2015-02-20 Reporting for Duty

From Transformers: Lost and Found

Reporting for Duty
Date 2015/02/20
Location Lost Light - Command: Rodimus's Office
Participants Rodimus, Ultra Magnus
Summary Ultra Magnus escapes the medibay and reports to the captain's office.

Lost Light: Command -- Rodimus's Office

 A small plaque reads 'Captain's Office -- Rodimus of Nyon'. There are flames painted around the doorway.                                      
 AROUND THE DOORWAY.                                                     
 Everything else about the room beyond frankly pales in comparison to that. Yes, the walls are a deep, vivid magenta. Yes, there's a large desk covered with doodles. But there are FLAMES painted around the DOORWAY and really, what else needs to be said?

Things have /almost/ returned to what /should/ be normal when Ultra Magnus is finally released from the medibay. The injuries from the sparkeater's eviction have been repaired, the damage to the engines has been fixed, and the Lost Light sails again through the stars.

After leaving a message with Ratchet for Ultra Magnus to come find him once he's up, Rodimus sets himself to trying to do too much in too many places. He gets in the way. He interrupts. He gets kicked out of Perceptor's lab. He gets firmly redirected by Blaster. He gets a brush off from Red Alert. So basically the ship is running fine, and the protocols that Ultra Magnus set in place before launch remain as a firm framework.

So. Rodimus. That leaves him in his office, at his desk, doodling and ignoring a stack of reports slowly accumulating on the screen at his elbow.

Of all the bastions of authority with which Ultra Magnus is intimately familiar, and all the orderly restraints of behavior to which he is accustomed to deliberate and intent adherence, the concept of doctor's orders is one of the most difficult for him to hold still for. Although he was more prepared to submit to Ratchet's authority than to that of certain others inhabiting or loitering around the Lost Light's medibay, he still, at the core of his spark, makes a terrible patient: doctor's orders being those orders that, specifically, deny him the capability to /do his work/, which is always of greater priority than tending to himself.

Finally freed from these constraints, it would probably take a great deal to prevent him from seeking out Rodimus immediately, so the fact that his orders align with his natural inclinations do nothing but add to his momentum.

He pauses in the doorway for a moment, eyeing Rodimus's decor for what is plainly not the first time. Standing there sighs, a noise of exhalation not unlike the faint hissing leak of an air compressor not at full release. It is a noise with which the Captain of this good ship is surely familiar.

Launching himself from his chair like someone who has been /dying/ for a distraction, Rodimus meets Ultra Magnus at the doorway. He draws him into the office with a step back and a turn to the side. "You're out! Good. Why didn't Ratchet let me know?" (He did. It's in that stack of reports he's ignoring.)

"So, all fixed?" Rodimus leans in, investigating Ultra Magnus's shoulders for any lingering signs of injury. "Did Knock Out try to saw your arms off? He's really creepily attached to some of the equipment down there."

"I did not permit the Decepticon to approach me with any of his implements of questionably medical torture," Ultra Magnus informs Rodimus with a weight of dryness in his tone as he surveys the accumulating mess on Rodimus's desk. "What is all this?" he asks, like he doesn't know, gesturing at what seems to him to be the impending signs of myriad chaos.

"Uh. Nothing." Rodimus sliiides to a perched seat atop the desk to cover up the bulk of the scribbling with his body. Doodles? What doodles! There is nothing on his desk aligned to a nice grid. Everything is just slightly askew. He proceeds to abuse the usual rules of furniture by drawing his chair in with the hook of his foot to prop one foot on the seat and lean on his knee. "Drift's working on where the sparkeater came from. The NAILs he bought it from did /not/ mention that."

"Of course they didn't," Ultra Magnus says with a particularly unconvinced filter to his bland voice. His stance widens slightly as he folds the bulk of his arms across the lower portion of his torso, since his chest is too bulky to make this gesture one of great convenience. "Anyone that knew about it has probably since been murdered or devoured. Considering how many Decepticons are aboard this ship, I only wonder that there has not already been another explosion during my convalescence of which Drift and Soundwave were both curiously unaware."

"Aw, come on, Ultra Magnus." Rodimus's voice wheedles and cajoles. "That's not very fair to Drift." Noticeably absent from that sentence: Soundwave. He settles quite comfortably on his desk despite all violation of furniture protocol. "And Brainstorm says the explosion was the fault of one of our own. Map crew is still figuring out where we are and which way to hop to get us back on track, but those Camiens are great! You should talk to them if you get a chance. They want to stay on and help. Which ... since they basically had to scrap their own engines to help is /definitely/ awesome."

The sound that Ultra Magnus makes with respect to his relative fairness to Drift is a low metallic grind somewhere basal in his internal mechanics. "I will naturally conduct personal interviews with each of our passengers, particularly if it is your intention to include them in the crew," he says. "I met one of them briefly during the incident in the airlock, of course, but my attention was not ... complete."

Shifting his weight, he steps forward then to thumb through the incipient tower of unfinished work on Rodimus's desk. "I would prefer vigilance to any chivalrous notions of fair play where our ship's tally of violent murderers is concerned, Captain. Or did you need me to file another memo about the approximated death tolls of our crew complement? I could make you a pie chart if you would enjoy a more colorful memo."

When Ultra Magnus steps forward to thumb through the work, Rodimus leans to push it toward him with eager haste. Yesss. Take it. TAKE IT. "Well, we can't just /leave/ them. They helped us when we were in need. We owe it to them. We owe them quite a bit, actually. And Windblade -- their leader, it sounds like. She actually knows how to talk to metrotitans! Think how that could help us find the knights!" It's clear that he's all but blinded by his enthusiasm, so it's probably a good thing that the Camiens /aren't/ out to murder them. Probably.

"No, Primus, no more memos." Rodimus leans back once he's abandoned the work to Ultra Magnus's hands. "Look, it'd be stupid to ignore that they are Decepticons, but if you go around slapping death tolls on their backs, what does that accomplish?" Given how high Drift's death toll would be, his tolerance is suspect.

"Have you even glanced at any of these?" Ultra Magnus asks him in a tone of sufferance with which Rodimus is, also, highly familiar.

"Forewarned is forearmed." He measures a long look at Rodimus as if he might be considering just how much trouble his captain is likely to leap into regardless of his advice. "We know exactly who they are and what they have done. I will not pretend otherwise. In contrast, we know nothing about these Camiens. They may be excellent and valuable, or they may be miscreants and confidence femmes. I do not wish to sound unduly paranoid," because that's what Red Alert is for, "but as I said, I will interview them. Did I hear you say just now that we still don't have the first clue where we are?"

"Uhhh." OH HEY LOOK A DIFFERENT TOPIC. Rodimus fails to answer Ultra Magnus re: reports, memos, and notices. "Well, they're working on it. There's a note from Perceptor in there. He's working with Rewind on it. I stopped by. He said he'd sent a report." In those two sentences is packed a great deal for the imaginative -- or perhaps just experienced -- mind, including the obvious, that Rodimus is being all /hands on/ about things that he has no need to be hands on about, because if he'd just read the reports--! But he isn't. So. Moving on. "The explosion threw us off course, but we can get back on."

"In other words, yes, we have no idea where we are." Ultra Magnus taps the pile of reports with his thumb. He considers its height, breadth, and likelihood of importance; he makes a noise a little like a long inhalation. "I will review these materials," he says, "and when I am through, we are going to have a meeting, with an agenda, about anything that requires your attention. You can't simply allow the work to pile up until it magically does itself for you, Captain," he says, while picking it up en masse and holding it in the broad spread of his hands to take it away and do it, so apparently, Rodimus actually /can/ do that.

Rodimus bobs his head from side to side in an equivocating gesture. "Well, maybe a little bit, yeah, I guess we don't know where we are," he agrees. Sort of.

Sliding from the desk to stand and face Ultra Magnus, Rodimus grins. He provides no resistance to Ultra Magnus's declaration. This is suspect. "Great! That sounds good. You're good at that. It's important to delegate, you know, so I was just -- delegating." He has sounded more believable in his life. "Besides, there wasn't anything urgent. I set an alert. Anything urgent will beep. Nothing beeped. I was busy checking in with people, you know. Boosting morale." Getting in the way.

"We may also need to have a separate meeting about your definition of the word 'delegate', as I don't believe it appears in any standard Cybertronian dictionary on record," Ultra Magnus informs him tartly.

"How, may I ask, did you determine what was going to 'beep'?" Ultra Magnus's hands are full of the homework Rodimus didn't do, so he can't make air quotes. Still, the sense is somehow conveyed that he'd like to.

Rodimus wide-eyes at Ultra Magnus in an expression of innocence that would /probably/ have worked better four million years ago and without the responsibility of a crew. Although -- no, come to think of it, Ultra Magnus would probably pretty resistant to that look no matter the circumstances. "I'm pretty sure that how you delegate. Assign tasks to those best able to complete them. Anyway, no one's like -- on fire. That would've gone beep. Or Decepticons planting bombs somewhere. Definite beep. And no one /said/ it was urgent, /so/."

"It is heartening to hear that you trust the judgment of your subordinates so completely that you believe they will inform you of the relative urgency of their complaints," Ultra Magnus says in a tone that suggests he does not believe it is heartening at all, "particularly when so many of your subordinates could technically be prosecuted as war criminals."

Rodimus straightens under the praise, basking right up until the point that he realizes Ultra Magnus is secretly lecturing. He looks faintly betrayed. Honey-coated POISON. "Well." There's a long pause. "Nothing's blown up, so it all worked out."

"One day, I believe I may have cause to remind you you said that," Ultra Magnus says. Hoisting up the giant pile of neglected reports so that he tucks it against his side in the crook of his arm, he says, "Do you know of anything else requiring my attention? I have yet to return to my office. Ratchet informed me you wished to see me right away."

"Not that I can think of." This almost certainly means that there's something that Rodimus /should/ be telling Ultra Magnus which he's forgotten. "I'll come by if I think of anything. And hey -- glad to have you back on your feet." He clasps Ultra Magnus's arm and tilts his smile up with warmth enough that it's probably more friendliness than laziness behind the sentiment. /Probably/.

Ultra Magnus accepts this welcome entirely in the spirit it was offered. He gives Rodimus a grave nod. "Thank you," he says. Since his arm is loaded down with datapads, he is not entirely well situated to return the gesture. He turns, instead, moving toward Rodimus's door on clanky footsteps. Over his shoulder he remarks, "You might find it easier to concentrate on your work if you spent a breem tidying up in here once in awhile instead of working on amateur art projects."

Well, /that's/ not going to happen. Laughter follows Ultra Magnus out of Rodimus's office and into the hall, because he's kidding, right? ...right?

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