a satisfied chuckle.
“Of course they forgot about the back-up processors. Everyone always focuses on the primary motivators to do the job.” He drew his left arm back, “-Meanwhile-” his servos stiffened, their joints locking before he pierced his servo through rusted plating, “-The back up processor provide the subtle and graceful interactions the vehicle haws. The Primary is necessary, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more precious things to be noted...” He muttered to himself, wrenching his servo free. Clasped in his digits a box covered with broken or disconnected wires greeted fresh air grimly. Huffing, Nines tossed the item into his pack along with the others. He continued scanning the speeder, only to find there was little else to salvage. Then something in the drivers seat caught his eye. Reaching past the broken glass, he slipped his hands into the ajar passengers compartment. Retracting his servo, Nine produced a small leather bound item, layered with paper. Standing upright and stepping into the sun he narrowed his optics at the words while he flipped through the pages.
“Huh.” He arched a brow. “98% full.” He revisited the first page, reading the name centered upon it: -Tren Condifare- The other pages listed dates followed by paragraphs in what was obviously hand-writing. Nines humored himself a small grin behind his mouthguard. Of all things to find, he’d come across a dairy. It was likely a humans, or a techno organics. He paused as he wondered for a moment if the ‘Condifare’ family was still alive out there somewhere, and what they were doing at this very moment. Or it’s just a trippy pen-name, and the fella’s name is ‘Carl’ or ‘Winston’ or something. Nines let his optics inquire the sky, Haven’t met a ‘Winston’ in a while...
The afternoon sun beamed upon the heaps of metal that constituted the scrap yard. Mountains of discarded car models and rusted metal reached for the heavens with filthy dejection. Shards of jagged broken glass mirrored the suns relentless glare. The vacated vehicles and the decaying plating sat lifelessly like forgotten dreams and promises. Yet an audible clank echoed its way around the corner of one rust mountain.
“What a lovely place this is.”
His step was brisk and his chassis posed a coat of maroon and bone white paint, the medical cross printed upon his shoulder pad. The mech was skeletal, as if constructed with the bare minimum resources save for a new wholesome and humanoid plastoid left arm. His helm was angular like a polygon, as if many triangles seamed themselves together to shape his mouth guard. His visor was raised above his eyebrows, silvery blue optics darting with almost a playfully pleased spark. The helicopter’s bio-lights brightened upon opening the hood of an aged speeder wedged in a pile that a palace could’ve hidden behind. His left arm shifted into a fusion cutter as he began to pinch hardware free, tossing an engine into his built in pack subspace.
His visor slid over his optics before Nines released a satisfied chuckle.
“Of course they forgot about the back-up processors. Everyone always focuses on the primary motivators to do the job.” He drew his left arm back, “-Meanwhile-” his servos stiffened, their joints locking before he pierced his servo through rusted plating, “-The back up processor provide the subtle and graceful interactions the vehicle haws. The Primary is necessary, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more precious things to be noted...” He muttered to himself, wrenching his servo free. Clasped in his digits a box covered with broken or disconnected wires greeted fresh air grimly. Huffing, Nines tossed the item into his pack along with the others. He continued scanning the speeder, only to find there was little else to salvage. Then something in the drivers seat caught his eye. Reaching past the broken glass, he slipped his hands into the ajar passengers compartment. Retracting his servo, Nine produced a small leather bound item, layered with paper. Standing upright and stepping into the sun he narrowed his optics at the words while he flipped through the pages.
“Huh.” He arched a brow. “98% full.” He revisited the first page, reading the name centered upon it: -Tren Condifare- The other pages listed dates followed by paragraphs in what was obviously hand-writing. Nines humored himself a small grin behind his mouthguard. Of all things to find, he’d come across a dairy. It was likely a humans, or a techno organics. He paused as he wondered for a moment if the ‘Condifare’ family was still alive out there somewhere, and what they were doing at this very moment. Or it’s just a trippy pen-name, and the fella’s name is ‘Carl’ or ‘Winston’ or something. Nines let his optics inquire the sky, Haven’t met a ‘Winston’ in a while...