Come In, Major Tom, Tag: Cannonball

[Forge]

((CF: Hollow Sound of Thunder. Occurs a few hours before Winds of Change. If there's anything you want changed, MB, shoot me a PM.))

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As the months wore on without any sign of the Sentinel watch being removed, Forge had learned all that he could from the salvaged mechanical arm and moved on to another project. The operators of the colossal robots used a complicated encrypted radio frequency to communicate, and Forge had set to working on a device which would hack into that frequency and enable him to eavesdrop on the pilots. Sam Guthrie had proved to be an astoundingly curious helper, and the Cheyenne found himself making an exception to the general rule that had him working alone. The Guthrie boy’s enthusiasm for the gigantic mechanisms was rooted in a love of Star Trek (and Forge wondered how he’d never been made aware of this science fiction addiction) but it was a refreshing change from the prevailing attitude in the mansion. The majority of the inhabitants looked on the Sentinels as a nuisance and an eyesore, and the bitterness in the air grew more acidic with each passing week. Not so with Forge and Sam, however, and though he’d never admit it the inquisitive company was appreciated.

So he’d bent that rule, and accepted Sam’s offer of a helping hand in the construction of the device. One might say they had bonded a little in the process, if one was out of Forge’s range of hearing. Today was the final testing day in this stage of the device’s construction, and it was a much anticipated time for both of them. Native American and Native Kentuckian had trekked out of the mansion, wireless earpieces worn over right ears. They would need to be within a close range for the device to be precisely fine-tuned, and though the inventor doubted that their approach would go entirely unnoticed he’d judged that walking over on foot would be seen as less threatening than the various other means they could have taken. Besides, they wouldn’t need to go any further than the property line which encircled the grounds of the mansion. Staying on the actual property of the school ought to ensure that no adverse actions would be taken by the Sentinels.

“Keep that dish angled toward them,” Forge reminded his protégé as they ambled across the grounds in the direction of the closer Sentinel. Sam was carrying what resembled a miniature satellite dish, designed to ‘hear’ the frequency used by the communication units in the robots. A wire attached to the base of it was connected to a port in the side of the box held in Forge’s mismatched hands. This device was designed to decode the frequency and translate it into the wireless code used by their earpieces, simultaneously emitting it so that Sam and Forge would be able to hear what was being broadcasted by the operators. That was the idea, and according to Forge’s intuition it ought to work.

This mission to fine tune the instruments, however, required that he manually align the decoding device with the frequency picked up by the satellite. As they came to a halt within the necessary range, Forge began tweaking the three dials set along the top of the box, right along the forward edge. A clicking and hissing static grumbled and whistled in their ears as he systematically worked upward through government-standard codes. Frown settled on his brow as he focused, wincing slightly against the more abrasive notes.

“Retur-cshhhshsequehkiki…” The buzz of success bubbled in his blood like carbonation as he exchanged a brief glance with Sam. Fingers worked to reverse a quarter turn of one dial, and he fiddled with the other to bring clarity to the reception.

“-peat, Return Sequence One Activated. On my mark. Ten, nine, eight…”

Several things happened at once. Thrusters hummed in a warm-up pattern as the massive robot rose a foot into the air. A bright glow and the rushing sound of rockets igniting illuminated and incinerated the grass and earth within the geometric footprints. Forge’s intuition realized what anyone who’d ever seen a NASA launch sequence would realize. Eyes widened. But he'd almost cracked this! "No."

And as the countdown in their ears neared completion, Sam Guthrie moved.

This post has been edited by Forge on Jul 21 2009, 01:42 PM

[Cannonball]

CF - The Drinks Are On Him

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Sam emerged from mansion falling obeidently behind the inventor with his gait slack and eyes wide. How anyone couldn't appreciate how sweet these massive robots were went beyond him. They were the embodiment of every science fiction geek's wet dream. Huge and so very futuristic and there were people, actual people buried away inside of them. At night it made the southern boy salivate at the bit. Underfoot blades of grass were crushed flat, the sound muffled by the plantlife. Acros his back Sam had slung a back pack to smuggle the dish out in. Yea, he was a lot of things right now, enthusiastic and bouncy but also a tiny bit worried that he was in the process of doing something that was going to get him in trouble. The law and the Professor he'd take their disapproval and community service. His Mama? He;d rather run into the firey pits of Hell or get hung back up on a cross for ridicule than chicken that storm.

So, he meandered out, digits coiled into the bag strap and honey gold locks whipped by a gentle wind. The thickness of his sport sweater kept out the cool air and left the hackles of his neck on edge. The tips of his teeth bit into a curiled lip his eyes skimming over the top of the nearest Sentinel they'd walked out to. The bag slipped from his shoulder and as requested Guthrie began the enviable task of aligning the satellite dish to the humanoid device. Perched onto his haunches, device balanced shrewd blue eyes recognised the early signs of ignition before Forge did. From his grasp the dish fell, already coiled muscles releasing tension and lauching him towards the inventor's legs. An arm lifted up on reflex to shield his face from the extending orange glow that ate into the oxygen before them. Turf scorched and the robots started to move upwards, Sam's body colliding into and tackling Forge into the ground with the sort of force a spurt of power would cause. Driven into the ground no more than three metres from the blast site, Sam's cowered form remained, the heat and the fire of an airborne Sentienel held at bay by an irridescent shield that arched over both men.

Slowly Sam climbed to his feet, his palms held out keeping the blast shield in approximate place before them both and began to walk back towards open, cooler ground. "Wow, aint that somethin;." Smiling widely, he turned his gaze up to watch the robots leave.

[Forge]

Crackling interference cut off the countdown when the backpack hit the ground, but little time for a reaction was available before the Cheyenne was tackled down with it. Debilitating fear swept over him as the fires from the launch flooded out across the multi-hued field cast as an effect of Sam’s powers. For a moment, as the shield hissed and crackled in stout argument against the thousand-degree temperatures pounding against it, Forge was an entranced seventeen-year-old again. The bonfire which haunted his past so severely that even candles made him wary was here in full force, just as it had been (in a realistic enough illusion) during the events in District X. To his deep chagrin, the engineer lay tense and unprotesting under the pinning weight of the Guthrie that he’d all but adopted, and closed his eyes tight against the glow of the burning fuel.

If he had a weaker will or a less stubbornly profound pride, he might have stayed there on that patch of un-damaged grass for a few more hours, reliving the terror of the accident that had ultimately cost him a leg, part of an arm, and a tribe. Instead, Forge forced himself up to hands and knees, then waveringly upright as soon as Sam regained his feet, determination to overcome that incident furious in earth-toned eyes. “A little warning would have been ni-“ he started to snap, striking out verbally against the present scapegoat, but stopped when he spied the discarded backpack. Or, what was left of it. The denim bag was still smoldering, edges of blackened fabric curling over themselves before breaking off into dust. The satellite dish had been made of sturdier stuff, but the raw ferocity of the energy that had catapulted the Sentinel into the sky had left its mark on the melted casing, on the exposed and cauterized ends of wires which twitched nervously as the dish creaked, and completed its fall off of the supporting arm. It hit the charred ground with a thud that reverberated in Forge’s bones.

The Native American became very, very still, except for his hands which slowly clenched into fists. Flared nostrils breathed deep, and the whole world seemed to breathe in with him as the inhalation filled each taut muscle in his body.

"Wow, aint that somethin."

Bronze-brown glare dragged away from the utterly broken satellite unit to glare out from under shadowing brows at the smiling blonde. Unsettling glint in that vastly displeased expression hinted at murderous intent. So he made certain to drop the fists before he moved. As much as he wanted to kill Sam right now, he’d probably be sad about it later. Maybe. Maybe not. Best not to test that and get the whole Guthrie clan after him though.

“DAMMIT, boy!” Open palms, one tissue-and-bone and the other metal-and-circuits, pushed hard against Sam’s shoulder and chest in a shove that had his whole weight and emotion behind it. Without waiting to see if he’d succeed in knocking the country boy off his feet, Forge stomped out from behind the shield into air vibrating with the heat of the launch but no longer filled with deadly flames. He stooped to gather the dish and its components, dropping the translating device onto the molten pile and wrapping it in the leftovers of the bag.

Mechanical corpse retrieved with fire-retardant bionic hand, Forge stomped back to his protégé. Left hand clamped around the back of Sam’s neck as he pulled the other man along with him toward the mansion. “I sure as hell hope you were paying some god-damn attention when we built the wretched thing, because guess who’s doing the grunt work this time! You’d better hope for your sake that there’s something salvageable in this mess, because if I wasted that many hours just for you to drop the pack and get the whole thing trashed, I swear…” The threats and assurances faded up across the lawn in their wake.

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((Exit Forge and Sam. Thread closed. TBC: Winds of Change, after a few hours of messing around trying to fix the dish.))