Character Background - Ebon

Discussion in 'Transformers Fan Fiction' started by Ahkileez, Nov 12, 2006.

  1. Ahkileez

    Ahkileez Active Member

    Nov 9, 2006
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    Hey TFWers.

    Just thought I'd toss this up here. I'd done this for the RPG over at Seibertron but I apparently got through the gate too late and they were all doing the Cybertron thing and just hanging around talking with other robots. I didn't have much interest in that so I decided not to participate.

    I think he would have made a decent character though. So I hope you guys enjoy reading about Ebon.


    Name: Ebon
    Allegiance: Autobot
    Function: Scout / Detective
    Alt. Mode: Black Alfa Romeo Brera
    Weapons: Twin Rapid-Fire Plasma Pistols (from his exhaust system) / Aurora Burst Projectors (Temporary Blinding Effect - from Headlamps) / 50Mw TASER Dart Launchers.
    Special Abilities: Stealth Cloak / Radar Package / Enhanced Sensor Suite
    Height: 25'5" / 7.77m
    Quote: "The bad guys always think they're safe in the dark, so that's where I look for them." - Ebon

    SPEED: 6
    COURAGE: 5
    MELEE: 4
    RANK: 4 (?)

    Profile: Ebon is young and eager, but patient as befits his function. His protoform was only recently activated and he was programmed to serve outside the general Autobot ranks with humans. Trained and outfitted for scouting and surveillance duties and educated in Cybertronian-Human Affairs, Ebon serves as a limited representative for the Autobots. He is essentially on-loan to Interpol/Europol and regionally works in Europe with a human Inspector from Interpol. Ebon isn't especially enamored of fighting; preferring the hunt more than the kill - as it were. Serving as a police vehicle, he draws on the examples of the many Law Enforcement bots that have come before him for inspiration and wisdom. When needed, Ebon can be brought back on the line to serve as a military scout where his speed, agility and various reconnaissance packages are invaluable.

    Abilities: Ebon is a little heavy for a car of his size, but it's accounted for by the additional hydraulics and sound dampening equipment that's been installed in him to keep his movements about as quiet and agile as a three-story, multi-ton robot can be. Flat out, Ebon can top 170mph and has an operational range of about 300 miles. In his primary role, he can bring a sophisticated radar tracking and mapping suite to bare or track quarry with his array of enhanced sensors and thermal/infrared night vision.

    Weaknesses: Ebon's chief weakness is his weakness. Though he's certainly capable of combat, he's not built for it. He won't stand one-on-one with a warrior bot for very long. As such, his secondary weapons are designed to incapacitate or at least temporarily disable an enemy so he can deal with the situation or escape as needs be.

    Sample Post: The swish-swish-swish of windshield wipers often has a hypnotic effect, especially when driving at night in heavy rain. Detective Inspector Marco Bianchi strained a little against his seatbelt to reach the center console and turned up the air conditioning, positioning one of the jets on his face to help keep him alert. With one eye still on the empty road, he fiddled with the switches of the display and called up some music. The name of some europop band he didn't care about started to scroll under the GPS map on the screen and synthetic music blared through the black Alfa Romeo while it wound its way along the curving coastal roads.

    Bianchi drove for about an hour like this along the rural roads that spread out near the coast city of Antalya in Turkey. The normally beautiful Mediterranean was pitch black in the moonless night, looking more like oil than ocean. After that hour, Inspector Bianchi checked the map and then pulled off the road onto a soft shoulder that served as a hiking path in the day. The wheels crunched through the gravel but he barely heard it inside the car. The rain was letting up and he could make out lights down by the water. Stifling a yawn, he unbuckled his seatbelt and started to rummage in the back, ahh-ing with satisfaction when he'd found his prize. He brought the pair of Bushnell binoculars out and was about to switch on the night-vision lenses when the windshield abruptly went dark.

    "Don't bother," a voice inside the car said. "I'll get it."

    The Italian Interpol officer shrugged, "If you insist." Always have to be showing off, Bianchi thought.

    Inspector Bianchi opened the door and got out to stretch his legs. The rain was almost non-existent now and a shrugging of his collar was enough to make him comfortable in it. He let the brisk air blow across his face and fished in his pocket for a cigarette from his pack of Astras and lit one up. He'd wanted one for a while, but since he wasn't allowed to smoke in the car, he had to wait. Maybe all this driving about would finally help him quit the things. For now though, the flare of light and the first long pull of the coffin nail was even more refreshing than the ocean air cooling his face. He took a few steps forward and stood beside the Alfa Romeo Brera. He didn't sit on it - one because it was frowned upon, and two because he didn't want to throw off the stabilization.

    On the front of the Brera, the outermost headlamps on either side extended a ways like telescopes and the lamp faces flipped up up and out of the way, revealing glistening lenses. He could hear the soft whirr of focusing motors inside the lenses as they went about their work, recording, documenting and shifting through various spectrum to get the best picture.

    Marco Bianchi finished his cigarette, flicked the butt over the guardrail and down the cliff below and walked back to the car. He pulled on the doorlock and it didn't open.

    "Open the door."


    Binchi kissed his teeth in frustration and grabbed either side of his coat, tugging down hard several times to knock off the rainwater that had collected on it. Only then did the door open. He sat down heavily in the driver's seat and slammed the door.


    "Don't start," Bianchi replied. "Show me what you have."

    The GPS map and music menu on the display screen disappeared, replaced with a video record and several choice still images that showed the containers and the armed guards. As annoyed as Marco Bianchi already was, the images replaced it with anger.

    "Let's go," he said, putting the car into reverse to pull back on to the empty cliff road and then following it downward in the dark.

    "It took another ten minutes to reach the shore roads and negotite the small resort town that served the millionaire seaside mediterranean mansions owned by foreign millionaires. Bianchi thought the white masts and sails of the yachts in the harbor looked like skeletons of birds in the dark when his headlights flashed over them. He made his way down along the harbor road and turned on to the docks, rattling over a small bridge of railroad sleepers before driving on to the concrete docks that served the heavier cargo ships. The ship he had been told to expect was where he'd expected it. He took a left past the closed and darkened customs office and headed straight for the lighted ship where cranes were busy offloading forty-foot containers on to flatbed trucks for hauling inland to mainland Europe.

    "You ready?" Bianchi asked, glancing down at the display screen that was now showing a green nightvision image of the scene ahead.


    Bianchi leaned forward and flipped a switch. The car's headlights began to flicker, a concealed lightbar on the ceiling started to flash blue, and the screeching siren that European police cars were known for shattered the quiet of the night.

    As soon as they heard and then spotted the approaching car, the workers at the dock stopped. Some tried to sidle out of the headlight's beams and of those, most looked ready to bolt. Only the armed guards turned to face the threat directly, most of them armed with an assortment of Russian and Eastern European weaponry. In their midst was a paunchy man with pallid skin and a thick mustacio. He squinted his piggish eyes in the bright light, but it was easy to tell the displeasure in the scowl imperfectly concealed by the fat of his face.

    Stopping the car, Bianchi retrieved his wallet from his coat pocket and opened the door, closing it back more gently this time as he stuffed the wallet in his shirt pocket in such a way as his badge showed, glinting in the various lights on the dock.

    "Victor Gennaro?"

    "Who's asking?" the pig-faced man asked. A heavy-set, Turkish-looking fellow with an almost equally ornate mustache move protectively to the side of him.

    "Interpol," Bianchi replied. "I am Detective Inspector Bianchi and I have a warrant for your arrest."

    Bianchi produced the 'Red Notice' as he walked over, through the group of armed guards, and handed it to Gennaro.

    Gennaro didn't even read it. He just wheezed out a laugh, tour the international government document in two and dropped it on the dock.

    The inspector shrugged and reached slipped his coat aside. On his hip was a holstered Walther P99. He reached past that to the handcuffs in the case behind them and pulled them out.

    "Please turn around and place your hands behind your back."

    Gennaro's wheezing laughter sounded more and more like respiratory arrest. "Under arrest am I? And you're the one to take me in? Just you?"

    "Just me," Bianchi said. "Oh, well my partner and I."

    Gennaro and a few of the guards - including the big Turk, shielded their eyes from the headlights to peer into the car.

    "There's no one in there," Gennaro scoffed.

    "Yes there is," a voice came, coming from somewhere around the front of the car.

    Suddenly the front end of the car extended, coming apart from the rear at the A-pillars, the hood split in two as the engine compartment rotated forward. The back end of the car folded out and spun around, the rear wheels collapsed in on themselves and the stacked tires rotated under to form what looked like feet. Various doors and windows rotated around to the back under the roof as the chassis split on both sides to reveal arms and hands that extended from those. The front end folded against the main thorax with the headlights still on and flashing with the police blues inside the grill while a helmeted head rose out of the engine compartment, with the same glossy black and silver of the body and soft glowing blue eyes behind a visor. Part of what looked like the exhaust system rotatated up against the thighs and the enormous construct retrieved them, pointing the plasma pistols at the assembled criminals.

    Bianchi waved his hand over his shoulder. "My partner."

    Gennaro didn't answer, nor looked in his direction. None of them did until he started to move. Bianchi grabbed Gennaro's wrists and choked the cuffs in the fat. The reality of it brought Gennaro around.

    "What are you arresting me for? This is my ship. I can offload it. It's not against the law."

    "No, but if that is all you were doing, I wouldn't be here, Gennaro." Bianchi looked up at the towering Autobot. "Ebon. Open that one up, please."

    "No problem," he replied, keeping one of the pistols covering the guards and criminals while he reholstered the other to free up his hands. He couldn't use the weapon to open up the container on the back of the parked truck. Instead, he carefully gripped the metal crossbeams that were were holding the doors locked and pulled, ripping the eight foot doors off their hinges and sending them clattering to the ground. The noise was loud and short-lived. Without shifting his aim, Ebon turned his chest a bit to shine his headlights into the container. Dozens of faces looked out at him with what he identified in his Cybertronian-Human Relations databanks as Asian features.

    Bianchi hauled on the cuffs and dragged Gennaro over to the base of the container. "Human trafficking; that's what you're under arrest for."

    Some of the people inside were cautiously crawling toward the doors, terrified of everything they saw and especially of Ebon himself.

    "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," Ebon said, modulating his speaker as low as he could manage.

    "I guess they didn't program you with Chinese," Bianchi laughed sourly. "They can't understand a word we're saying."

    The inspector turned his attention back to his quarry had to restrain himself from throttling the degenerate. Instead, he fished a small card out from his pocket that he'd been given and started to read very bad phonetic Mandarin to the people in the container, informing them of where they were and what their situation was. Some seemed to understand him and translated or explained to the others.

    Ebon shifted, his heavy weight only barely perceptible underfoot as the treads of his feet helped cushion the blows. "Inspector, there are several deceased in here. I can see their thermal signatures cooling. And the lifesigns of six of them are reading as critical."

    "Damn!" Bianchi exclaimed, "Try to-"

    "I've already contacted the local authorities and summoned emergency services."


    After that, through the clumsiness of his phonetic card and hand gestures, Bianchi got the surviving Chinese smuggling victims out of the container and ordered Gennaro's people in to it without removing the dead. Let them look at them, he thought to himself. After that, he got his cybernetic partner to wedge the doors back on, crimping them at the edges to keep them in place and then proceeded to open up the other containers to look for the remaining human cargo.

    By the time they could see and hear the lights and sirens of the local Turkish police and ambulances coming through the cliff roads and down to the dock, they had freed all of the survivors and drew them togeher and out of the way.

    "You'd better hide," Bianchi said, patting the big Autobot on the leg before moving away to a safe distance.

    The reversion was no less spectacular and soon enough, it was just Bianchi, some criminals, some desperate Chinese and a Black Alfa Romeo on the dock. As the Turkish police stepped out of their cars and the EMTs rushed forward to care for the smuggled humans, Bianchi held up his badge and started to lie about how he'd captured them all.


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