hotwire-the-merchant:

It took a little longer than it should have, but Hotwire eventually commed back.  

::Sorry for the small wait, I had to drop off one of my crewmembers at another location to deal with a rescue emergency.  We’ll be right over.::

Cutting her comm just as they emerged back into the Covenant from Sabre’s territory, she sighed and lolled her helm back in her seat.  ”Do yer thing Cranky.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”  One flipped wrist panel and set of commands later and the teal portal was once again shining unnaturally bright.  At the coordinates on Cybertron, an almost-blindingly brilliant white groundbridge appeared, and shortly thereafter, an alpha-class freight shuttle, built for shuttle-alt mechs to operate inside with ease, came gliding through.  It came to a halt a half-kilck or so in front of the bridge before the portal flickered, compressed into a small point of light, and blinked out of existence.

Swiveling in her seat, Hotwire scanned the area before them through the panoramic window at the helm of the ship and met optics with the Decpticon warlord.  A funny feeling made her spark hitch suddenly, and for a moment, she was afraid that she was about to go into another episode, but then she realized—it was anxiety.  Breaking out of her short daze, she gave Megatron a polite nod.  ::The loading bay’s openin’ as we speak, starboard side.  I’ll be down wit’cher filters inna minute.::

With that, she pushed against the control console with her legs so she rolled back out of sight of those outside.  She didn’t want an audience as she struggled awkwardly out of her seat like a femme three times her age.  Echo assisted in handing her her crutches and giving her a brief retightening of the braces around her legs, wordless.

Assistive devices set, Hotwire grumbled and stood up as straight as she could, shoulders back and helm held high. She might be disabled, but she’d not let that make her feeble.  Or look it, at least.  She’d just have to put out a little more presence to make up for the setback.

Still.  She was about to come faceplates-to-faceplates (height difference aside) with one of the most infamously—depending on who you were asking, anyhow—ruthless mechs currently online, she thought to herself as the hum of both the opening freight bay and the lowering departure ramp resonated through the Little Runner.  It hadn’t really occurred to her to be nervous until her tanks spontaneously decided that they wanted to do the chimichanga and her spark started spinning just a hair quicker.  But nothing so bad as to make her really want to go back.  

Just mostly.

She looked aside to Echo.  ”You ready?”

The Seeker nodded, tight-lipped, wings tense and held back.  Hotwire could guess what she was thinking—memories of the cybonic plague outbreak, no doubt.  She glanced around to the others, wondering what was on their processors right then.  Thunderlane, tap-tap-tapping at his console, absent look on his faceplates, worrying at his lower derma, seemingly staring at the Cybertronian sky; Stockpile, watching Crankshaft and absently tapping his own, more permanent leg brace, his own emotions bottled for the time being—he had once been quite the violent ‘Con himself, but for all the wrong reasons—for the sake of his Conjux’s excitement; and Crankshaft, who had moved to the helm of the ship and was taking as much of the outside in as he could, field loose and buzzing with an obvious mixture of nervousness, elation, and anticipation.

But they needed to get going.  Hotwire cleared her vocalizer.  ”Arright, guys.”  She looked to the three mechs remaining in the ship, meeting each set of optics in turn.  ”Crank, Thunder, keep watch on the security cams.  Stock, yer on defensive control duty in case this somehow goes south an’ we gotta beat it.  Questions?”

“Nope.”

“No.”

“Negative.”

“Good.  We’ll be back inna bit.  C’mon, Echo.”  She double-checked herself once more and, with her medic at her side bearing the filters in a small box, made her way down the ramp with as much grace as she was able to muster.

As the ship materialized, many eradicons warmed their blasters. How could they be blamed, after the temporary reprieve from battle they’d been allowed by their secret compound? Of course they wouldn’t want to let anything to ruin that. Such determination is what had Megatron so confident about their upcoming final battle, as well as the addition of a few Phase–Sixers. For the moment, their hostility was unnecessary. Megatron gives them the order to stand down unless weapons are drawn. 

The craft settles down, and the imposing warlord closes the distance between himself and the lowering ramp, a soldier behind him on either side. They knew better than to get too close; Megatron was a gladiator, not some precious artifact to be guarded. He could handle most trouble on his own. The soldiers were there as a formality, and they knew it.

The sight that greets him is a tad unexpected, and puts the eradicons further on edge. It would seem that even neutrals were not safe from wartime injury. He waits almost patiently for the merchant to reach the ground before addressing her, exposed optics making his typical glare even colder.

“I have brought more than enough energon to replenish your ship and your space bridge for this journey, as requested. I trust that you have kept up your end as well.” His tone is  congenial, even with the threat woven into it, and a toothy grin serves to both put at ease and unsettle the visitors.