Salt Flats Conference

Summary: March 2030: Red Alert finds out more about the terraforming research that has Compton Xabat so interested in a university student – by letting himself be manhandled by her.

Southwestern States

''The Southwest covers such vastly different states as California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico. New Mexico is a land of broken mesas and high peaks. Colorado has the Rocky Mountains running north-south through the center of the state, and the arid Colorado Plateau to the west, with its many canyons carved by the Colorado River. Spectacularly scenic Utah shares both the Rockies and the Colorado Plateau with Colorado. Nevada lies mostly in the Great Basin, its mountain ranges and high plateaus alternating with valleys running north to east.''

The smell of jet fuel permeates the air over Salt Lake City International, hemmed in and concentrated by mountain ranges. Isolde steps out of the concourse, and into the terminal, before wending her way to the sidewalk. She peers over her shoulder on occasion, before ducking her head down and watching a demo video of the GINA that still resides in the BMW Museum. She smiles a bit at the engineering involved, occasionally glancing up from time to time.

Fire Chief's Car glides slowly through the arrivals and departures lanes, occasionally pausing in his forward progress, though never long enough to attract too much attention - well, too much attention for a vintage Lamborghini emergancy vehicle with no driver. He gleams as though he's had a recent waxing, and has made no attempt to hide or cover his Autobot symbol. Of course, if he's miss-timed things, he'll have to make the trip again. As an emergancy vehicle, he /could/ justify just pulling over and waiting, but as conscientious about these things as he is, he wouldn't want to risk actually interferring with the locals should something happen.

As the unmistakable red and white supercar pulls up, Isolde's heart rate flutters a bit at the sight of such a fantastic piece of machinery. Clutching her carry-all, she scampers over, pausing briefly by the passenger side door, before scrunching her face up and circling around behind to settle into the driver's seat. There's a delighted squeal, as one would expect from a 19-20 year old in a sports car, and she says, "You look great! I'm glad the fighting's not been too tough on you. So..." She squirms in the seat after fastening the safety belt.

In fact, when Isolde shows herself and Red Alert stops, it is the driver's side door that flips open, anyway. The car gives an embarrassed chuckle at her compliments. "Well, fortunately, we Autobots have an excellent mechanical-medical plan to take out the dings, dents, and worse when they do come. His name is First Aid - you probably saw him at the science fair." Once she buckles up, he starts to roll forward, pace proper for the lanes around an airport. "I'm glad to see that you're well. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep the wheel until we're out on the open road proper. I'm, erm, afraid that having a driver can be a bit unnerving, and when it's on top of other distractions..." he trails off.

If Isolde listens carefully, once they leave the airport, she can hear a quiet 'slll-clck' of metal sliding against metal until the panel that sometimes hides his Autobot symbol slides into place.

Isolde Meissner pouts a bit, fingers flexing a bit. "Oh, okay. I wouldn't want to pay for the tickets anyway. Law enforcement isn't interested in the driver's or car's capability." Hard to tell if the kid is joking. "I DO remember First Aid! By the way, I haven't heard anything else from Compton Xabat. It was really weird seeing a criminal walking around freely, although I don't think Chip's station falls under any particular government's jurisdiction. Or does it?" She tilts her head to the side as she considers, before raising hands to tie back her hair when the pair are at the next red light. She might not hear the panel, but she does see it. "I... really don't think you're fooling anyone. There's a lot of internet groups that keep track of what things turn into Autobots and Decepticons."

"I know," the white and red car answers. "I keep track of them. I'm sure our little trip will hit pretty much every one of them within the next ten minutes or so - with pictures! See that phone the youth in black and green on the sidewalk to your left has pointed at us? ... And there it goes, sent." The light turns green, and he starts to roll again. "Ten minutes may have been an overestimate. But the thing is, not /every/ human keeps track of the groups that track us, so while we're guarenteed to gather a fair amount of interest, it's /still/ less than we'd get if I continued to display the sigil." The vehicle chuckles, taking an exit to lead them further from the city. "If I really wanted to hide, I'd have changed my paint job. You'd be shocked what a difference that makes!"

Isolde leans into the glass, making no attempt to be furtive about STARING at the guy, and then smooshing her face to the window before Red Alert pulls away. Wiping away the smudge with her sleeve, Isolde nods. "I guess you would know, heh! I guess it would become less important the further out we go. And... paint jobs seem to stay the same on most of you guys. For like the past 45 years or so." Nearly two full generations have now lived in the prescence of Transformers, and this college student has never known a life without them in the news -- and now, in person for a second time! "Why don't you guys change paintjobs that often, anyway? Is it a cultural thing? Is the color actually an integral part of your body work?" Girl has never seen an ashen dead Transformer...

Fire Chief's Car is getting closer and closer to the city's edge. Almost zoom-time! "It's part a cultural thing, part an identity thing. We identify with both our alternate mode and our color scheme - while it's not always a sure bet, you can frequently tell a lot about an Autobot's personality based on those two things alone. But it's also how we identify each other, /especially/ those of us who have shared molds. For example, I share the same mold as Sideswipe. Our 'helms' are different, but Transformers tend to identify on build and color rather than smaller details like that. If we changed color a lot, it would cause confusion. Finally, though, our natural colors are hardwired into us - when we die, they fade out. They can be painted over, but the new paint job isn't really... isn't really part of us. Some people do have life changes that involves a new color scheme, including rebuilds, and occasionally a Transformer will desatura- ... I'm really going on about this, aren't I? I'm sorry."

By the time Red Alert gets to 'I'm sorry,' they're on the highway and traffic around them is starting to thin.

So many questions! Isolde is happy that the Autobot is humoring her, although she hasn't put much thought into whether or not this was simply his effort to get cooperation from her. "Thats really COOOOOOOOOOL," Isolde says, "Not about the dying part... but the fact that it's really a PART of you. Although I figured you guys could tell each other apart by other ways. Radio? I mean, you guys manage interstellar travel and warp-gates..." She ahems a bit at the impertenance, as the buildings begin to give way to scrublands and in due time, flatness. "So... you had questions too, yeah?" "We have a number of senses, some of us more than others. Really, how we tell one Transformer from another can vary as widely as the Transformers we're trying to tell apart. For example, the number of Transformers whose sense of smell is more sensitive than mine can probably be counted on your fingers, so I rely on that sense a lot. For others, it's practicaly a non-sense." As Red Alert speaks, he smoothly accelerates, starting to weave in between the other cars on the road - less and less, but there are still a few of them about. Then he chuckles. "And, uhm, yes, I do, although you already answered one of them when you first sat down. I am... glad that you're all right. I was very concerned over the amount of interest he showed you."

As the pair head out on I-80 toward Bonneville Flats, the terrain becomes more lava-like, its blackness contrasting starkly against the lighter, almost-white ground. For years, this area has been a mecca for speedfreaks, ranging from multimillion coporate sponsored affairs to grass-roots, shoestring budget hotrodders. They'll likely cruise past a few trailers parked in diners nearby. Isolde gazes raptly out the window as she replies, "I wonder if he's biding his time. Our entire university group is involved with the research. Mom warned me about him." She grins.

Fire Chief's Car makes a soft, throat clearing sound. "Erm... you may take the wheel, if you wish. Though I reserve the right to resume control if I think it's important." He pauses, then returns to the topic at hand. "The project that you're involved in... is it classified in any way? I mean, I am cleared to any level you'd require, and if you need to verify, I can wait - or put you in touch with the EDC, who could do the same - and considering the circumstances, I do believe I have a need to know, but I also need to know how I should treat the information before we go on."

With a gleeful wriggle of fingers, Isolde grips the steering wheel, having taken advantage of the ensuing drive to pay attention to the controls. Clutching the gear shift, she makes quick use of the manual transmission, listening intently to the tones of the engine as it revs up in RPMs. First an easy 1500... then a quick jump up to 3000... and she shifts up, repeating the process. With a curious hum, she pushes the RPMs, letting the V12 roar up to a bit past 5000, the pace pushing at Red Alert's tolerances, before she pops it into fifth, and the highway markers are whipping past easily at 160 mph.

Her grin widens, and she answers, seemingly happy to keep her eyes glued to the road and potential obstructions as she responds. "Nope, not classified! All of the organisms from which we derived the DNA are relatively harmless. Xabat himself was commenting on what he called a similar project, and then started ranting about harvesting Cybertron. I... think he might have discovered or engineering a variant of Geobacter that works at a MUCH MUCH faster pace than the strain we used for the cyanobacteria."

Fire Chief's Car's engine is well-tuned and well-maintained, showing that Red Alert cares for himself with the same meticulousness that he turns towards his task as Security Director. It's his duty, after all, to be in top form for battle!

"Ah! Okay. I was a bit.. concerned over the mention of 'what it did with the lab,'" Red Alert admits, proving that he was listening in on Isolde's text messages. "And actually, from what Xabat said, speed was what he had /failed/ to accomplish with his bacteria, although we are alert to the possibility that he'll make improvements. He does have some very dangerous individuals working with him of late."

Isolde's foot draws away from the gas pedal at the mention of the lab. Oh right, he had been listening, hence the car comment and offer for a ride back after the science fair... Oh. -OH-. Isolde scowls a bit over the principle of the matter, but the access has not been abused, so... "Not faster, yes. Hmm. We did manage to increase the electricity production and iron conversion to make any potential terraforming proceed in a timely fashion, instead of like half a century yannow?" She hmmms, and admits, "Yeah so one of the other undergrads didn't bleach the flasks, and it wound up chewing away a few carts and the leg stands for a few tables and chairs. Was pretty funny when Bryan fell onto the floor, ha ha. I... didn't tell Xabat about that. It's anecdotal, the main manuscript detailing all the information was reviewed and published before we actually found out just HOW vigorous the conversion rate was..." She envies the photographic recall of the mech, a bit chagrined at missing that detail of a quite fascinating conversation.

"And I thank you for not telling him," Red Alert answers. He pauses and considers. "But... I may have to contact you again over the matter, after I've talked with some of our scientists." There's a brief pause, and then he adds, "By the way, I do apologize for 'listening in,' but it's not something I can really help. If I shut down the receptors, I also risk missing out on urgent information. For example, you remember the protestors? When Xabat texted a message to his goons to 'talk' to them, I was concerned enough to set a guard. This... proved to be a good idea."

A white plume of salt trails for half a mile behind the Countach as Isolde directs Red Alert off the main roads and onto the salt flats proper. Hard as concrete, smooth and flat and fast as the best paved speedways, the salt actually retains enough moisture to keep tires from overheating. That sixth gear is tapped, and the Autobot roars along at well over the natural speed limit of its Terran template. Isolde inclines her head as the world blurs around her, her respiration and heart rate leaping up again. "Oh, I can imagine," she exhales, speaking in shorter snatches. "And yes, I can talk again. It was a bit of a pain making arrangements, but I promise..." She pushes the gas pedal beyond the detente, and the car blows past its prior peak performance in her hands. Finally passing what marked the horizon of her starting point at a bit over five miles, she stammers out, "Wheee-hoooo, whew..." Swallowing a bit, she first shimmies the wheel to the right, and then hard to the left. The hindquarters of the car whip around past its front wheels, sending the pair drifting in a spectacular arc, driver and wheels squealing. "I will respond. Guess you already have the SideBlackI-PhoneBerryKick number, right?" As she sets the brakes, the two jerk to a halt.

"My, you do know how to handle a high performance vehicle nicely," Red Alert compliments as he pulls to a halt, willing to leave her with control so long as it seems safe, though that whip-around at the end makes him a bit nervous. "Not many humans are quite that good. And yes, yes I do, and I can look up other contact numbers. So what you need is a means to contact me. 1-866-555-2687, extension 7734, numeric password 3825. That is one of my phone-based contact numbers. Please only use the password if the matter is urgent. Without it, you can still leave a normal message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I receive it."

"That's Dad's doing, he learned on a Porsche," Isolde chirps out proudly, still sitting in mild daze at the end of that vigorous romp. She doesn't talk much about classmates or friends, this one... but being in research programs in freshman year of college wasn't that normal, either. She finally begins driving back toward the main roadway, and says, "I brought a copy of some of the raw data, maybe you can use it," she offers. She falls silent as she tries to absorb all that information, and then takes hands off wheel to enter in the digits. There is still plenty of room before they get to highway, and she has pretty much come to expect him to stop or maneuver should it prove to be necessary. "Okay, hee, this is pretty awesome!" She wonders if the people at university would believe her?

She can just show them the picture that guy took with his cell phone!

"Ah, all right. Thank you for the raw data. That may prove useful." Red Alert would be more unnerved by the one-handed texting-while-driving if he were sitting in the car next to her, but that would be... really weird, anyway. As it is, he's able to take over any time, anyway, so he's no more than his usual low level of automatic worried.

Once the info is stored, Isolde actually pops back on the road, and grips the steering wheel, still ignited from the sprint. She thinks better of it, and says, "You should stick to driving while on the road, heh. Toooooooo tempting. And that'd be a great headline -- Autobot thinks he's above the law!" She tries to suppress a giddy laugh. Pulling hair back out of ponytail, wincing as she works out the knots from stray hair wisps, she cozies up in the seat, and peers curiously at the world zipping by.