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>

Catechism emerges from the city that is Trypticon.

Catechism has arrived.

In one of the more remote sectors of that make up the city-fortress of Trypticon trumpet music can be heard. Not loud trumpet music, not bold trumpet music, nor particularly original music. These are plain, fairly standard tunes, and the notes have the sound of someone who's really putting far more effort than they should be into producing them. Every now and again there's a sour note, or a pause that's too long than it should be, or a faltering of the rhythm. The creator of this sound is currently tucked away, hidden out of sight, at best a lime green glint in the desert sun from the shadows of one of Trypticon's alleys.

Catechism is out for a stroll, pacing around Trypticon. She glances at the behemoth thoughtfully now and then and then back out the sands. Straxus, it feels like a day ago, she was being put into cryo. If someone had told her then that when she woke, she'd be spending an awful lot of time on an alien planet, particularly in area drenched in fine silica particulate, and that she'd be stationed in a large saurian city robot, she'd have thought he was nuts. Life is strange.

Earthscorch has arrived.

Earthscorch enters the area heavily.

Earthscorch is also out and about, looking to explore the current (and probably temporary) Decepticon home. To all appearances he is completely unimpressed. He winces as the musical sounds reach his audial sensors. He turns to Catechism -- who is not all that far off -- and says, "What's that awful noise?"

The music plays on, and will continue to do so unless something distracts it. No, wait, nevermind. It stopped. If someone's close enough, some grumbling about 'Mixmaster' and 'Show him who's behind,' and then the 'awful noise' (and really, he's not THAT bad. Just not great) starts up again.

Catechism glances back at Earthscorch, and looks a bit puzzled. She looks back at Trypticon and shrugs. She says slowly, "I don't know. Sorry."

Earthscorch looks torn on whether to investigate or just walk the other way. In the end curiosity wins and he slowly, wincingly walks over toward the source of the dire noise.

Another pause. Some more growling. But now the timing is right for the source of the noise to overhear a very large, metallic robot (or two) approaching over the metal surface of Trypticon. Both noise and grumbling stops entirely, and there is a sound of a case opening as the perpetrator begins to put the trumpet away.

Catechism follows after Earthscorch, having nothing better to do at the moment. It vaguely occurs to her that she never got his name. He might know hers, if he looks at rosters and profiles and whatnot, in which case she'll look like a doofus here, but she introduces herself cheerfully, anyway, "I'm Catechism."

Earthscorch turns suddenly as Catechism speaks. He looks her up and down for a moment before saying, "I am Earthscorch and my function is aerial assault. It pleases me to make your aquaintance." He smiles as though it's painful to do so, then continues on his way without paying Catechism further mind.

Ah-ha! Just the distraction Long Haul needs to finish putting his trumpet away. But... wait a minute! He has no where to hide the case, lacking the convenient container built-into-a-leg that his nutcase of a brother has! Darn the luck!

Long Haul studies the case in his hand, trying to figure out what to do with it.

Catechism is still following after Earthscorch. After all, it's useful to better know one's fellow Decepticon. Learn which ones are good to drag along on raids; learn which ones need to be dropped on their head repeatedly... erm. She adds, "Air warfare." Oh boy, could one get any more generic for a Seeker?

Earthscorch says, "Mmm-hmm," disinterestedly as he finally comes to the source of the noise... He pops around the corner in a 'ah-ha!' sort of way... and looks disappointed to see Long Haul. "Oh. It's you. What exactly ARE you doing?"

"What? Me?" Dammit! Caught! Long Haul looks at the trumpet case in his hand, looks around... and gives up. He may be a DECEPTicon, but he's never been particularly good at deceiving. The transporter shrugs. "Practicin'."

Catechism actually looks vaguely pleased to see Long Haul. She'd been sort of remaining to track him down. The Seeker nods to the Constructicon pleasantly and says, "Hello," her optics flickering to the case he's holding.

Earthscorch frowns and looks Long Haul over. "Don't you have anything better to do than lounge around twiddling with your instrument?"

<OOC> Earthscorch says, "... That came out... wrong."

Long Haul takes a good long while to consider that question. More important for the war effort? Well, he could be inventorying parts, or transporting parts, or doing requisitions paperwork or checklists or a million other such minor, mundane tasks. And those are exactly what he would be doing, had Mixmaster not pissed him off like that earlier. But whether or not any of those things really qualify as 'better'... and besides, when it comes right down to it, just what can Long Haul be doing that would be better than finding a way to one-up his brother? So, after these thoughts finally work their way through their processor Long Haul just shrugs and answers, "Uhm. No."

Catechism looks at he case Long Haul's holding a bit more intently asks curiously, "You play a musical instrument?"

Earthscorch looks over at the case that has Catechism's attention. "Yes. The Constructicons all play some sort of horn. For some reason I cannot fathom. Without mouths." His expression is one of complete and utter disgust at the idea.

Long Haul clenches the fist that's not holding the case. "It's an ASTROTRUMPET! We perform at all major ceremonies!" Including a certain aborted coronation. "It's part of Constructicon tradition!" That, and he's not about to tell someone with a /mouth/ the secret behind playing without one.

Catechism has somehow got it into her pointy head that artistic pursuits, such as music, dance, sculpture, or otherwise, are fine Decepticon pastimes. Thus, she sees nothing wrong with Long Haul playing trumpet, or astrotrumpet as it may be. The Seeker exclaims, "That's nifty! So you and your brothers do the traditional songs?"

Earthscorch continues to look digusted and crosses his arms, hanging back and watching the two for now, without interference.

"Well, uhm... yeah. Mostly. 'Cept for Mixmaster, who does... whatever he feels like." Really, outside of actual ceremony, Mixmaster doesn't have the patience for the traditional stuff. Long Haul just shrugs, although he takes a moment to glower as best he can at Earthscorch. Not that 'as best he can' means much when you lack an actual face.

Catechism's optics light up, and she says, tone appraising, "You're a rather talented bunch, then. So Mixmaster does composing, as well?" Okay, this is not at all what Catechism meant to ask Long Haul, but it's interesting, and she's distracted from her original intent for now.

Earthscorch largely ignores Long Haul's glowering, such as it is. "Some of the Constructicons are talented. None of them in music," he comments dryly.

"Yeah, well... that's just 'cos I never get the time to practice, 'Kay!!" the Constructicon shouts. It doesn't really register on him that Earthscorch had just insulted the musical abilities of /all/ the Constructicons, only his, and he has had quite enough of THAT for today. "They ALWAYS got me carrying 'round something STUPID during the practice sessions! They're just afraid, that's what it is! They're 'fraid that I'll get /better'n/ them!"

Catechism flicks her ailerons and says to Long Haul, "Good luck with the practicing." It's downright sick that she can say it and mean it. Then, without explaining herself, she heads off, probably for patrol or watch or something.

Catechism has disconnected.

Earthscorch watches Catechism depart, then looks at Long Haul, uncomfortably... His thoughts are clearly along the lines of, great, leave me alone with him now... Finally he speaks, "So, er, what are the Constructicons up to? Must be a lot of stuff to haul, eh?"

Oh, yes. Bring up hauling with Long Haul. BRILLIANT. Because we all know how much he LOVES his job. The transporter does a quick shake of his head and then tilts it to the side in a motion that brings to mind eye-rolling in someone who actually has, well, eyes. He jabs his free hand out in the direction of... well, Carbombya in general. "Well, there's all them weapons turrets we built, an' the energon refinery stations, for one."

Earthscorch actually starts to look a bit interested. "I'm getting a bit sick of this old song and dance of us putting on the facade of befriending some rediculous human nation, though. I mean, how many times can Galvatron try this? We sure aren't going to accomplish anything this way, except for a very temporary source of energon..."

Long Haul shrugs absently. "Eh. I doan really care. I'm just glad the raids are back on. Was gettin' pretty dull there. But for the energon, I hear we're 'bout two years ahead for what we need. So even if we gotta leave now, we're good for awhile."

Earthscorch scowls and looks around. "We ought to level this pathetic nation and just take its resources for ourselves. We don't need some pitiful little dictator for anything. If we are going to align with a nation, we should do it or not, but I'm tired of putting up facades that no-one believes anyway.

"Uphm. Yeah, prolly." Long Haul pauses to consider this (we're talking a good, long pause here), then shrugs. "'Course, this way, we've had longer to actually pump the oil. Even with Hook's new super-dooper-pumpertron-thingy, we still haven't managed to drain this place dry, an' we've been here for WEEKS."

Earthscorch says, "I've been studying the humans here. They're like minature versions of ourselves, fighting over the resources here. Money is power and their oil is money. This place will be better off if we drain it dry, really."

Long Haul turns his featureless face in Earthscorch's direction. It could be another glower, but given the tilt of his head and the way he holds his shoulders and arms, it's probably more a baffled look instead. "Uhm... isn't that what we're doing?"

Earthscorch says, "Er, yes. Sorry. Just pondering. The humans war as much as we do, despite their short lifespans, and for far less. I don't know how the Autobots make progress with them."

Long Haul shrugs again and starts looking around almost absently. Such thoughts are certainly beyond him, as well. Mostly because trying to puzzle out human motivations never held any interest for him to begin with. Too much effort for too little gain. "Ehmph," is all he has to say on the matter. BRILLIANT!

Earthscorch looks around as silence takes over. "Well... Anyways... I must depart... I have things to do... Enjoy your... whatever you were doing..." He nods politely and begins to walk away.

With Earthscorch gone, Long Haul once more removes his trumpet from his case and returns to practicing. After all, he's decided he's going to one-up Mixmaster at something the manic takes pride in, and since Long Haul probably won't be mastering chemistry anytime in the near future, it's time to spend time... with the trumpet!