Second Impressions

Chromedome is seated on a bench outside the Decagon, with one leg crossed over the other, his left big foot hung out over his right knee. He has a text splayed between his hands, a dryly titled something about the uncertainty of mech memory, all thick and academic and quite possibly bait. If it is bait, Chromedome is patient. He's been sitting here for hours.

A slender and unimposing figure of white and orange and black approaches Chromedome from behind. He comes to some effort to avoid placing himself in the center of Chromedome's view, yet he's hardly hiding. He closes just on this side of uncomfortable close to glance over Chromedome's shoulder as he rests a long-fingered hand on the back of the bench. "What interesting reading material," he says in a smiling voice.

Chromedome has enough experience not to startle. He has this experience paired with the kind of slow-burn personality that doesn't trend toward 'startled' anyway. How fortuitous. So thus does the white, yellow, orangish mech turn his head mild over his shoulder to examine Trepan's extended fingers. And then Trepan. Ah. Trepan. His eyeplate widens just a titch, then reverts. Even that's kind of unprofessional. "Well," he says. "Look who it is."

"Yes," says Trepan with a smile, circling the bench to come and take a seat next to Chromedome. "/Look/. You really leave an impression. Did you find what you were looking for, then? Your interest certainly seems ... piqued."

"Mmm." Chromedome's attention, to all appearances, passes back to his book. Like dry text is more interesting than Trepan's sudden presence. More likely, he's composing himself. When he speaks, book's still up. "I don't know if piqued is the right word. Clearly, I need to be better informed. What we were looking for clearly wasn't enough. Was it."

"Better informed in order to do what?" asks Trepan with a smile that forgives all minor incidents of handcuffing. "More daring raids?"

"Perhaps," Chromedome says, unsmiling. But that's not personal. He never smiles. "Not that I expect all the raids on Cybertron would clean out the shadows."

Trepan twists his wrist. It calls attention to the words etched on the inside -- words Chromedome has seen, words Chromedome knows thaks to a bit of bluffing, 'Cleanse and control.' (He worked in sanitation, he tells anyone who asks.) "There are innumerable shadows. Attacks on academies, on clinics -- all this mess. You know, I have seen your aptitude results. You are suited for much more than simple--" HA. Simple. "--mechaforensics."

Chromedome gives Trepan and his wrist a long side-glance. Long enough to be betraying. One big-wheel shoulder twitches. He looks back at his book. "Cleanse and control. To what end? My aptitude results qualify me for, what, a pawnship in something large, dark, and unspeakable?"

"Cleaning out shadows," says Trepan with a brilliant smile. "What if you could stop a bombing before anyone was hurt?"

Another twitch of that shoulder-wheel. Chromedome switches a page. He's only barely listening. Really. "Is that honestly what you do," he dubiouses.

"What do you think?" Trepan asks. He interlaces his fingers with a delicate clitter-clatter of his fingertips. His hands look entirely unremarkable at the moment, but their dexterity calls to mind ... more unusual features.

Chromedome closes his book. He sets it on his lap. He does not look at Trepan and his hands. "If that was really what you did," he says, "you might work at being a bit less sinister."

Trepan looks openly, honestly surprised. "What? I'm friendly!" He looks briefly distressed, smile failing. "We got off on such a wrong foot -- really, really wrong foot, ha ha," he says, not laughs, "--so I was just, you know. But you've really been poking around. So -- what's your interest? You have the aptitude for mnemosurgery, if you were interested." A gentler word for it than shadowplay, isn't it?

Shadowplay kind of has a nice assonance, though. Chromedome's hands spread over the book, his eyeplate still fixed elsewhere. "I won't deny I'm tired of mechaforensics."

"Maybe you'd like to come by the office," says Trepan in gentle suggestion. "See some of the problem cases, how we can help."

Chromedome lifts his chin. His hands stay where they are. "Maybe," he says, "that wouldn't be a bad idea. A trial. Let me understand what you do."

Brightening back toward sunshine and butterflies, Trepan exclaims, "Wonderful!" with an enthusiasm that could power a small town. "I really think you'll find a lot of value. What about, say--" A time, a date, a place. He regards Chromedome hopefully.

Chromedome scratches an invisible pattern on the book. If he's otherwise still, this, surely, a sign of restlessness. "I'll be there," he decides. Out loud and junk.

Pushing to his feet, Trepan rests his hand briefly on Chromedome's shoulder. His fingers feather toward the nape of his neck, where armor thins. It is a casual and easy gesture. "I look forward to it." He then departs, and if Chromedome may receive slightly greater scrutiny until that time, date, place -- well, it's still subtle enough. Nothing much more compared to the big brother state of Cybertron today.