2015-02-24 Plotted and Laid In
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|Plotted and Laid In|
|Location||Lost Light - Command: Ultra Magnus's Office|
|Participants||Rodimus, Ultra Magnus|
|Summary||Rodimus stops in to let Ultra Magnus in on some important news.|
Lost Light: Command -- Ultra Magnus's Office (#129Rh)
The nameplate by the door says: Ultra Magnus Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord Wipe your boots before entering. There's a large desk with a smaller chair opposite and a recharge slab off to the side. The desk centers the room, its largest and most prominent feature in an area distinctly spartan in decor. There is a nameplate on his desk. It says the same as the nameplate by the door except for the part about boots.
Rodimus does not wipe his boots. He doesn't really knock, either: he just enters, because Ultra Magnus would never lock his office door, right? I hope not. That would require a repose. "Okay! I know where we are," he announces himself.
Ultra Magnus has not locked his office door. Although his door is not open, because he is not the kind of bot who works with the door open, it yields readily to Rodimus and his tendency to turn up unannounced. He looks up from the datapad he is reading with his features written in a frown, as they often are, and says, "Please tell me that you have not come in here to tell me that we are in outer space."
Rodimus pauses in the act of throwing himself down in the chair opposite Ultra Magnus. He stares. The startled pause leaves Rodimus draped awkwardly against the side of the chair. Only after a moment does he melt into a slithering seat. "How did you know?"
Having glances back down at his datapad momentarily as if to check his place, Ultra Magnus looks up again over the top of it with a look of great incredulity momentarily frozen upon his face. Slowly, he lowers the datapad. He sets it down on the desk, light enough that it merely clicks and does not clatter.
Two can play at this silence game! Rodimus stares at Ultra Magn-- okay, no, you know what? One can play at this silence game, and it's not Rodimus. He leans forward. "Magnus. We're in outer space."
There is a long, slow sound that escapes Ultra Magnus, ground somewhere in the depths of his frame. He slides the datapad he was reading a little ways across the desk, leans forward, and clasps his massive hands over its surface. "Really," he says.
Rodimus mirrors Ultra Magnus. He scoots the chair right up to the edge of the desk and leans forward to rest his forearms against the edge. He clasps his hands. He regards his second with a level gaze and bright eyes. "Yep. Perceptor confirmed it. We are definitely, absolutely, 100% in space."
"I suppose," Ultra Magnus says in a low, measured voice, bearing a hint of a distant rumble as of the mutter of an idling engine, "that that beats the alternatives."
Delight in the slow grin that crosses Rodimus's features, he says, "That's what I said!" He leans back with a kick of his feet that comes sharply short of flinging them up on the edge of the desk. It's /obvious/ that the temptation was there, and belatedly checked. "Anyway, I guess the map nerds are having trouble getting a fix on our position. Something something density something something gas. So we're heading to a nearby inhabited planet to check the sign."
"An inhabited planet that keeps a label in its orbit for the convenience of travelers, then," Ultra Magnus says, the fingers of one hand twitching faintly with some repressed desire, probably a repressed desire to rub at his head. There is a lot of restraint happening in this conversation. Both parties are making an effort. It's sweet. He says: "I admit to some surprise that Perceptor reported continuing difficulties when I checked on him yesterday. I'm glad to hear of the solution. I had heard concerns from several of the crew." (And when the crew is concerned enough to complain to him of all people.)
"Well, a metaphorical label, anyway. We'll have to land, of course." Rodimus continues to eye the corner of Ultra Magnus's desk like the sweet temptation it is. There's a space, /just there/, just next to the nameplate, that is just the right size for his feet. "Say hello. Possibly pick up a few things we lost in the explosions. Buy a map."
"Of course," says Ultra Magnus, watching Rodimus watching his desk with a measured glance of weighted familiarity. He has made serious inroads into the work piled upon his desk; it is back to minimalist order, clutterless and open. "I imagine that a /small/ landing party will be sufficient to attend to our needs."
"Yeah, probably just a dozen or so," Rodimus says in the expansive way that suggests 'or so' could go up to twenty. Thirty. Basically everyone, actually.
Ultra Magnus gives Rodimus a look. It is one of many looks, in varying gradations of stern, that exist in his repertoire for conversations with Rodimus. It's possible that Rodimus has his own entire facial category in Magnus's book. "Captain, we have not been away from shore long enough to need to vent our crew upon the nearest planet like something out of a release valve," he says. "Include only those personnel in the landing party who are actually needed. For an articulable reason, please."
Pushing himself upright, Rodimus assumes an expression of wounded innocence. "Of course they'd have a reason!" he insists. "I wouldn't just--." No, he totally would. He stops that lie before he can speak it and swallows it into a grin. Tapping his knuckles on Ultra Magnus's desk, he says, "I'll get get the course changed."
The next shift of Ultra Magnus's expression involves mostly the upward shift of his brows. He nods, and says, "Thank you. I will consider it something to look forward to."
Rodimus is off without another word, leaving Ultra Magnus to contemplate just why he agreed to all of this.