The Cruel Tutelage of Shockwave

Summary: After being reprimanded for Beta Wing hazing hijinks, Fusillade gets inducted into an informal apprenticeship with Lord Shockwave with a hard first lesson.

Deck 2, #8620

''The brushed metal tone of the first wall that greets the optics of those that enter in is incredibly spartan. It's only when turning after entering that some of more lavish details can be observed. Small areas of concentrated effort placed into personalizing the quarters contrast sharply against the soft sheen of the brushed metal walls. Other standard accoutrements, such as the typical recharge chamber and a nightstand, are also present.''

In the time it took for Fusillade to return to base and receive repairs to her injuries, her commanding officer had already infiltrated her sanctuary. With passcodes above and beyond that of the enlisted, Shockwave has bypassed every last security measure keeping Fusillade's home safe and secure from the outside world. He has even allowed the door to lock behind him, so as to provide Fusillade with the false thought that she could actually be alone for a moment. When she arrives, she'll find her so-called "Purple Vision" standing over the heraldic display over the charging station. His hand raised, fingertips running over the grooves of the wingblades posted to the wall. Shockwave stares at it with his unflickering eye.. possibly in thought?

The cycle has ticked over through three duty shifts by now, and brings with it one Fusillade, returning to base. Those wheels most definitely have been turning in her head, and as soon as Shockwave's form had disappeared from the horizon last cycle, a thin smile had returned to her chiseled features. It was one of a person who had a plan, a loophole, which she could exploit. The continued ennui and exertion of the walk would have eventually caused that simper to fade. But upon reaching the threshold to Imperial HQ, with Catechism and Bonecrusher likely behind her somewhere, that knowing smile returns. It grows as she stops by the repair bay to fill out paperwork for replacements, and to shun the offered treatment to the nasty welt of cauterized armor and internals along her right flank and thigh. By the time she reaches her quarters, it's expanded into a shit-eating grin. As the door opens silently on its tracks, Fusillade glance upwards, gaze intended for that back wall -- only to meet the amythest armor of the Commander's back. That smile fades in an instant, and a faintly glazed look crosses citrine optics. Popping her mouth shut, Fusillade turns on heel, and ALMOST verges on marching back down the hall. Good sense reasserts itself, at which point she queries, "Was there a change in venue for our scheduled meeting?"

"Affirmative." Shockwave would've chimed if he did not always speak so flatly. "Despite your recent actions, I still believe you intelligent enough to escape my orders." He turns smoothly, placing the critical weight of his eye upon Fusillade. The round sensor gleams, "It is most pleasing, and no doubt the approval of the insubordinate thoughts that run through your processors will make this all the more disappointing." Shockwave flexes his arm in, aiming the slender cylinder for the artwork on the wall. Energy pours from the spout in a highly refined beam, bathing the wingblades and eagle with high output radiation.

Fusillade's expression darkens as the wide-band particles begin to eat through the first few centimeters of metal, thoroughly fusing the segment joints of the blades as well as the bulkhead proper. Applied and chosen so as not to punch through the material into the adjoining quarters area. Of COURSE, how typical, she thinks to herself. She remains in the door's threshold, no audible or visible sign of defiance marks her as she shifts weight into an at ease position, clasping hands to her back. She waits until the melted lump joins the wall proper, and begins thinking about the angle of the walls in the larger canyons in Cybertron, and how nicely they deflect radar and vision alike. "We do what we must," she concedes quietly, forcing any initial urges to squawk in dismay. Serenity, serenity. "Should we adjoin to a more secure area for the matter you wished to discuss?"

The irradiating lance cuts off and Shockwave raises his appendage, allowing tendrils of smoke to rise. "Negative," he responds. "You will enter, close, and lock the doors."

And so it begins, Fusillade considers. Such extremes of potential courses of action. Thoughts dart over the impossibility of this being egregious enough to warrant personal execution after the fact, and yet... were she in the form she'd be outfitted with in about 400 years, foottalons would be digging into the flooring. Such as it is, there's a momentary hiccup in her internal systems. "Step inside, the rest will take care of itself," she murmurs to herself, ducking her chin nearly to her chest. With gaze intently upon Shockwave, she takes the requisite step forward. The sensors then chime, and the door snaps shut like a guillotine. "Your actions as of late have been most disappointing," Shockwave glares. "If all you desire is to be inebriated and vandalize renegade property, then say so now and I will gladly recycle you into a Battlecharger." He steps toward Fusillade, his boots colliding heavily with the deck plating below. His arm thrusts out, powerful manipulators flexing to grab Fusillade by the throat. Shockwave pulls her close enough to feel the heat of his optic, "You should consider yourself lucky I do not find on-the-spot disintegrations amusing."

The cannon certainly does provide for quite the incandescent distraction. At the speech, though, Fusillade squares up her shoulders, and awaits further instruction. The surge forward was unexpected, visceral, and it's with some surprise that Fusillade's jaw goes slack. Great effort is taken to curb the instinctual urge to lash out with hands at the mech's chest, to leave marks in a futile last stand. That expression, of knowing a punchline the rest of the world hasn't figured out yet, has most definitely faded, and is replaced with the look of an elusive mark finally conceding that it had been caught. As the edges of vision grey, she merely gurgles out, bootheels scuffing slightly to reach the ground, "There is a greater purpose. What that is, I leave to your judgment."

Shockwave stares blankly. What sort of knowledge exists behind his smoldering yellow eye? What is the great cosmic plan that had been put into motion a thousand years before life began on Earth and will continue on well after it has been burnt out? What role Fusillade has in it, Shockwave will not come right out and say. He will let her realize it on her own. "What will be your destiny, child."

Somewhere, someone is writing down notes on Fusillade's psychological and physical endurance, most likely Shockwave himself. At this point, after the self-induced strain from overenergization, and then the after effects of being shot, walking all the way back to IHQ, and the additional inquiry, the femme appears to have found her limit -- that of not caring any longer. An overly tired rumble escapes from low in her chest, likely reverberating through the servos currently clutching the gloss white of her throat, "Embracing the greater fates will be difficult if non-functioning," she states sullenly. And then dryly, "Immediate plans for the future? Getting wailed on by everyone else for getting them in trouble. Cinderblock was a bit sore about the fine."

Fusillade considers a bit longer, rueful. "Perhaps I did present myself too persuasively. I had the least seniority of the group."

Fusillade's answer does not seem to be to Shockwave's liking. He turns, pulling the Decepticon girl back. He thrusts his arm forward, violently hurling Fusillade against her desk and charging bay. "Trooper Cinderblock is irrelevant," he comments. "What will be your destiny, child."

There's likely some smartass comment running through Fusillade's head as she sails through the air into the furnishings. The fact that she was likely over-thinking the question fails to register. A crack of her shoulder impacting is followed by the scrape of fingertalons on the surface as she skids over it, and down the otherside with a faint tap of knees on the flooring. Staring dazedly at the faint pink fluid spattered on the surface, she finally snarls out, "It will NOT be a stasis pod during the next energy crisis! I WILL distinguish myself! This one incident, as egregious as it was, was only ONE..." She abandons the attempt to explain the matter midsentence, and repeats more quietly, "It will /not/ be a stasis pod..."

Shockwave comes to stand over Fusillade. His head tilted down, optic light still glaring down at her. As her teacher, he bestows her with the woeful grade of, "Insufficient." His enormous upper body flexes, enabling him to seize her by the scruff of her neck. "Any being can distinguish itself. The renegades have distinguished their fallen by housing them in masoleums. Your answer is insufficient. What will be your destiny, child."

Someone wasn't doing so well today under duress. At least high command could assure themselves that Fusillade would likely not divulge any important information should she ever be interrogated by the enemy. Scrabbling at the countertop with about as much grace as a soaked Persian, she admits in a half-yowl, "I haven't put much thought into it, /SIR/! Field command might be nice! Despite prior appearances to the contrary, I do enjoy a good processor exercise!" Oh, she didn't KNOW she shooting a bit too low with that answer... She'd likely find out very soon.

For one with no mouth, Shockwave still manages to put up the illusion by leaning close to Fusillade's ear to confide. "You are failing miserably, daughter." His fingers squeeze, digging into the soft material of her neck for an adequate grip. Shockwave's entire arm flexes inward, lifting Fusillade off the desk and hoisting her into the air. "Your humor will afford you little salvation in the time to come. What keeps me from saving another the trouble and disintegrating you now." Shockwave swings out, tossing Fusillade across her room like a rag-doll. "What will be your destiny, child."

A nasty crack sounds out from the wall as Fusillade's vertical stabilizer is snapped, from the impact, further enforcing Shockwave's no-fly policy. Dutifully, she rolls to rest palms and footpads on the flooring, and rights herself. Every protocol is chiming, demanding that she make a break for it. Lower optics. Curl up. Accept what is to come. A moment, and with a struggle, the visor is snapped off into glossy obsidian fingers, and the pain-glazed vibrancy of her optics are raised to meet the fearful symmetry of his monocle, and states, "To not just serve the Empire, but to promote it, to extend it, to see that its borders grow, and that its interior, both physically and idealogically, remains solid enough to support those expanding borders. Once I am returned to duty, I will see to it that all that falls under my wings' shadow belongs to the Empire. And to be patient and judicious in its acquisition."

"Thinking too small," Fusillade nearly whimpers to herself. She looks sour for a moment, as if coming to realization why this was being done in a plain quarters area, and not a much better monitored, most likely double and triple bugged, command center areas. "The Decepticons," she states plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, regardless of Galvatron's assertions. With more strength this time, she says, "Decepticons, yes."

"Correct." Shockwave affirms Fusillade's answer. "Never forget that the Empire is our tool to spread our influence and nothing more. In the coming months, daughter, I will teach you what it means to wear," Shockwave reaches up, motioning to the crowned purple face on his chest, "..the brand of a Deceptor. You will embrace this doctrine and through it, you will learn the means to survive and thrive. You will hate me for having to beat this into you, but one day child, you will come to thank all that I have done for you."

Eventually, it will sink into Fusillade's process what has just happened here -- namely that she has been impressed into /Shockwave's/ service, be it for better or worse. It'll likely make her spit and cuss, likely after all has been cleared from her quarters, and she can be sure she won't be caught. Which in turn will likely just make her spit and cuss some MORE when she realizes that it just made Shockwave's prediction about her hating him correct. Not like anyone would NOTICE any additional damage to the slagged wall. Perhaps still stunned from any of the numerous impacts that she's suffered in the past few minutes, she asks, "Is it your belief that most within the ranks don't know? That their existance is nothing beyond stimulus and response? Or do I find myself in such a remedial position?" she asks, self-deprecatory.

Shockwave stands like some kind of monolith, a tribute to years prior. "I stand here having performed over three hundred, sixteen thousand trillion cycles of active service. I have defended this planet and its people from Quintessons, Unicron, humans, Militants, and its own reckless stupidity. I have been branded Deceptor not because I destroy, but because logic stated the most basic building block of peace is power. I have seen Transformers plunge themselves into conflict for the sheer desire to annhiliate their kinsman. I am Decepticon. The rest of you are savages."

As that airy, almost nasal voice hammers home each note of its service's timestamp, Fusillade comes to realization that existing, and surviving, as long as Shockwave has is no fluke. Not that she didn't have the ability to do so, but for so long her attention was directed elsewhere, not really examining that idea that had been floating half-formed in her background processes. This confrontation, still echoing in the dull angry ache along her hip, and now her upper back and forearms, has brought the idea into sharp focus, forcing her to examine and ultimately articulate that idea. As Shockwave names the different tribes of barbarians that he has helped drive away from the gates, Fusillade takes note and nods. "To rise above what one is, and to realize something greater. No vendettas. No going through the motions. Doing what must be done. Or in this case, seeing to it that the cause... race... is advanced." That realization is there, and the more prideful part of her superego is caught between vindication that of COURSE she was the one to be chosen, and annoyance that she appears to be some part of a far-reaching science project. Fusillade's id sashays and yattas out the words "HEIR, booyah!" The audible words that come from her are the amalgamation of the two, her ego. "And thusly begins the enlightenment. I am not allowed to wallow in the same behaviors that others might be." She clasps her hands in front of her trim white belly.

Once again, that eye of Shockwave gleams. His appraisal of her statements comes with a simple, dry comment, "Good girl." He turns away from her, walking towards the door which simply unlatches itself and opens in his presence.

--End--