The Axalon RPG

 
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 Post subject: The Pied Piper
PostPosted: Thu Aug 13, 2009 2:56 am 

Joined: Thu Jul 16, 2009 3:34 am
Posts: 44
Cybertron. City of Teraton.

Somewhere in the haze of neon signage and smog of the beating spark of the city’s LED District, where one’s footfalls, speaking voice and individual thoughts disappeared amid pulsating rhythms of hover-traffic, electrical conduits, dance clubs and worse...

Somewhere, an accounting drone walked into a bar. He ordered a tall, frosty glass of unrefined energon ions, spiked with engine coolant. The other patrons paid him some strange looks, but eventually lost interest.

Civilians were a relative rarity on this planet, much less this city. In the Red Light District, it was almost an impossibility. Yet here the accountant was, striding through the dark alleys and threading through the heavily armed crowds without a hint of fear. Perhaps he never had a self-preservation subroutine installed. His plain green chassis was simplistic, hardly more than a stick-figure with cheap slats to protect pistons, servos and more delicate circuitry. His optic sensors glowed yellow, devoid of readable expression. He didn’t even have a mouth, just a rectangular slot with a speaker behind it.

The bartender was taking his time in filling the glass-- unrefined energon was volatile stuff. “Are you here meeting your master, drone-fella?” asked the armour-plated mercenary next to the accountant, after a while. The imposing mass of the mercenary was stood leaning over the bar, beady red optics fixed on the accountant.

“Something like that,” the accountant agreed, his voice pleasantly nondescript. “My employer, yes.”

“I see,” the mercenary’s bulk shifted. He took a pull from the bottle in front of him, scrutinizing the drone from the corner of his optic. “You’re not armed?” he asked, innocently enough. But then, the drone probably didn’t have anything worth taking anyway. Not worth the trouble.

“Non-combat model,” said the accountant of himself.

“There’s less scrupulous types that’d scrap a fella just for parts,” said the merc conversationally.

“Are there?” the accountant asked, rather drily. “Well, they should be cautioned against interfering,” he stated frankly. “I am valuable to my employer.”

“Ha. Of course you are.”

The bartender deposited the drink in front of the accountant, scanned his credit chip, and thanked him for his business. By now attracting even less attention than the serving droids, the accountant went and sat in a booth at the back of the bar.

Rather, the accountant sat at the back of the recharge station/recreational facility, since this after all was planet Cybertron, which everyone knew was inhabited predominantly by robots. That in general was the sort of thing that the accountant tried not to think about too much, on the basis that it was just too silly for his taste.

Not the fact that they were robots, but rather that they were *transforming* robots, impersonators par excellence, mimicking vehicles, animals, plants, people, weapons, even appliances, for Prime’s sake. There were definite tactical advantages to be had, but the more his people came to emulate alien species, especially the sentient, animal races, the more irrational and organic they became, to the mind of the accountant. A line of reasoning that perturbed him, he decided, as he unhooked the engine intake siphon in his neck and dropped the end of the hose into his drink.

Adder was an accountant built and coded, designed purely with that function in mind (and yes, that was his actual name designation). Emotions, faith, hope: for Adder, these things simply didn’t add up. Or subtract, multiply or divide, either. Not consistently.

That was why the offer intrigued him, and why he’d decided to answer the summons that brought him to the here and now, sitting in this miserable public house, draining this poisonous swill, mingling with lowlifes and waiting for a contact he’d never met, who he belatedly noticed had just come in the front door.


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