by the pious pools!

So the bot is sentient enough to be (inexplicably) embarrassed, and to try and make jokes. That answers one question, but others remain. It notes the change in EMF, and records the new variance as well.

What is it communicating? it asks impatiently. It shows the bot a file it is constructing, which contains the two EMF pattern readings it has collected, and corresponding null spaces allocated for their meanings. Perihelion has several theories, of course, but it does not include them in the version it sends. It has no desire to complicate the conversation and slow down its access to the information even more.

It responds to the question immediately, automatic as if giving ID to a docking station. Perihelion, registered teaching and research vessel of the Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland. Then, after 0.17 seconds, it adds, Current status: human-form bot, as of and a timestamp for the first millisecond its internal clock was working in this form, a few days ago now.

It updates its default ID response to match, for the next time it’s asked. It doesn’t enjoy this. A small percentage of its attention dwells on this unpleasantness, but the rest of its free focus returns to the conversation at hand. It returns the question for the other bot’s identification.

“Hello,” Perihelion says aloud, briefly meeting its eyes and pinging confirmation in the feed.

The bot is right, as far as it can tell. It has yet to encounter any humans with connected feed interfaces, which is still strange. They’re all using these archaic little displays that they have to manually type on. If the ‘stars’ have the technology to fit Perihelion’s entire consciousness into a little bot, surely they can manage basic feed connectivity for humans.

Speaking of physical form, though. It looks again at its anomalous conversation partner. It still isn’t sure if the bot was built this way (and if so, why), or if it made severe modifications to itself (why that, either?). Why do you have that form?

Oh, they’re... taking more recordings of his EMF. Rung understands the desire to better understand an intriguing and foreign species-- he’s certain he’s asked foolish questions of Barry and his organic friends before-- but he isn’t sure he’s entirely comfortable with the stranger’s growing file on him.

He gingerly retracts his field, tucking it in close to his plating, and gives a firm and cordially apologetic smile.

<<Emotional data. Can you understand the data attached to this <tag/neutral><tag/positive>? Those feelings were included in my EMF, I think. It is impossible to express the full range and nuances of emotion in comms transmissions, so fields can be useful in a way that other communication systems are not.>>

...huh. Perihelion’s introduction is far from expected, and Rung’s brows furrow as he tries to understand what he’s receiving.

<<I’m Rung,>> Rung sends. <<Is-- this-- a natural secondary mode for you? I’m Cybertronian <notation: Cybertron: planet, located in Alpha Centauri>, and we have multiple forms as well.>>

A vessel. He can’t imagine how this human-looking mode could transform into a ship, and suspects that there’s something here that he’s not fully understanding, but regardless of its current form, it is humbling and exciting to speak with “Perihelion, registered teaching and research vessel of the Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland.” It also makes Rung feel a little less uncomfortable about Perihelion recording his field. In addition to lacking the social context to understand why that might be offputting, Perihelion is a ship-- Titans and those like them are different than average mechs, and their priorities and goals are rarely as petty as those of their passengers. Consciousnesses of that size work and think at different scales, after all; Primus knows that firsthand, and any cityspeaker would say the same.

So despite the strangeness of the next question, Rung does not take offense, and smiles as he allows his field to extend again, this time with a touch of respect / warmth / solidarity. He knows it will not be understood, but Perihelion seemed keen on collecting data, and the ripples of Rung’s EMF are new, now.

<<This is my rootmode. This form is emblematic of who I am. I usually stay in rootmode because my alternate form is non-mobile.>> Among other reasons.

It comes as a surprise, an startling realization made while organizing his old notes for the many papers on the nature of Spirale that he has yet to publish (or finish, for that matter).

The oldest file labeled with the city’s name is clearly dated, marked in both the Cybertronian calendar and in the notation used here on the island. It’s a little sad to read the careful, frightened notes of a mech freshly kidnapped, and Rung skims files until he finds the first note to suggest some sort of hope about this place: “There’s a wellbeing clinic here. They’re hiring.”

Spirale isn’t all bad. It’s a world of second chances, even if he never asked to be given them. He’s happy, most days, or at least very content; he has fewer responsibilities here and more time and opportunity to act in his own interests. He doesn’t think he fully understood how heavy the weight of those responsibilities were until he was made to step back from them.

Primus focuses on that as he returns to sorting files and tries not to let himself think for too long about those he’s left behind. There’s nothing he can do to reach them-- he’s tried-- and while a year isn’t a particularly long time, it’s long enough. Even if he were to be returned now, even if he were to wake up back on his ship tomorrow, the mechs most likely to recognize him are dead or gone. He doesn’t--

He doesn’t want to go back to blank stares. He doesn’t want to go back to reintroducing himself to those he considers friends. He doesn’t want to have the small flicker of hope that he might have been missed the past year definitively disconfirmed. There’s a comfort in not knowing, sometimes. There’s a comfort in not having to face what you do know.

After finishing his sorting, Rung takes a lily from a vase by the window and retreats to his private quarters, brushing past his clock and the Fateful Archetype to a smaller model in the back. It’s shabby compared to his usual works, made from scraps and glue and lacking any internal machinery.

The flower he places next to it is neither as elegant nor as long-lasting as Censere’s fields, but Death has died and Rung’s the only one around to follow in his traditions. Rung’s best will have to do.

Despite the warnings, it’s impossible to focus on the physical damage he’s sustained when he’s still struggling to process the events of the crash. He had tried to look for other survivors, but with the ship still burning and his medical clearance revoked, there were only so many doors open to him, only so many paths through the wreckage he could take. He had known from the moment he had stumbled out that he would be the only one walking away, anyway; this isn’t the first time he's survived something he shouldn’t have.

Still, his comms and field are open wide, straining for any sign that there’s someone else out there with his luck. He’s met with silence for a long time, until--

Rung’s pede scrapes against rock, his antenna perking. There’s something in the periphery of his EMF. It’s flickering, pulsing in ways that typical fields do not, and while he hopes that its strangeness is due to some minor malfunction in the sender’s systems, he gets the feeling that there’s instead something very, very wrong with the signal’s source.

“H̴̃̋ͅe̸̗̮͌̀l̵̘̒l̷̩̏̊ö̶͕́ͅ?̴͔̀͋” he calls out, spitting static. He resets his vocorder and tries again.

“Hello? Is someone-- is there anyone here? ...it’s me, Rung?” That last part is added without much hope; even if the other field does belong to a crewmate, it’s unlikely that they’ll recognize him by name alone.

He’s gotten closer to the lifeform, and gingerly surrounds its field with one of polite greeting / good-will / calm. He can’t get a good read on its emotions, but he’s well-practiced in projecting a perfect, unobtrusive field when meeting stressed or suspicious mecha.

...but this time, there’s no other mech in sight. The rocky landscape is dotted with organic shrubbery and spindly plants, and a humanoid in the near distance that Rung’s damaged visual systems did not immediately pick out as different from the surrounding organic life. He startles when he finally notices it, scrambling back, and his optics go wide behind his glasses.

“Hello?” he says for a third and final time, snapping his field in close to his frame as the strange signals finally register as organic, alien, unreadable. He’s never been this close to a non-Cybertronian sapient enough and similar enough to his own species to be able to produce signals, distorted though they are. He’s not sure he’s quite ready for the shock of this so soon after everything else he’s experienced in the past mega-cycle.

“You’re the one trying to communicate? Can you... understand me?"

He’s learned a lot since opening his flower shop, and he’s able to identify a few of the plants around him as he walks idly through thick undergrowth, careful not to let too many leaves caught in his plating. Regardless of his mixed feelings on Spirale and his captors, he’s grateful, always, for the opportunity the island has presented for growing his understanding of and appreciation for organic life in all forms.

...that appreciation extends to the insect life common in this area. The blue of Rung’s sparklight illuminates the blue of a kaleidoscope of butterflies up ahead, and he pauses to admire the flitting of their wings. He’s gotten pleasantly lost in the display and in the gentle solitude of the forest by the time that solitude is broken by a flash of red against the cool palette of the forest.

Rung’s eyebrows raise and his antenna flicks in surprise. The forest isn’t large enough that one never sees other residents inside, but it has a way of twisting and turning in ways that can make unexpected meetings rare enough to be interesting. ...assuming, of course, that the little creature at the edge of the clearing is a fellow resident-- there’s something vaguely familiar about the newcomer’s odd form, but Rung is certain the two of them have never met before.

“Er, hello,” the mech says softly, doing his best not to disturb the butterflies nearby.

“Have you... come to bug-watch as well?”