A Real Fixer-Upper

Absolution - Medical Bay

In rather stark contrast to the rest of the ship, the Absolution's Medical Bay is sparklingly pristine, all sleek and shiny silver surfaces and spotless drains in the subtly sloped floor. When the novelty of luster fades, though, it becomes clear that though clean, this medical facility is awfully reminiscient of a slaughterhouse. Imposing machinery dominates the ceiling and walls, wheeled power tools capable of being dragged to island medtables and used on those in need of a fix. Cluttered, disorganized vats house all manner of spare parts, from armor chunks to whole limbs. A few featureless medics roam around, tending to machines and patients. A Sharkticon with a mop has been tasked with cleaning up any unsightly spills in exchange for treats from the parts bin; this Pavlovian conditioning has taught him to do his job well. A shady-looking medic sits at a small desk, eying all present coolly.

Artifice has managed to make his way to the Absolution's medical bay despite the injuries he received in combat with a Wrecker. He limps in, right arm hanging, and leans against a medical berth. "Ohhhh...I think I'm going into shutdown..."

Harrow has taken quite a liking to this particular medical bay. It may have been disorganized, but at least it was shiny and clean. She'd been whisked from ship to ship, and just happened to be on the one Artifice limps into. With a steadily paced stride, she approaches the chocolate Seeker and hoists him onto the table. "Oh stop blubbering, it doesn't hurt that bad. What hit ya' and where?"

Artifice seeing Harrow in the medical bay has the effect of increasing Artifice's pain - or at least in how he expresses it. "Aaahhh! Ohhhh it hurts... everything hurts." He falls nearly to one knee, barely holding himself up. "Right arm's... totally useless. You're gonna have to amputate. Aaghh!! I... I don't want anasthetic. I'm strong. No painkillers.

Harrow pauses a moment, face cracking into a smile. She was genuinely amused at the antics. "Just lay down! Noble of you, but I'll be deciding if you need a replacement arm!" She walks around the berth to reach for his limp arm, which was, in fact, damaged beyond repair. "Yeah, this has gotta' come off." Reaching up, she pulls an electric 'bone' saw from the console over head and cranks it up like a chainsaw, "You sure you don't want me to cut your pain sensors first?"

Artifice breaks down into blubbering when Harrow makes her diagnosis. "No please," he begs, "It's fine! It's fine, look!" He tries to move it. Nothing happens. His face becomes pained as he tries to force the arm to swing, the hand to twitch. "Nooo," he sobs, coolant leaking liberally from his optics, "Please... Give me the stuff you can't give to anyone. The illegal stuff. I know there are ways, black market ways... you can save my arm." He puts his good hand on Harrow's shoulder, pulls himself up, and looks her in the face. "I want you to save my arm. I'm begging you. It's my throwing arm."

Harrow's proverbial hackles would've been raised by now at all of this whining, but for some reason Artifice pulled it off while being entertaining. "Artifice," she almost laughs, "It's an arm. It's easily replaced. It would be far easier for me to just attach a new one, alright?" As a reward, Harrow unspaces a vial of painkillers (the black market type), takes one between her thumb and forefinger, and forcefully sticks it in his mouth. She clamps his jaw shut until he swallows, then sets to work detaching the pain sensors in his shoulder joint.

Combat: Harrow expertly repairs Artifice's injuries.

Combat: Harrow is able to repair some of Artifice's internal systems damage.

Artifice swallows the painkiller immediately, but pretends to struggle with Harrow's hand over his mouth. He puts his hand on her wrist and pushes her away. "You can't replace this," he says, gesture toward his busted arm, "this is my original arm. Are you gonna pour a whole new Seeker mold and transplant my processor into it?" As Harrow detaches the pain sensors, Artifice sags a bit, venting. "That... actually feels good."

Harrow sets a toolkit on the berth and climbs up to sit facing Artifice, indian-style, ignoring his verbal protests. "If you're /that/ attached to a simple piece of ARMOR... I'll let you keep it." Always carrying a spare Seeker limb in subspace, she produces a slate gray arm and sets it down, one hand still disconnecting wires. With the main fuel line clamped off, the damaged limb gets removed and carefully set aside. Harrow begins the arduous task of matching up the wires between slightly different models.

"Gray?" Artifice looks down in surprise at the arm she is attaching to him. "You know I'm mahogany, right? Mocha? Just... take the broken parts outta the old arm and replace them." His speech is already beginning to slur. His knees wobble and he lists forward, his good hand grasping for purchas somewhere on the table. "Primus... What'd you give me? Something to kill me, right? Figures."

Harrow scoffs, "This is not a paint-and-body shop, you can get your 'mocha' paint elsewhere. And I wouldn't /kill/ you, I'm not that insane." Her hand goes up to press him back against the berth, "Relax. It just speeds up the nanites, but conversely burns up some energon, so you'll be hungry in a bit. Otherwise, no aches. Expensive stuff. Be thankful! Coil you fingers." Hmm... this seemed familiar for some reason.

Familiar? Arti wouldn't know anything about that. He is really weaving now. When Harrow pushes him back against the berth, he very nearly falls down. He smacks his lips. "I do feel a little hungry," he says, "Wow!" He starts giggling. "I am ... I could eat ... LOTS of stuff right now." His optics are dimming. He leans away from the berth and staggers toward Harrow again, trying to flex his fingers. "I can't believe I got whipped by that wrecker. It's embarrassing."

Harrow finally just climbs from the berth and drags him down to sit on the floor. "Almost done," she assures, hoping it'd convince him to stay a bit more still. "Wreckers are... difficult." Having been harpooned through the canopy by one, she knew just how difficult they could be. With a few more zaps from her hand welder that Artifice wouldn't feel, she pulls away and folds her arms, "Move your arm, it should work properly."

Artifice sits on the floor with legs splayed out in front of him. He looks at Harrow, trying not to feel attracted to her. He allows himself a smile, which probably looks pretty goofy on his split faceplate. "Difficult, yeah. Difficult like a spear in the aft exhaust." He lifts his arm, waving, touching the wall, making a fist, giving the finger. "Yeah, it works." Now he touches his faceplate. "Now... you gonna replace my face, too? Cause I think I might need some stronger pain stuff for that procedure."

Art's face has been ripped virtually in half by Impactor's harpoon. His lower jaw is hanging on busted hydraulics, and he has a huge dent over his left eye from a headbutt.

Harrow vents a sigh, "It'd be easier if we just repl- ...hnn." She scoots over and crouches in front of him, inspecting the damage and its depth. "Stronger? Nah, look at you, you're a lightweight, I'm not havin' you overdose. Shouldn't be too hard to fix." It involves removing a helm guard and thus the side of his helm. She pushes his jaw back into place and keeps it there while repairing the small, skewed pistons. "Surprised you haven't zonked out yet."

Artifice is about as close to zonked as it's possible to get while still maintaining consciousness. "M'not a lightweight," he asserts, "M'just sensitive." He paws the air in front of him, nearly touching Harrow. "Don't hurt me, doc. Mah face is all messed up. I don't normally look like this ya know. I'm much more handsome."

Harrow instantly snatches the hand and plants it firmly on the ground. Only Tremor could... ahem. "I know what you normally look like." Before long, the large dent had been pulled and flattened, and the helm guard replaced. "Right then. Stay here for tonight, you can't fly with that in your system." She straightens and 'dusts' herself. "No need to /thank/ me," as very few did anyway.

"Thank you," Art slurs. He doesn't leave his hand on the ground. It drifts up again almost as if it has a mind of its own. He's clearly out of it. "You did this to keep me from... somethin. Right?" He reaches up with his new hand and touches his newly repaired face. "Is this grey, too? But I know. I won't fly. Can't barely stand. I-" With this his head sags and his optics dim.