Repair Bay Fetish Night

Summary: (November 2026) Fusillade goes into the repair bay with an injury from her custom weapons, and comes out with body art after a dogged refusal to engage in menial labor. Mopping? Pssssh, carve a pound of steel instead!

Astrotrain is on a medbed. Either deactivated, resting, or just staring at the far wall. Either way, it's the quietest he's been in a long time to say the least. He's not looking all that hot, but there's been worse out there. Unlike most, Astrotrain usually knows enough to pull out before things get too bad for him.

Still, Grimlock gave him a once over, that's for sure. At least he can take smug satisfaction that the dinobot was probably just as hurt by the end of the fight. (Re)

Alas, the blessed silence is going to be shortlived. The open Decepticon frequencies crackle to life with a howl from Fusillade, followed by a whimpered hiss and advisory, "Oh-hn, medtable for one, please. Guh-ho-ow, they're not supposed to be ABLE to that!" A moment or two later, with expression on her face a mixture between agonized and mortified, Fusillade hovers near the receiving area, a gash on her upper left leg biting through several layers of armor and infrastructure, several different colored fluids from ruptured lines streaking the lower leg's engine nacelle. One hand is haphazardly clamped over the half-cut through appendage, with little impact on slowing the tide.

Scrapper is out to do rounds. It's his shift, and he's just going to go right down the list. First off, his schedule informs him, is Astrotrain. Oh... those would be... damages... from that fight. Scrapper doesn't remember much about that. He heard something explode, and it all went white. Shovel flicking nervously, Scrapper paces over to the A-train, withdrawing a medical scanner and toolkit.

Astrotrain awakens with a sudden jolt as Scrapper comes near, taking only a moment to register who's there, before he speaks.

Contrary to his injuries, there's nothing wrong with his voice to say the least.

THIS close we almost had him!" He states, raising his fingers and making a 'teensy tiny' gesture. "That close we had to makin Grimlock eat dirt! Next time yer gonna take a nap do it when yer firepower ain't required so!"

Astrotrain is a little irate this is true.

Welcome to the world of triage! For the most part, it's the extent of the injuries that determined when one would get help. Despite the yelping about the pain, it doesn't particularly occur to Fusillade to make an attempt to horn in on the roll. Not that it would have done any good. Prodded and half carted over to one of the tables, she grunts with a grimace of fangs. Another glance is cast toward Astrotrain's injuries, before a wry, "Phah, and here I was thinking I'd have Scrapper all to myself," escapes her. And then the attendant begins with the battery of questions regarding the nature of the acquired damage. Fusillade doesn't look thrilled.

Scrapper takes a step back. He looks at Astrotrain up and down and, in a small voice, suggests, "But this way, instead of needing to be fixed myself, I'm here to fix you, Astrotrain! Isn't that so much better?" Scrapper doubts that his firepower could do much against Grimlock. Maybe it's good he got knocked out of that fight early. Scrapper glances over his shoulder at Fusillade's commentary and points out, "I'm a busy mechanism."

Astrotrain hears Fusillade but at the moment he's still have busy glaring daggers at the constructicon. "Even if yer only half-afted at fightin when you're not all stompin around like some big mobile statue, we almost had him!" He even fist shakes for good measure, as if trying to horn in on the signifigant size difference right now between the constructicon and the big triplechanger.

Eventually though, he relents, sinking back onto the medtable. "...just a -big- more and we woulda pounded that tinplated t-rex into tinfoil."

"Well, you know Scrapper, I just couldn't bear the thought of being away from your lovely carvings, so I just had to come down. Hope you don't mind --" The tech prods her hand with a caliper, earning a "GAOW!" from her, "-- that I walked instead of running." More conversationally to Astrotrain, she squares her shoulders and straightens a bit, "Yeah, d'you get to punch that pretty face of his? How'd you kick his arse?"

Then the questions come. With each one, Fusillade hunkers back down a little bit further down.

"^Were the injuries acquired during action?^" "No."

"^Training room exercise?^" "Sorta?"

"^Were the safeties engaged?^" "I wasn't in the training room."

Scrapper just stares at Astrotrain. He explains, "I'm going to operate on you. You know what that means, right?" Then, he glances over at Fusillade, a chill glint to his red visor. He notes, words clipped, "It's not so much my carvings you were seeing to." Sighing, the engineer keys up the medical scanner to check out Astrotrain's condition.

Astrotrain is silent at first at Scrapper's latest words, then glances off to one side and shuts up for the part of the scan. Best not to push his luck too far should he?

Fusillade's question draws a glance, and he grunts. "I didn't punch him...I hit him with everythin else. I kicked him, I blasted him with all my firepower...and I bent him on my ramplate too for good measure!" He grunts, revelling in the memory of the dinobot's suprised look.

A faint whistle escapes Fusillade at Scrapper's announcement. "That bad, huh?" She glances down at the still seeping chop, before asking the tech, "Can I just get this tacked or sealed temporarily?" Availing herself to a few clothes, she begins to clean off what appears to be the culprit -- one of her own wingblades. Rather carefully, certainly much more slowly than she normally works with the weapon, she sets the flat across her lap, and smooths over the surface, edging toward her own table's edge to peer, "Can I watch while I'm waiting? I won't touch anything."

Scrapper leans over Astrotrain and starts to set into repairing his wounds. The dinosaur really did a number on Astrotrain, but Scrapper still doesn't feel sorry for not being, er, conscious to help Astrotrain. After all, if Grimlock did such damage to Astrotrain, he'd probably have done worse to Scrapper, the engineer reasons. Then, Scrapper replies to Fusillade, "You're injured and unqualified. Sit on the table the tech showed you."

Scrapper begins work on Astrotrain's injuries.

"How can I be unqualified to /WATCH/? Oh, fine." Fusillade edges back over to the assigned spot, and tries to sop up the various dribbles that have sprung up on the floor and table in her wake. "Rhetorical question, you don't have to answer."

Astrotrain knows enough not to make waves while he's getting fixed if he can help it. "....why would ya wanna watch anyway?" he asks of Fusillade at that point, his optics darkening as he watches himself being put back together again. It's sort of a morbid fascination thing.

"Oh, I'll answer it, Fusillade. You're unqualified to watch because you can't see a finished work when it is in front of your face and at the touch of your talons. There'd be nothing for you to see here," Scrapper snarks. He splices together cut wires, removes broken components, and replaces what needs to be replaced.

Maybe it was the reduced hydraulic pressure, but Fusillade didn't find herself snapping back. Instead, an even "As you deem fit, Master Scrapper." Toward Astrotrain, she's a bit more curt, "At this point, anything meaningful is just going to get flung back in my face, so just drop it for now. I apologize for even bringing it up."

Scrapper finishes up with Astrotrain, who seems to have nodded off. Then, he paces over to Fusillade and her mess. He calls out to one of the gumbies, "Mop!" Then, he leans obver Fusillade's leg, investigating the injury. "Right, so as there a whole clan of carvers going about, or was it you that diced up my mountain?"

Clapping her second hand over the first, Fusillade spares the techs a faintly sheepish look. When the time comes to investigate the wound, what will be revealed is the Transformers equivalent of a wicked papercut, the slice itself extends about a third of the way into the thickness of Fusillade's leg, the gleam of freshly exposed metal visible on the main metal support strut from where the edge bit in -- and finally stopped. "They're lighter than the original specs, and some of the forms involve rotating the edge on the surface of..." She flicks vivid yellow optics once in some confusion at Scrapper's inquiry, the inspiration for the etching much more ephemeral than the resulting cuts. "An entire army? It wasn't THAT big! Like maybe..." she spreads hands to indicate a size about a time and half wider than her torso. "That big?"

Scrapper seethes, calm appearance totally gone, "It doesn't matter how big they were! You had no right! I should have you mopping my floor for what you did." He takes the mop from the gumby and holds it out to her. "And don't think I won't. I took off Comcast's wing and made a smelter out of it. You're getting off lightly, for now." Rant over, Scrapper sets into fixing her 'papercut'.

Not quite yet reaching out to take the proffered item, Fusillade cants her head to side as she thinks over a details. "So... angry about it, but not angry enough to find me, and not angry enough to want to get me out of your sight. Quite the opposite, you want to keep me around here longer." At this point, she wraps one fluid-spattered hand around the handle, and grins almost as viciously at the glint of the modified edges of the weapons folded neatly behind her. "You missed me! And do I get one of those cute outfits to go with the mop?"

Scrapper gets out the anti-rust-sealant that *really* smarts. It's an old, vile bottle, because this stuff hasn't been used in millions of years. All the new sealants are 'no pain'. Wussies. This stuff never expires, anyway, and sting as it might, it'll seal Fusillade's self-inflicted wound, just fine. He snarls, "No, Fusillade. You misunderstand your own importance. I haven't had time to deal with you. You are here, so you are dealt with now. Be thankful I had colonnades to design, or you might have been one. And no. There's not an outfit."

There's an audible 'hurk' from Fusillade as the liquid works its dubious magic. She visibly lurches forward, bracing herself on the table. "Importance, misunderstood? Well... I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Optics flicker a few times as she quells the lurching pit of discomfort that lodges itself firmly in her internals. A thoughtful, quiet, "The pride you take in your work extends to the coast itself." Not a question, a statement.

Fleet strides into the room and scans the area, optics narrowed and expression grim. He seems to move a bit differently now that he has some rank. His footfalls are firmer, the twist of his head as he watches the area no longer the darting gaze of timid canary waiting to be preyed upon, but the steadier hawk ready to dive.

It is, of course, all an act. A timid Decepticon with rank does not just tend to lose the rank, but their lives, and the pastel wonder (wonder why he got promoted?) knows this. Thus it is he puts on a most convincing act, playing his new role with carefully crafted confidence.

As soon as the Seeker spots who else is in here... or, more importantly, who in here outranks him... he turns towards them and stands at attention, offering both High Commander and Commander a Decepticon salute. "Master Scrapper. Commander Fusillade. Good cycle to you both," he says formally.

Dead End hovers outside the door for a moment as voices drift out towards him. Oh how he'd smirk if he could, and if the occasion wouldn't be marked on many calenders as a harbinger for the end of days. With a haughty stride, he moves forwards into the medical ward, casting a slow glance about to take in those present. Unlike the seeker that entered before him, he grants the ranking officers a grudging nod rather than any form of saulte.

"I take no pride in my work, but it is work nonetheless, and I will not see it defaced. Had you done your etchings on a spare sheet of metal, checked out of the storerooms properly, and had your work then been painted over by one of those Battlecharger hooligans, I'd reprimand him just the same," Scrapper states, finally finishing Fusillade's repairs. And then, he turns to the entrance. Fleet and Dead End. And Fleet looks as cocky as any Seeker. Lovely. Maybe he'll come dance a hole in Scrapper's mountain, too, for good measure.

A perplexed expression crosses Fusillade's features at the mention of painting over her work -- that was like sealing, right? "So... don't do it at all. Excuse me for a moment." She gingerly sets herself down on the floor,a and draws herself to as close to her full height as possible, flicking a few fingers to both Fleet and Dead End. "In here for checkups or upgrades, soldiers? I won't keep you. Fleet, submit a report on the current day to day responsibilities you're currently involved with, and Dead End, if you can, inform your brethern that they avail themselves to any fuel sources that you might be able to get a hold of. A truck stop might be a good start." She begins to sidle to the door, taking her time. One final glower is sent down to the blades, before she muses, "Smelt, how'd he do it? Too good for my own good..." and continues further to a possible exuent.

That... would be a hell of a dance. Besides, the mountain's already got a hole, and Fleet is not yet so foolish as to dance it.

The Seeker drops his salute and then returns Dead End's grudging nod, even as part of his mind shouts, 'Great rusted scrap pile! Fleet, you outrank most of the Stunticons now!' "Only refueling," the pastel wonder answers Fusillade's query as to his business, and then adds, "As you command, sir. I'll do so as soon as I leave here." His voice is neither eager nor nervous, and he does not speak quickly. He is simply quietly professional.

Dead End's gaze falls on Fusillade as she speaks, and he continues to hold the look, staring at her incredulously. Tell his fellows where and when they can gather fuel? The challenge would be getting them to stop, or to limit themselves. Instead of explaining this to Fusillade in excruciating detail he simply nods and folds his arms. "Of course." He comments, knowing full well that he need do absolutely nothing to obey this order.

Scrapper watches as Fusillade makes for the door. He crosses his arms and reminds, "Fusillade. There's still a puddle on the floor. Clean it up and don't delegate." He pauses and offers instead, "Well, if you'd rather, I'll take the filler for the etchings you did out of your hide." Pleasantly, he concludes, "Your choice." Menial labour or art supplies. Overall, it's still better than what he did to Tantrum for merely denting the city.

Halted midway to the threshold, Fusillade ducks her head, and hisses softly, "Choice? Not much of one, really." When she turns back on her heel, she fixes Scrapper with a look that almost appears mollified. Two more paces back to the Constructicon leader, her body language shifting from raw irritation to something much more unhealthy, almost invigorated. Was it something he said. "Just... how much mass was supposedly removed? I'm starting to smell a set up. You may be giving me more credit than I deserve."

Fleet watches the interplay between the Master and the Commander for a moment, head tilted slightly to the left, and then decides that it's none of his business. He slides towards the dispenser and does... exactly what he said he came in here to do. Enters a code, dispenses some energon, and sets to refueling.

Scrapper hisses, "I've measured out exactly how much mass was removed, and I can extract just that much from you." Perhaps not so well as Hook could, but Hook is too busy with his poncho to play Shylock. For now, Scrapper stands, arms crossed, waiting to see what Fusillade will chose. Blasted prissy jet - she acts as if an honest minute's mopping will kill her. At least, so focused on her, he doesn't notice the other blasted jet or the prissy car.

Dead End watches the interaction between Fusillade and Scrapper with some interest, though he conceals it quite easily behind his impassive faceplate. Oh dear, is all not sanguine between the upper-ranks? Or perhaps it is, and that's the problem. Either way, Dead End trudges over to the Energon dispenser and, after Fleet, extracts some energon from the machine. He turns, cube in hand, to watch any forther developments between the CoC. Hey, the ranks gotta get their entertainment /somehow./

Damned if one does, damned if one doesn't... she wasn't being snide! She wanted to know! Fusillade leans in a bit, and explains, "No, seriously. I'm curious. How much was it? Like... a whole kilo?" The aerialist actually has that same expression on her face as earlier when Scrapper was operating on Astrotrain. Creeping her gaze over to Fleet and Dead End, she then says, "Not the mop. It'd be a waste of time, it's yet another one of the many technical instruments that I don't know how to use. Why break the trend now? The other one... well..." That grin returns, decidedly something other than prissy. "Do they get to watch?"

Fleet takes a sip from his energon cube then stands up straight when attention is returned to him. He tips his head forward in a slow-motion nod, saying, "Actually, Commander, I have a report to tend to." Then he holds his head upright again and studies his Commander over the top of his cube as he takes another sip. "Unless you'd like it if I watched," he finally adds.

Dead End leans back against the wall and watches in silence, curious as to the developments from this situation. Smir- damn this faceplate! He tilts his head back and upwards slightly as he continues to view the exchange, insinuating a feeling of superiority and/or contempt.

She wants to know? Scrapper can tell her. He does. "Half a metric tonne." It's interesting that she actually wants to know the details and watch medical procedures. Maybe she missed her calling. Maybe she's just a vulture. Scrapper would think about this more if he wasn't trying to get Fusillade to mop up the darn floor or forks over her hide for repair work.

Briskly, Fusillade responds to Fleet, "Well, you know, there would be some circles that would charge for this kind of thing... Swindle's not hiding behind a locker door, is he?" A pointed glance is cast Dead End's way for a moment. "Anyway, Fleet, I'm glad you got the promotion. I had written a few letters, but..." .oO( You said something to piss me off each time, so I deleted them.) "They got backlogged in the roster rotation system, and..." To Scrapper, she says, "Well, let's get started. Wouldn't want to take up too much of your time." She raises one finger, "Just not the newly repaired leg. Please." It's an attempt to cooperate, despite how much others would contest otherwise.

"And speaking of backlog," Fleet replies, smiling, "I really should attend to mine. I've lost none in my promotion... only gained." He straightens, careful not to drop his still half-filled cube, salutes his superiors again, and turns to stride out, nodding to Dead End as he passes.

Fleet pauses just a moment at the exit, then continues out without saying anything further.

Dead End sighs and shakes his head, taking far more time over his energon that dear ol' Fleet over there. "I, on the other hand, have no backlog to speak of, possibly the only benefit of having a psychopath as one's immediate superior." he folds one arm over the other, holding the energon cube in his spare hand as his gaze tracks lazily back to Scrapper. "But ultimately, no matter whom you may be, nothing is ever truly 'gained.'"

Scrapper shrugs. Hey, he gets filler for his mountain. It works. The gumbies can mop up the puddle. The sculptor selects a fairly thick but sharp blade and, without ceremony, starts to cut tracings out of Fusillade's back. They mirror her patterns, because they'll be used to fill in what she took out of his mountain.

As the Constructicon marches around and sets to work, Fusillade gives a bewildered "WHOA! I don't get to sit down?!" A few internal systems chime their displeasure at such a short rest period between duress. That grin's wiped off her face now though, that's for sure. Mouth slightly agape, she leans forward and makes do with the corporeal punishment. Ngurk, that was uncomfortable. VERY. Each slice that jabs a bit deeper than average earns a slight increase of pitch and volume from her. "Well, I don't DISAGREE with you, DEAD End. Yeah, we're ALL going to expire, MOST likely VIOLENTLY -- that was a long one -- but that DOESN'T mean that WE just SIT and wait for IT!"

Dead End's gaze flickers across those present, waiting to see if anyone recognises the terms he uses. It would seem not, no one has any words to say about his use of the term 'psychopath'. Perhaps no one disagrees. It'd take a lot for someone to disagree, he must admit. And yet, he has some odd sentence addressed to him. "Sit and wait for what, particularly?" Dead End wonders aloud. "the inevitabl termination that we all face, regardless of creed?"

Scrapper totally agrees that Motormaster is a psychopath! What would he disagree with that? So he has nothing to say on that matter. He sets his extracted Fusillade-pieces on a tray, humming as he works. He observes, "In a battle, an artist does not have the luxury of sitting material. I can do this just fine if you stand, and it's quicker."

"Yeah, that, Dead END! Who wants to DO that? It's BORING!" At one particularly deep cut, a hiss of intaked air from vents, and the snap of silvered fangs on air can be heard from Fusillade, who just nods as the green mech continues his extraction. She ducks her helmed head, optics flicking back over one shoulder to peer at Scrapper. "Quicker? We BOTH do have OTHER matters to tend to..." She's doing her best to not squirm, but at one point, she involuntarily arches away.

Boring? Boring! Well, well, well. And how, precisely, would Fusillade feel if their positions were reversed? Indescribably depressed of course, but their positions /aren't/ reversed, so poor Dead End is stuck watching for breaches in the defense perimater. Or atleast those that Dead End may well recognise. With a sour look at Fusillade, he turns to gaze seawards from here, at whatever angle such a view may be achieved.

Scrapper tsks and reminds, "The mountain has waited long enough to be repaired." Almost as if instructing, the sculptor explains, "You see, there's a real trick to carving on a moving surface, but once the knack is there..." He trails off, slicing out one last bit. "...there, done. You may go now. And keep in mind that the scenery is not your canvas."

Quashed! Foiled! Struck with an edict to close off a chance to be more than what she was! Gloom and rainclouds, awash with a glow from a wan moon! Fusillade edges to the side, hands immediately flying up pick at some of the more accessible gouges. "Urr, tender. And... can't really see the trick. Not allowed, remember?" That roundabout statement of her interest in the Master's art is followed up shortly by a pause, a dawning light of illumination, and understanding... "Hey... this means that Earth will have... /TWO/ Fusillade Mountains!" Recollecting wingblades, with a shake of one hand as a finger lightly sliced, she ow, "Geeze, what he'd DO to get them like this?!" and begins to once again bustle toward the hallway.

Dead End straightens himself and, with a strict, military, strut, marches his way out from the medical ward, conscientiously ignoring everyone within. Especially if it involves one Fusillade mountain, let alone /two/. Quite frankly? To the pit with you all, you infernal ka-nighits!

Scrapper lets Fusillade go now. If she wishes to slice herself up with her own weapons, more power to her. As she leaves, Scrapper gestures to the gumbies and bids that they clean up the mess. Funny, that. She chose the metal out of her back over a bit mopping. Terribly odd. Oh well, what's next on his list?

--End--