[Behold: a small antelope, bearing a none-too-impressive pair of spikes on its head. It stamps the ground, and lets out a high-pitched whistle. He couldn't at least have been changed into something with thumbs?

It's probably just what Cliffjumper deserves for doubting his humanized friends.

Unfortunately for Cliffjumper, his Link Device has not resized itself to match his new handless form so he's stuck poking at it with his face, one key at a time. There's a closeup of his fuzzy new snout as he works away at the slow, delicate task of typing out a message with his nose.]

what am i. what do i eat.

how am i supposed to get anything done like thid

[The difficulty of trying to type without fingers finally gets to him. He lets out another, angrier whistle, and he shouts at the device:]

You little scrap-eating piece of-!

[The animal pauses, ears waggling around like a satellite trying to get a signal lock. That was his voice. His real voice!]

I can still talk?

[Go figure. The Lambda left him his most valuable trait: the ability to annoy the scrap out of people just by refusing to shut up.]

[ The video feed clicks on to a good view of Alpha Trion's library. Two white swordmechs surrounded by books may be an unlikely scene, but here Drift and Wing are. If the dour looks are any indication, they came here seeking something and did not find it. ]

[ Wing's greeting is not as cordial as usual; he's a bit too troubled by recent developments. ]

Haven. We've been out exploring. And found some...unexpected things. Evidence that there were others here before us, living outside of the Haven. [ Wing doesn't say for how long they'd been living, he'll leave those grisly details out for now. ] They chose to leave. Something drove them out, made them think the wastelands would be better than living here.

[ The jet's mouthplates close around the rest of the troubling details but the firm line they make serves as a clue. ]

They were like us. A mixed group: Cybertronians. Organics. And what happened to them.

I don't think it's Unicron.

[ Drift's getting tired of bugbear Unicron. ]

The names Thermal or Overclock mean anything? Bix? Emeri? Gouge?

[ Someone might know. It seems...horrible to die like this and have no one know, no one remember. ]

[ Wing's helm shifts as they exchange a look. ] And to the First Forged: Did you know these individuals? What happened, why did they leave?

[ Because judging by the contents of the datapad they found...it wasn't a pleasant little vacation. ]

Regardless. We need to have some memorial for them. Even if we didn't know them. Because next time...it could be us.

[ Signs and portents seem to be the theme of this broadcast. As if to prove the point, something catches Wing's attention in his peripheral while Drift is talking. His optics track obvious movement...almost like a person walking away down the rows of bookshelves, except the space appears quite empty. ]

[ The confused jet's optics widen to gold saucers. His audials and pinions flare out more than most would even guess possible and he makes a grab for Drift's wrist. There's a startled yelp and a gasp and then the feed gets jostled, Drift's open-mouthed expression the last thing the communicator catches before the feed cuts. ]

[The communicator switches on accidentally thanks to a tired hand slap. For nearly five minutes, you are exposed to just one scene: Frenzy, now a Cassetticon again, spooning and curled up around a stuffed, taxidermy green iguana. Behind him, a burnt and busted mannequin leg. Five whole minutes of just watching Frenzy sleep and occasionally grunt and snore and even once start moving his feet like he's running before he half-wakes. Half-aware he's reaching for a bottle of whisky, taking a drink - then sitting upright and spitting the nasty human crap all over the communicator. Hope you liked that image.]

[Then...]

Oh.

[Slowly, it dawns on him--] Scrap! [He fusses with the doused communicator before the feed cuts.]

[The image that's transmitted fades in and out at first, interrupted by lines of static. Something vaguely seems to be moving just in front of whatever the video source is, but it's extremely blurry as though the feed receiver itself is out of focus. It isn't long before that starts to adjust, and soon enough one can see the looming face of the Acolyte.

There's an electronic squawk in surprise, and the screen shifts, just as some sort of thin metal arm with a slightly pointed tip pops out from somewhere around the camera source. Electricity sparks from its tip as its jabbed towards the Acolyte's face, sending the large figure reeling back, more out of shock than actual harm.

Amidst a flurry of confused and slightly indignant beeps and twittering, the transmitted image continues to move, shifting to a more upright position before moving forward.

There's a simulated scream as whoever it is seems to find out the hard way that it's been placed on some sort of pedestal. Which is pre-tty high up.

It's a lovely first-person view of the ground coming to meet you, and a metallic, somewhat hollow sounding thud follows once the ground is hit, effectively blacking out the screen. Apparently it's still on though, a faint warble sounding, as well as the footfalls of the Acolyte's approach. Aaaand cut.]