Carbombya

The grassy hills and savannas in the east, bordered by ancient volcanos and sprawling lava fields, are the only part of Carbombya not made up of barren desert. Until recently, the country depended on meager livestock herding and subsistence agriculture, but upon the discovery of a huge reserve of very high-grade oil beneath the shifting desert sands, things changed radically. The struggling democracy weathered multiple coup attempts by greedy neighbors and other interested foreigners before finally succumbing to the tender mercies of a home-grown dictator. There are no refugees from war torn Ethiopia being taken in as slave labor, not here under the enlightened rule of President-for-Life Abdul Fakkaddi!

Contents:

Trypticon <T>

Carbombyan Palace

Obvious exits:

East <E> leads to Red Sea.

West <W> leads to Nile River.

Fly <Up>

Counterpunch soars down into view from the skies above.

Counterpunch has arrived.

Fleet transforms from robot to pyramid jet.

Carbombya... why is it the Decepticon Empire insists on annexing territory with the worst names? Charr was bad enough as a posting, but the names have steadily gotten worse. But Carbombya has got to be the worst. It's enough to make one cringe, especially if you have a ground-based altmode.

Fortunately, the intrepid Decepticon spy known as Counterpunch has more important matters to concern himself with. Dealing with yet another inspection tour of Decepticon holdings is rapidly getting old, and he's more than eager to get back into the thick of things. Hence, why he's taken the time and effort to go over Carbombya in as much detail as possible. And now, he's finally making his way back to Trypticon, not only to make his report on his inspection tour, but also to prepare for certain necessities.

As, Carbombya, land of oil. And sand. Lots of sand. And slave watches. And patrols. Lots of patrols. Like the one that a certain pastel pyramid is returning from. He doesn't bother with any of his usual fancy landings... he just transforms and touches down, an expression of distaste already on his face as he shakes himself off. Sand. Even in the sky, sand. Dammit, and he was only recently repainted!

The yellow Cybertronian jet unfolds, revealing the robotic form of the seeker Fleet.

Counterpunch pauses just before heading into Trypticon proper, catching the sound of an approaching patrol. His head snaps around, and he eyes the new arrival carefully for a moment. Then, it starts... a mild snickering. Obviously, he finds something amusing about Fleet. And it doesn't take long for the source of his amusement to become clear. "Most Seekers," he notes smugly, "go for a nice, sensible color that's good for intimidation, a kind of psychological warfare tactic against the enemy. Even Starscream knew this... but you..." He shakes his head, and laughs harshly. "Perhaps I should call you 'Chicken Little', with a coloration like that." He leans back against the outer hull of Trypticon's entrance. "So... is the sky falling yet?" And thus begins another round of snickering.

Fleet looks up at Counterpunch and, strangely, stops scowling. If anything he does look a touch bit confused. "Sky... falling?" he asks, then shrugs. He's still getting a handle on these Earth references. He'll look it up later. "Well, so far I've been called Canary and Ugly Jet Thing. Might as well start a collection." He seem, strangely, not particularly insulted. "But this paint scheme is what the factory saddled me with, and I've seen no need to change it. Intimidation? Why bother? I've yet to see an enemy force withdraw because someone had a really scary paint job."

Counterpunch sighs theatrically. "Oh, but you don't understand the nature of psychological warfare. Then again, no one ever accused Seekers of being bright." Another short bout of harsh laughter, before the Decepticon spy peers intently at Fleet. "I take it you don't like your current posting, Seeker?"

"Could do with less sand," Fleet shrugs absently. Then he glances at the nearest contingent of slaves. "And organics. But my thoughts on the matter aren't really relevant. I do what I'm told." And, while Fleet does consider himself rather bright, he doesn't bother to argue with the spy. Psychological warfare? Bah. One of those things that instructors like to rant to factory fresh about that doesn't really stand up to reality. Okay, maybe a gestalt or Trypticon might scare them off, but the umpteen-millionth seeker with an 'intimidating' paint job isn't going to make much difference.

Counterpunch would roll his eyes if he actually had eyes. A shake of his head and a shrug has to suffice. "And that, it seems, is about the only thing you Seekers are good for. Doing what you're told." Another theatrical sigh. "Really, though... why are we here? And don't tell me 'because Galvatron said so'. I've heard /that/ line far too many times, and I'm not stupid enough to believe it. I may have been built at night, but it certainly wasn't last night. Why bother with these pathetic humans and play by their rules? We should have exterminated them at first sight."

Fleet looks rather blankly at Counterpunch for several long moments, then finally, "Why are you asking /me/ that? I mean, after all, /everyone/ knows that all we Seekers are good for are doing what we're told!" There is not even the slightest hint of sarcasm in expression or voice, no indication at all that he's trying to make a smart remark, just genuine seeming bafflement.

Counterpunch shrugs idly. "Let's just say that sometimes, it's nice to hear a fresh, unique perspective that isn't touted by the one who thinks such plans as this are brilliant simply because they thought it up and actually had a moment of insight, short-lived as it was. Their perspective is obviously biased, and typically flawed in some manner. Looking from the outside, however... thinking outside of the box. That is what I do, and I like to see if sometimes, others can do the same." His silvery-blue optic band focuses intently on Fleet, gauging his reactions. "Now... what is your opinion of this, or do you have any trace of individual thought left? You certainly don't look Insecticon..."

Fleet just shrugs his right shoulder and gestures to the fields. "The oil. And, well, up until a couple of weeks ago, I would have said the treaty... being, for the moment, more or less untouchable by the Autobots. The pleasure of holding the humans' rules over their heads. Reinstating the raids kind of puts an end to /that/ though." Not that the Seeker sounds particularly regretful. As a weapon, he didn't care much for playing at the humans' political games to begin with, although, as a coward, he still appreciated the reprieve to an extent. "That's all /I/ can see in it," and his tone makes it clear that even he knows it's not much of an answer, but that it's enough of a one for him.

Counterpunch's optic ridge quirks slightly. "Indeed..." he says quietly. "Sometimes it's simple, sometimes infinitely more complex."

Oh, boy. One of /these/. Fleet actually... chuckles. Genuine amusement, but still... "Those! Oh, I /love/ statements like those! They're intended to sound so clever and so wise and such, and most people are fooled, but it's really just a statement of the obvious! That's like saying, 'sometimes it's day and sometimes it's night.'" Fleet recovers, and the amusement leaves his voice and expression as he cocks his head thoughtfully. "Eh. But on the other hand, people miss the obvious so often, it's generally worth stating anyway. I find myself doing the same thing... far more often then I should," he finishes tiredly.

Counterpunch nods after a moment. "In my job, there's no room for ambiguousness... at least, when it comes to gathering intelligence and drawing your conclusions from the data. Subtlety is an art form, and it takes subtlety to recognize it for what it is amid the vast sea of information. That is why so many times, the Empire has its'... shall we say, setbacks. That seems to be happening quite a bit lately. Perhaps if the Empire hadn't sent me on an inspection tour, they may very well have had some advance warning of the gathering the humans and Autobots amassed here recently against the DIS Annihilator. Obviously, everyone else in Decepticon Central Intelligence must have been too busy to do their jobs." He chuckles quietly. "That, if I play my cards right, will soon change."

Well, it doesn't help that lately, DCI has consisted of... Soundwave. And before that, Comcast. Just like MilOps is made up, pretty much, of three Seekers.

*Coughcough.*

But that's neither here nor there. Fleet nods, as though he's just has a suspicion of his own confirmed, and says, "Name's Fleet, by the way. MilOps Trooper," as though that summarizes everything that's important about him. "Feel free to stick with Chiken Little if you want, though. Can I ask your name, or am I supposed to make one up myself?"

"Fleet... where have I heard that name before..." Counterpunch looks thoughtful for a moment, then his optic band flickers. "You're the one the Sweeps are training? My my my... Scourge must be hard up for help with his vaunted little 'pack'." He snickers quietly to himself, then straightens up. "The name... is Counterpunch. I'm fairly certain you won't forget it any time soon."

A vaguely befuddled expression flickers across the Seeker's face. "I'm sorry, what was the name again? It seems to have slipped past me." Then he shrugs a shoulder and smirks very slightly. "Yeah, I'm one of the ones the Sweeps are training. It is pretty strange, yes? I mean, when there are so many Seekers out there with more intimidating paint jobs!"

Counterpunch shakes his head slowly. "Counterpunch... and don't get too cocky about your training. Scourge is still paying for allowing Arachnae to be a part of his little herd."

Fleet starts laughing again, but this time the laughter is both genuine and actually a bit startled. "Cocky? Me?!" he blurts out, the very idea obviously tickling him. He recovers, shaking his head, and then... starts chuckling again. Before he's quite done he holds up a hand. "Sorry... sorry..." Finally he manages to put an end to the laughter, although amusement still has a strong foothold in his demeanor. "No, I, uhm... your... recommendations are noted, maybe even appreciated but... probably unnecessary. I... don't do cocky."

Counterpunch hmphs. "Indeed... how interesting. I shall have to remember that for future reference." He, quite obviously, does not look amused.

That's fine, because Fleet isn't here for Counterpunch's amusement, anyway. "Suit yourself," he replies almost absently. Some things, like seekers with intimidating paint schemes, loose their power to cause concern through overexposure. Fleet is being watched carefully by so many people (some of them FAR more frightening than Counterpunch) for him to be overly concerned about the idea of the spy filing things about him away for future reference. Besides, he's DCI. That's his job. Fleet looks down and lightly brushes one arm with the hand of the other. "I suppose I should be off for a top off... and to try to get some of this blasted sand out of my joints."

Counterpunch shrugs. "You don't see me stopping you, Chicken Little..." He turns around. "I have reports to file anyway. No sense in having Galvatron getting irritated because a report wasn't filed when he thinks one should have been."