Righting Wrongs

There is a shielded window in Sentinel's office in the Decagon, out which he can view the gleaming capital of Cybertron in all its bright-hued glory, but through the secure translucence of shaded and reinforced glass. His schedule is very busy, occasionally timed down to the breem in orderly rows of demands that leave him perennially behind schedule in the way of all leaders whose assistants attempt to so do. A regimented schedule invites interruptions.
He stands beside the window with the weight of his arms bulked across the broad metal barrel of his chest, solid weighted red and black. Looking through the window, he makes a low noise of exasperation and then turns to make a note to deal with recent recruits and their ideas of appropriate comportment particularly where their high commander can see them. Even the most important of mechs can take time for the little things, like ensuring that pranksters get what's coming to them.
Sentinel Prime has a busy schedule, indeed. But making time for the little things is important too. After all, good things come a little at a time. A little bit to begin with, then a little bit more, and a little bit more, and more and more until you've changed someone's mind, and before you know it, you've changed the world. Connections here, contacts there. All of them put together ensure that the ruling body has optics everywhere, so as to ensure that the status quo is maintained, and no one is allowed to rock the boat too hard without facing the consequences.
Speaking of which, one such contact, Cipher--the one at the IAA, seems to be calling the Prime on his hailing frequency now, just as he is making an aside to deal with some of the less cooperative cadets.
"Hnnn," rumbles Sentinel Prime, as he checks his agenda. He sends a quick message to the administrator to excuse him from a meeting that should, bar accident, prove routine (which may or may not end up dumped in Prowl's lap -- you know how these things go).
Not everyone has his private access code. Of those who do, it is generally expected that it will not be used without ... a certain understanding of priorities. There are agents everywhere, buried like the wiring in the walls of all Cybertronian structures, who have been forced to make those judgment calls, and who have discovered the consequences of guessing incorrectly.
Having forced the window in his schedule with the immediacy required, Sentinel frowns as he answers the call with only, << Yes? >>
A pleasant yet politely professional voice replies with a << Ah, Sentinel Prime, sir. >> Cipher is certainly good at looking and sounding quite cheerful and friendly no regardless of the circumstances. << I know you must have a busy schedule, so I'll skip the small talk. I was just calling ahead of time to inform you that our contact within the Nyonian insurgent groups has reports for you. He should be arriving -very- shortly. >>
<< I have made time available. >> Sentinel is direct and to the point, the crispness of his voice not bothering to conceal threat. He steps away from the window and its shaded view of otherwise glittering spires, stepping back to his desk. << I presume this is an important update. >>
<< Yes, I assure you, it is quite important. >> At least Cipher hopes it is to him. Prime no doubt has a lot on his mind. But the fear of being accused of -keeping- important information from him is far greater than the fear of delivering information that wasn't as important as he thought it was.
<< Oh, and if he gives you any trouble, just recite to him the phrases I'm sending to you now. They should...straighten him out. >>
The databurst is received moments after the call ends. It reads:
        Justice is above all.
        Order must be maintained.
        Sacrifices must be made....are you willing to sacrifice?
 
<< Very well, >> is sufficient to conclude the call itself. As it ends, Sentinel Prime reviews the data burst with the blandness of a supreme poker face. To him, these are obvious truths -- but clearly, obvious truths with a very definite function. If anyone is untroubled by the obvious necessity, it is Sentinel. Standing behind the solid weight of his desk, he spends a brief moment reviewing the terminal set upon it, and then keys off the display, leaving the office in a weighted silence. Given the tone of this conversation, he does not expect to be kept waiting long.
Nope, he is definitely not waiting long at all. This is Blurr we're talking about, after all. The celebrity speedster almost seems to just -appear- in his office, standing in front of his desk. He throws a sharp salute upon arrival, with a snappy "Prime, sir."
The mask of his faceplate revealing little, Sentinel Prime squares behind his desk and returns the salute as one soldier to another, regardless of the vageries of their respective positions, ranks, or role in the actual military. It's a very orderly and validating courtesy for all that it is also very short. He levels a long look at his agent and, following the salute, gives him a very slight nod. "Report," is his mildly directed demand, "if you please."
Blurr nods quickly. "Of course, sir." He steps forward slightly, not sitting down, since he hasn't been given permission yet. Instead, he starts to pace slightly, back and forth in front of the desk. "First off, I've been infiltrating an insurgent group based out of Nyon, though from the looks of it bots from all around have been joining up. They're planning to break into the Institute facility at Nova Cronum, by approaching from the Mitteous Plateau." He produces a datapad, with the maps provided by Rewind. "This is what they've charted out thus far. "I'm not sure when they're planning to make their move--no one seemed to know, but--" he pauses. "Suggested course of action. The location's security has been compromised. Pack up ASAP and move elsewhere. Send them back to square one."
Sentinel Prime does not look particularly discomposed by this news; his eyes shutter in a blink, but otherwise his reaction begins as only a nonreaction. He watches Blurr, and then, as the maps are produced, reaches to take them and review them with tick-tick-ticks of his fingers. "Numbers?" is a simple enough request, almost so as to measure the logic of Blurr's suggestion.
A nod and another document is produced. Blurr stops pacing for long enough to place it in front of Sentinel on the desk. "This is a list of all currently known associates as well as potential associates." It's quite the long list--Hot Rod's been busy recruiting. Of course Hot Rod is the named leader. Included on the list of names on it are Rewind, Nautica, Chromia, Drift, Arcee, Tailgate, Knock Out, Breakdown...among others.
"Your suggestion is a significant expenditure of time and resources in order to thwart a concerning criminal element." There is a studied pause following this observation. Sentinel Prime's gaze narrows perceptibly at some of the names on the list that Blurr has provided, although he gives no direct sign which ones. At length, Sentinel Prime states firmly, "I see little reason not to simply put down this rebellion as the act of defiance that it clearly is. Particularly if its pull is as widely reaching as you report."
Blurr nods, his face still neutral. "Yes, of course. What are my orders, sir?" He asks, concerning the matter of putting down the rebellion. "I mean, I...know the rebellion will be dealt with, but this would send us several steps in the right direction. If we pack them up, send them off to an undisclosed location, that sends our opponents back to square one. They won't even know where their target even -is- any more."
"Mmm, and you say your insurgents have not even determined when they are planning to attack?" Sentinel considers for a moment, weighing possibilities. His fingers slide across his desk as he takes a half a step back, if anything reflected in his face a kind of hyperalert intensity. He notes Blurr's briefest of hesitations and seems almost to catalogue it. "Is it your assessment that without finding their target, they will simply disperse in confusion?"
Blurr shrugs. "That's what they told -me-, but I can't guarantee they aren't keeping anything from me."
At the final question, though, he shakes his head quickly. "Oh, no. Not at all. They'll be just as determined, if not more so. But that's why we'll have to take it somewhere they'll -never- find it. They have passion, but structure and organization is what they lack. Hot Rod just comes up with ideas and then somehow convinces everyone that's what they should do." He smirks slightly at this. "He's not exactly charismatic, but I think there's just ...a certain -charm- to him."
Probably because he has not been exposed to Hot Rod's je ne sais quoi (or /whatever the hell/), Sentinel Prime looks dubious. He considers Blurr's reports, picking up the list of names and balancing them against the flat of his hand. "Then it seems this ... Hot Rod may be a grave danger to the interests of the state." He does not seem best pleased with any of his available conclusions. "Very well. I will arrange for the operation to be moved," he says, "and I will post a detatchment of loyal troops to await them beneath Nova Cronum." His frown graven deep into his expression, he says, "These dissidents, particularly their leader, must be dissuaded before such -- did you say passion? -- can grow any further out of hand."
"Definitely agreed." Blurr says, with another enthusiastic nod. He paces again. "So we pack the facility up and send it off to some unknown, replace it with a squadron of ground troops who will be waiting for them when they come. We arrest them if possible, send them to someone who can ...dissuade them from doing anything else stupid like that." He stops pacing and turns to face the Prime once more. "Sounds like a plan. Oh," There was one more thing. "There's an old maintenance tunnel in Kalis off of a service road near the expressway." He brings up a map on the datapad he'd been using for the associates list, zooming in on the specific location. "Been crumbling from disuse, figured the materials could be recycled for something better elsewhere. Besides," he looks back up. "Wouldn't want any unsavory characters using it to smuggle supplies into Kaon."
Sentinel frowns again as he eyes the map. "No," he says, in a slower, musing voice, "we would not." His gaze lifts. "If there are resources there that could be of use, then yes. Particularly with /this/--" His voice seeds exasperation, darkening in tone and shade. "I don't have a lot of time or bodies to spare to make reclamation a priority just now. Get a crew on it, take care of it."
"Reclamation? Not really worth it. Materials might be worth melting down for recycling. But mainly we collapse it to keep any further criminal activity from passing through." Blurr shrugs. "For that probably don't even need a crew, just a few well-placed charges and someone as fast as me." There's a slight smile at that.
Sentinel nods once. He says, "Do it." Shift of his weight a slight clank across both of his heavy feet, he leans forward on the brace of hands against the surface of the desk, a flicker of his glance for the dormant terminal. "Do you have anything else to report?" he says.
"That's it for now." Blurr answers, with a slight shake of the head. "I'll keep you posted, though. Sir."
"Very well," Sentinel intones with a slight nod. He reaches to start waking his terminal back up and moving on to the next task even as he adds a firm, "Dismissed."
"Thank you, sir! We -will- right the wrongs of this world." Blurr says, as he salutes once more. And then off he goes, disappearing from the room as quickly as he'd come.
Category:NC Institute