capeandcowl | ✈ voice ✈

[The noise of wind whistling, quite loud, like the recorder is up somewhere high, with the very faint sounds of traffic down below. The comm is registered to "Marc Brut".

Starscream has been in the City for several hours, now. Hours of not posting with distressed vocalizations or angry threats, no demands. No begging for help. Hours of holding himself back from emotional systems collapse while he maneuvers the demands of an entirely new universe is no mean feat, but he doesn't expect a medal (it'd be nice though).

For a moment there's only a soft tapping, and then a voice, pitched evenly with rehearsed-sounding tones. Edged calm. Keeping things level, but under the veneer is the shadow of distress.]

I propose an informational bartering session, with whoever is on the Network--with whoever can speak to me who is in charge.

I - have invaluable data. You won't be disappointed.

[a few moments pass in silence, and then he ends the post. But a minute later, he's clicking it back on, unable to resist the urge to add]

And if you're ignoring my hails on purpose, you know who you are, so help me--!

[hanging up again hastily before he wrecks everything]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[an even longer silence, stopping dead at the sound of...

the sound of...

What is that sound?]

...euh. The--the problem. Yes. [shaking it off but making a mental note to inquire further. Only because his current problem literally is the difference between his spark beating and not]

There is a substance integral to my survival at home that--I can detect no trace of here.

[ Yep. Robot. ]

I know the porter is a cruel machine, but she's not that cruel. I hope.

Is there any way you can make an artificial version of it?

[the scientist in him wants to jump at the chance to MacGyver some synthetic energon...

The pessimist in him reminds him it's really not his field.]

If the choice is that or slow spark death, I don't really have a choice.

[a pause. Trying to kill any wheedling, keep it confident. It's not easy.] Surely you can make time today to meet me.

I'm not exactly sure what I can do to help, er, Mr. Brut. Unless you're hoping I can pull a reserve of this mysterious substance out of my ass.

[ He pauses. ]

Are you sure it's not here? What's this shit even called?

[impatiently] What? [oh his human alias, whatever.

There's a momentary pause. He's scanning old Network entries while he considers his response to this obstacle. Clearly he's keeping his data cards too close to his chestplate, here.]

Mayor Hundred.... [and he's switching to video, revealing his Cybertronian form standing at the peak of a high rise building] Don't bother with that name. Call me Commander Starscream. I regret the ruse is necessary, I'm currently machina non grata to the Decepticon forces. Do you see now how badly I need your help? [and since he reads that Mitchell probably isn't the charity-case kind] And--there's plenty that I can offer in return.

[ He'll switch to video in kind, it's not like he's not all over the network as a video presence anyway, and his picture is in the news all the time. He squints at the screen, it almost looks like he's concentrating. ]

I see. [ He's still watching, thinking. ]

I can't guarantee anything until later this evening. Can you wait that long?

[he doesn't have a choice and he's aware of it, twisting a little in the wind--metaphorically, of course. Physically he just looks away--clear distress written all over that roboface, and then turns to give a pleading look to the screen]

I'll do my best.

[ He looks more concerned now ]

It's only a few hours away, how often do you need this material?

[nervous, trying to decide how he can push, how far--decides not to risk too far, just yet.] I can wait. Where should I meet you?

[ It takes him a long moment to answer, before finally: ] City Hall should do. Do you know where that is?

That large building--[he makes a gesture in a westwardly direction] White, with the pillars?

[ He pauses, before nodding. ]

YOUR COMM SHOULD SHOW YOU THE LOCATION.

Ten o'clock.

[again with that strange ping of pleasure that he can't trace or identify] ...Yes.

[a little spooky, hangs up the comm. He'll.... figure out when ten o'clock is. Or more likely sit there on the City Hall steps for four hours, like somebody's abandoned pet.]

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