Strange Encounters of the Small Kind
The refuse shoot spews out chunks of metal, thin sheets of broken glass, and a solution of any number of liquids that might include oil and post-processed energon. It also spits out a tiny mech, who deftly grips the upper edge of the discharge tunnel and swings up, landing on this feet atop it with a grace practiced millions of times over on his mount. Even crouched, his back is strait and his optics rest level after an efficient examination of the area. Deeming it clear, he stands with a posture that eminates pride and discipline, completely at odds with the dripping dark mess that leaves not a spot of his usually immaculate finish showing. To his left is one of the bright ribbons of road he saw while descending, to the right is a dark, narrow, and ominous alleyway.
Epiphany leaps off the shoot and hits the ground running. He’s headed right.
