Patient Dignity

Security Room

This room is dominated by the west wall which consists of a multitude of security monitors, viewing each and every room within Autobot City. A desk in the middle of the room is bare, except for the terminal standard for every office here. A forcefield to the east makes sure that those in the Brig stay there. A window on the northern wall gives a good view of the forest beyond.

Contents:

Crosshairs

Giant Sabertooth Cat &lt;Catilla&gt;

Kup's Nameplate

TAI Relay

Sensor Relay

Sensor Station

Main brig computer

Obvious exits: Cell2 &lt;2&gt; leads to Cell2. Cell1 &lt;1&gt; leads to Cell1. Secure Doors &lt;S&gt; leads to Main Lobby - Second Floor.

Crosshairs finishes setting up the Force Fields to cordon off this part of the base. And now, the Armorer waits with a toolkit, a medical kit and everything else that he can think of in a giant pile as taps his foot, expecting some to come in anytime.

White Cross Spaceman hasn't been in an Autobot base for a very, very long time. He's been off on his own, waging a solitary war against the Decepticons in the fringes of the galaxy, cleaning up their messes and stopping them before they start. He could have, he supposes, simply fled. Done what he always does. Licked his wounds in some alien hospital, surrounded by alien strangers, and gone back to his duties. But the fact of the matter is that Pincher's shaken deep down to his very core. He's always been so very careful to make sure his actions won't have untold consequences, and now... now he can't say that. Pincher has done wrong, and he knows it. He needs some absolution, and failing that, he needs someone watching over his shoulder to make sure he never goes so far again, willingly or not.

So Pincher presents himself, on this blue planet, in Autobot City, in the Security block.

Catilla had done wrong, and he knew it. It might have been against his will and under control of Thunderwing, but he still knew that he was a threat to the Autobots. Which is why when they came to get the autobot 'Pretenders', he was willing to come along peacefully. His detective sensibility knew what needed to be done in this case. He went through the decontamination process quiety, going through whatever it was that was necissary of him. But he was hardly treated like a prisoner, thankfully.

The massive sabertooth feline steps quietly into the security ward of Autobot city, only escorted by one guard who doesn't even have his weapon primed. You couldn't really blame him, considering the damage that the feline had undergone. Parts of the shell were ripped up, torn like they were biological componants. He was still in one piece, but only just barely.

Crosshairs has his arms crossed and his composure more or less in place when Pincher and Catilla arrive. "Welcome home." He says, as he approaches Pincher first with a scanner. "As stupid as this might seem, have you tried taking off the shell, since you regained your own free will?" He obviously doesn't expect a positive answer, for he lets the scanner do it's work and then moves over to Catilla. "Fascinating. As much as I hate sounding like Perceptor saying it, fascinating. The biological components are fused with the mechanical through a network of . . " He shakes his head at himself. "The problem is, I don't know how exactly to help you. I can't -FIX- it. I wonder . . " He looks at one of his kits. "On an outing to a mercantile world, I picked up a few barrels of stuff that is supposed to promote healing in organics at an extreme rate to help out or human allies..." He reaches back to grasp a barrel, then looks at Pincher, then looks at Catilla. "I apologize for how degrading this is going to be." He then attempts to douse Catilla with it.

Combat: Crosshairs runs a diagnostic check on Giant Sabertooth Cat &lt;Catilla&gt;

Combat: Crosshairs expertly repairs Giant Sabertooth Cat &lt;Catilla&gt;'s injuries.

Combat: Crosshairs is able to repair some of Giant Sabertooth Cat &lt;Catilla&gt;'s internal systems damage.

White Cross Spaceman &lt;Pincher&gt; is visibly fretting over Catilla. He'd like to tend to the great cat's wounds, but they need to surrender themselves to examination, and if they're just going to open Catilla up again, perhaps it would be better if he waited? The medical grade cyanoacrylate on his own wounds seems to be holding well enough, though they certainly hurt, a dull ache so different than defective metal. Pincher looks at Crosshairs, struggling to remember if he knows that Autobot. It's been so long. He does ask, "What's wrong with sounding like Perceptor? He was the single finest molecular chemist on all of Cybertron when I left." He makes a nervous clicking gesture with his hands. "...Perceptor isn't dead, is he? As for removing the shell, well, I must confess I am not entirely sure how. There do seem to be seams, but the internal latches are quite sturdy." He smiles faintly. "No need to be sorry. You're doing what you can."

"I would be lying if I didn't say it was bittersweet," Catilla admits. Massive paws hit the ground with obvious weariness, making a little more sound than they otherwise would. He steps up to the scanner patiently, standing absolutely still. Except for his tail. That thing just doesn't seem capable of staying still for more than maybe a second or two, twitching to and fro here and there. "Not because of the neciessity of being in holding for examination," He adds, quickly. A frown crosses along his muzzle, eyes watching Crosshairs underneath the cracked helmet. He tilts his head slightly, curiously, and opens his mouth to inquire about what the engineer is doing... Before getting absolutely drenched with the barrel. Ears flatten as the weird liquid slops over the pretender frame, slicking down fur and making him, generally, look like a wet cat that was stuck out in the rain. "... It's probably more degrading looking than it feels," He mutters, shaking a paw irritably to get some of the goop off. "And honestly, I'm not sure how to get it off. I'm too weary to try and figure it out," Catilla adds.

Crosshairs holds out his scanner over Catilla thoughtfully as the liquid drips onto the floor. He is rewarded by a soft beeping sound. "Cellular division is accelerating markedly. Sit down over there for a few minutes, and you should find your wounds closing." To Pincher, he rounds; brow furrowing. "You are a chemist, yes? A chemical engineer? Whatever it is that it is called? Can you synthesize more of this? It's not perfect but it does the job pretty well. I'm going to see if I can work up a better delivery system than . . than . . " He looks at the soaked cat. "Well, than that." His scanner now finds Pincher. "He is alive and fine, just with the tendancy to babble." He's pursing his lips at the scanner. "Have you tried mental commands? Perhaps trying to physically remove it is the wrong idea. Where is First Aid when you need him?"

White Cross Spaceman &lt;Pincher&gt; studies Catilla's reaction to the goop with open concern and interest, and he can't help but pull out a datapad to take some notes. He sidles over to Crosshairs, trying to look over his shoulder at Crosshairs's readings - being tall has some advantages! - and asks, "I don't suppose you have the formula on-hand? I would really like to - ah, yes. I am a chemical engineer. Efficient industrial mass production of chemicals was my trade before the war. I would be most delighted to assist in refining the blend, manufacture, and delivery system. The shells themselves were grown in tubes, I do believe, but as for mental commands, thinking was really a bit fuzzy for a while." His rubs one temple with his free hand, and he tries to still the whirling thoughts, try to trace out which servo controls which latch.

Sure enough, the wounds are slowly closing. The large feline is appearing less like he fell into a vat of bruning acid more and more by the second. Unfortunately, the goop isn't quite so quick to dry itself off. So it continues to drip off of Catilla's fur as he walks over to the side where he would be out of the way. "It works, I can't ask more than that," He notes, turning his head to glance over his healing shell. Lips pull back in a wince when he settles back upon his haunches, but he seems to ease up slightly when he's settled at least somewhat comfortably. "I'd suggest a syringe or something similar. The bucket's effective, but really? I look like I fell into a lake." There's a pause as he struggles to get his own mental facilities to work. "... I think I'll be more successful after a little rest. I haven't recharged really well since getting captured."

Crosshairs grunts audibly at the result of the stuff. "The delivery system needs work." He agrees. "But, first test subjects rarely have the luxury of chosing how they get to test the item in question." He resists the urge to pat Catilla on the head. He really has no idea why it comes to him to do so, but the idea is there. Either way, he's still scanning over Pincher's systems as best he can. "You can help with that, yes." His voice comes out. "I do not have the original formula. It is supposedly a closely guarded secret, but, well, you seem to be the type that can look after that pretty quickly, given a good laboratory." He walks a full circle around Pincher and back to Catilla. "I think I know what was going on. There's what looks like an interface cluster between the suits and the backs of your necks that was destroyed somehow. It doesn't appear to be regenerating on you either, Catilla. That nerve cluster might have been part of Thunderwing's control mechanism."

White Cross Spaceman &lt;Pincher&gt; talks to his datapad a bit as he jots down observations, "Need a more volatile compound for quicker drying. Possible ointment tube delivery system for topical application with syringe option for deep tissue repair?" He's /not/ dictating. Pincher just has a habit of talking to inanimate objects. Comes of having no Autobots but himself for company for millions of years straight. He gently reaches out to flick up a bit of the goo off the floor, rubs it between his fingers, and then licks a bit of it off his fingertips. "Hmm. Growth factor mélange. Yes, I can replicate this." Make it better, actually, but he's never been one to brag. Pincher reaches around to the back of his neck, and he hazards, "That might be so. I'm having a trouble getting a signal through to the latch control servos. Think the line's burned out. Have a look at it, will you?"

"Good, then we won't have to worry about them breaking down if you can replicate that," Catilla muses, raising his eyes to watch Pincher. There is a good chance now that if Catilla isn't careful, he may be on the recieving end of a good deal of pettings while he's in that shell. At least from the Autobots and their human allies. The eyes of his shell closes, as if he were trying to focus again. But doesn't get anywhere. "That might be it, then," He admits, bobbing his head slightly in a nod. He then raises his head a little, and the helmet fades away, dissolving into his subspace storage. "I admit, as strange as the shell is, I've gotten used to it after being forced to stay in it for as long as I have. A little while longer in it while you try to work out a workaround to the issue won't cause me too much giref." He chuckles quietly, "But having fingers would be useful."

Crosshairs emits another sort of grunt, as he listens to Catilla. "I wonder if the organic shells need to eat." He says out loud, before he offers a sort of paternal smile. "Why don't you wander over there and rest, then?" He asks. "Let the compound do it's work. I'll finish my initial work here on Pincher." He then slips up behind the Chemical Engineer, and frowns. He produces a scalpel. "This may hurt." And with that, he opens a deft incision in the shell so that he can reach the interface that Pincher mentioned -- twisting the line togeather and fusing the organic and the artificial between his fingers. "Try now." Of course, in the back of his mind, he's thinking about a delivery system. "What do you need to replicate it?"

White Cross Spaceman &lt;Pincher&gt; is on the other side of the scale, and he briefly glares at his fingers, commenting, "I, for one, would much prefer to have my claws back." He sniffs. "Never had fingers before. Did perfectly well without them." Anyone paying much attention to what Pincher does with his hands will notice that, unless he's concentrating, he mostly just treats them like pinchers, even clicking them together when he's nervous. Well, trying and failing. Fingers don't click like claws. He stands stoically as Crosshairs slices the back of his neck open and twists the line back together.

There's a moment, and then the shell splits open, unsealing with a hiss and the scent of brimstone and acetic acid. A decidedly diabolic-looking Autobot stumbles out, and the shell vanishes. He looks rather dazed, falling flat on his face. From the floor, he manages to spout off a list of chemical feedstocks, most pretty common. Lot of carbon compounds.

Pincher turns into everyone's favourite friendly neighbourhood scorpion-man!

A snort passes through Catilla's snout as he pushes himself wearily up to all four paws. "I'm not sure there is enough red meat on this planet if it does," He jokes, a grin quirking on the corner of his muzzle. Slowly, he pads a little bit aways to apparently a more comfortable looking patch of the floor. Legs seem to give out, and he collapses slowly down to the ground with a 'wfff' of his coolant system. Tail coiling around him, he keeps his head up none the less, watching curiously. "Oh good, that does work."

This time, Crosshairs can't seem to resist and reaches out and pats Catilla on the head. "Rest Cycle Well." He says to him. "I'm sure that we can invest in some beef interests in the Southern United States or something." Then back to Pincher as he performs the final splice only to have it give birth to Pincher. He bends, reaching out to attempt to grasp the other by the back of the neck and stand him upwards. "Excellent." He says. "I'll be sure to report on this. Now, if you don't mind . . I've got more scans to do."