Reconstruction of Fusillade

Summary: (July 2026) Scrapper successfully returns Fusillade's confetti'd body to life -- as the Air Guardian ghost of Christmas past.

NCC Medical Ward

''Like its previous incarnation, this medical ward was designed with the medic in mind, with all the modern advances to make the dirty work of repairs a world easier. It is well lit, the blue and violet metal of the walls and decor is a shade paler here, and the ubiquitous filigree is missing, all to assist in ease of cleaning. Still, the place veritably sparkles. In the furniture, there is a subtle motif of blades and sharp edges, as if to evoke the scalpel of a surgeon, although it is all quite safe. Around two dozen beds, more comfortable than their sharp looks would suggest, fill the medical ward, laid out in a tidy grid, and more can be flipped out of the walls should emergency demand it. A set of tracks on the ceiling mirror the grid of beds, allowing advanced scanning equipment and tolls to be swiveled around to the various beds. Computer terminals and cabinets are molded right into the walls at intervals, and while there are the normal medical security cameras, it appears as if someone has set some of the cameras specifically to watch the cabinets.''

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==================== Decepticon =================================

Message: 2/28............Posted..........Author

Temporary Obituary.......Mon Apr 10......Scrapper

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Scrapper appears and reports, "As was reported earlier by, er, Fusillade herself, Colonel Fusillade suffered a massive internal explosion. It was as bad as it looked - fatal. Let us pause for a moment of silence." Scrapper dutifully pauses. "In better news, I think that based on the success I had with Fleet, I can get her back up and running. That said, I'm going to mark her down as on medical vacation. Scrapper out."

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Scrapper is hunched over a medical table bearing what appears to be a miniature version of Jetfire, all dolled up for Halloween in the deadest of greys and cross-crossed with battle-scars and with nowhere to go. The machine needs a hobby... oh, wait. This *is* his hobby. Despite its dead-looking appearance, it is hooked up to a large number of curious device and arcane monitors, with eldritch green phosphor displays. Calmly, Scrapper demands, "Spanner, Scavenger. Soom, soon it will be time!"

Scavenger is playing assistant today, helping Scrapper with his slightly less than savory work. Bringing back the dead, something about it just doesn't sit right with Scavenger, but hey, Scrapper's the boss and he'll do what he says. "Spanner, Scrapper," he says, handing him the tool.

Scrapper accepts the spanner and notes casually, "I hear we're in for some thunderstorms, Scavenger." He tightens a few bolts, the coup-de grace on has macabre work. Scrapper muses, "It took some research and work to figure out who was behind it all, but given that she herself perceived the psychological warfare applications, I simply could not resist the poetic applications." That said, Scrapper flips the switch.

Scavenger gives Scrapper a look that suggests he has no idea what's being talked about. Then again, that's fairly normal behavior for Scavenger, even when he /does/ understand what's going on. Unless, of course, there's some stupid non-Constructicon to show up. Then he smarts hinmself out the wazoo. "Er... what?" he asks. "Who's behind what now?"

The boot of surging systems as they drain the capacitor causes several spikes on various readouts, accompanied by faint 'whump' of the discharge. Blunted fingertips clutch spasmodically at the polished tabletop, as the mechanism reflexes its torso backward nearly double against the restraints. A hiss of disarticulated vocoder merges with the whine of four priming engines as they draw their first. Hands alternately flex to find freedom, only to recoil at the lingering inundation of pain. The figure's optics remain glassy deep grey in their inactivation. And then, the voice rasps out, echoing one of the last few words heard. "Behin-h-d."

Scrapper will accept confusion from Scavenger. It is, at least, better than the condemnation of some. He's a little hurt that even some of his brothers have decried his work. As the subject stirs, Scrapper clasps his hands together. He cries, "It can still talk! Did you hear that Scavenger? You heard that, didn't you?" He fairly bounces, optic band gleaming. Then, the engineer pauses and snaps his fingers. "Oh, scrap. Quick, run for the Jetfire action figure while you still can, Scavenger!"

Scavenger is, for the moment, pretty much rooted to the ground. Fortunately, panic soon overrides slightly less panic, and he dashes for the doll. Quickly, he grasps it, careful not to break it, before returning it to Scrapper. "It's... it's... not dead..." he mumbles, trying to grasp the mechanics involved in resurrecting the dead. It's not a concept he's figured out and frankly, he thinks it's impossible.

Scrapper's exclamation makes the figure only flinch briefly away. The voice falters whenever it ventures past a whisper, "S-h-tatus." Casting about for the source of sounds, the ash grey figure rises to a half sitting position, ducking its head. "No visual." Shoulder mounted wingtips quiver slightly from the tremors that course over its form, fist servos straining from the tightness as it clenches against the still cycling pain afterimages permanently seared on its processor.

Scavenger nervously goes for his gun. Drawing a weapon in medical is probably a bad idea, but when your teammate's bringing the dead back to life, it occassionally comes in handy to have a little bit of firepower in your corner. "Just say the word, Scrapper," he says, "and I'll put 'er down again." ...It occurs to him that if you've collected somebody's spare parts and added them to your junk collection, it's probably not a good idea to hang out with their zombie incarnation.

Scrapper throws his arms in the air and bemoans, "Why are all my brothers trigger-happy morons? I appreciate weapons as much as anyone, but there is a time and a place, but put that away Scavenger. Did you hear it? It can't even see. Now hand me the action fiction."

Scavenger groans inwardly. Scrapper just doesn't seem to have the right kind of self-preservation instinct. Still, he's the boss, so he hands him the action figure, even as he stows his weapon. Ah well. Even without a gun, a few good whacks with his shovel would probably be enough to take down a zombie long enough to get away. ...He hopes.

At Scavenger's words, the phantasm halts. Even the sound of constantly pulled air ebbs into nothingness. And then, with the rest of its form perfectly immobile, the head begins to turn and tilt toward the sound of the geologist's voice, a series of thin-pitched squeaks from the motion. "F-h-reedom," it demands, point blank. And then, a few more squeaks, and its face is turned toward Scrapper's relative position. "Your doin-h-g. T-h-his is your doin-h-g." Hands lurch down to hips expectantly, only to find emptiness where its holsters and wingblades would have been on the original frame. An incoherent, guttural sound of rage struggles from its throat as it finally slips off the table, shoulders hunched.

Scrapper takes a few steps back and agrees, "Well, yeah. I seem to be the only oen seriously intereste din the area, and... I made this for you!" He holds out the Jetfire action-figure. "It's got a head that you can pop off and it snaps right back on. The limbs are pull-and-snap, too! Perfect for taking out your unholy rage and frustration."

Sixshot has connected.

"The ex-h-p-h-losion is not en-h-din-h-g," the ghost of Jetfires past reports, even as the figure is snatched up in the same way that a salmon might be slapped up onto shore by a grizzly. It's squeezed mercilessly, and is halfway up to the angry, still-fanged maw of the agonized thing-that-should-not-be. However, the tell-tale nosecone of right forearm comes into murky view. All rage is sapped momentarily, as murky vision attempts to parse the design in front of it... and then said gaze snaps down to bulkier feet, and finally, the twin tail ailerons tacked onto its shoulders. This last detail, mere inches from nosetip, clenches it. With a splintered gasping cry, it lurches back against the table's edge. And then, welling from deep, low within, a more familiar timbre to the voice. "Oh no, oh no, you did not. You... did not, you... did... You did." Stacatto laughter wrenches from the thing's gut for the next several minutes straight.

Scavenger this is just about too much for Scavenger, who takes several steps backward. "Couldn't you have put a control chip in this thing or something?!" he asks, starting to panic

The doors open with a hiss, and thus enters the six changer. He moves somewhat dispassionately towards an auto-repair station, plopping down. His amber optics seem disinterested with the lesser workings of the base, although he does glance up a little towards the constructicons at Scavenger's worried words.

Scrapper nods-nods. He exclaims, "I did! It took a lot of study and forensics, but I figured out that it was probably his fault, so... I hear it's bad to be haunted by a doppleganger. Time for him to have some bad luck, ah?" Or maybe Scrapper just really wants to pull a prank on a Guardian, Air or not.

Unbidden, the phantasm raises a hand to rest on its midriff at the recollection. Some spritely part wishes to make a pun about carrying things, Jetfire, belly, but the articulation doesn't come. Instead, a vindictive rasp, "Jet-h-fi-re." Another moment to get bearings, and minimal information about surroundings, before it straightens. "My over-c-h-locking. It is not ac-h-tive? Hnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." With head still tilted, it paces one step closer to Scavenger. "Con-h-t-h-rol not neces-h-sary."

Sixshot speaks quietly and calmly, "Scrapper. What is that?"

Scavenger freaks! Taking a giant step backward, he looks around, frightened. "I just want it on record that I think this whole thing is a /bad/ idea!" he says. Trying to raise the dead... especially when the dead person's been rebuilt from the ground up, just screams of being a bad idea. But noooo, does anyone ever ask Scavenger what he thinks? Nooooo

Lolling its head to the side, the phantasm states the obvious. "Unit in Dee Cee Aye. Not my juris-h-dic-h-tion."

Scrapper sighs and raises a hand to his head. Then, he paces over to a medical ward computer and flickers on a force-field around the revenant, since the natural Decepticon reaction to the dead seem to be to flip out and shoot them. Then, perfectly poised, Scrapper answers, "That is my latest experiment, Sixshot. You may address it by the name it had in life - Fusillade."

Sixshot regards the wraith, "Fusillade is dead, Scrapper. This...thing...you have created is nothing more then a ghost." His head turns to Scrapper, and he speaks again, that quiet, dangerous calmness, "Destroy it."

Fusillade takes her ease, and quite handily ambles to the periphery of the forcefield. "F-h-reedom," she demands again, before clutching the leg of the sacrificial action figure, and whacking its head against the shimmering surface until it goes flying off. That jerky head motion is sent towards Sixshot's direction. "High Com-h-man-h-d does not an-h-swer to you." A few more cracks, and an arm and ball and socket joint wing and engine pack from the figure spins across the floor, coming to rest against the forcefield at the far end of the protected space. "I will not f-h-ly far," she insists to Scrapper, convinced she is the reason the seal was put in place.

Scrapper crosses his arms, digs in his feet, stares up at Sixshot despite every voice in his head screaming to run, and says simply, "No. I am a medic, and this is the medical ward. My word is law here." Then, Scrapper notes that the dead are restless. He turns and rushes to the side of the forcefield. He soothes, "Fusillade, calm down. If you can go a day or so without keeling over, I'll consider letting you go off base, if you've got a medic along - say, Fulcrum - but for now, there are bad people probably want to shoot you, and some of them are on our side." And one of them is probably Hook. Bah. Stupid brothers.

 Long Haul says, "Hey, Scrapper! You busy?"

 Scrapper sounds pained, "...very, brother. What is it, now?"

And Scavenger! Scavenger would shoot him too! Except... of course, he wouldn't, because Scrapper would yell at him. And Scavenger dearly does hate to be yelled at. Still, it looks like there's a power struggle in the making between Scrapper and Sixshot, and that's something he can get behind. Support for his brother and all, even if he is a dead-raiser.

Sixshot looks at the creature in the field, "...your word is not law on the battlefield, medic. However I find myself doubting you ascribe to many laws... Let the dead rest, or you will find yourself keeping company with them." He strikes towards the field, "Thing. Do you enjoy this comedy to which Scrapper has descended you?"

 Long Haul says, "Eh. I'll take a prelim look, but we may got another problem."

 DCI Operative Symphony says, "Whaaaaaat!?"

 Long Haul says, "Oh, I'm sorry. I din't realize I said 'Symphony' where I meant to say 'Scrapper.' Damned processors."

 DCI Operative Symphony says, "You didn't, but given the recent... rash... of events, I have a rather pointed interest..."

 Scrapper says, "Get the prelims in, and... what kind of problem? Would sending you Scavenger help?"

 Long Haul says, "Well, whatcha pointin' at? And Scrapper... looks like one of Motormaster's is in a bad way here on Cybertron. Going to see if it's within my abilities, but..."

 Scrapper notes, sounding distracted, "Scavenger is... at the very least, a more experienced medic than you."

"Ful-h-c-h-rum? He... no. No, n-h-o." Her voice is tiny, shaken. "No. He can not see me." That moment of vulnerability is shaken, however, as Sixshot approaches, and threatens. There is a previously absent sharpness there, a visceral rise to challenge that could not be cleft from the tiniest fraction of a living Decepticon. "It hur-h-t-h-s. But exis-h-tence is s-h-t-ill t-h-hat. S-h-pen-h-d your energ-h-y el-se-w-h-here."

 Long Haul says, "Then send 'im up, Scrapper!"

Scrapper sighs, relieved. Good girl. Very encouraging results, indeed. "Not Fulcrum? Well... I really don't want you going out alone. If you've got to get out, at least nab Slapdash or Repaint. For your own safety." Scrapper shudders. Oh, that their own comrades are more the enemy! "Now, your current body, wretched as it is, does have weapons-" Yes, Scrapper's keen on arming the dead. Has been ever since Hook decided that shooting his first test subject was a Good Idea. "-and let's review those now."

 Scavenger says, "You need me then, Haul?� I can be there right quick!"

 Long Haul mutters, "Right. Good boy."

 Scrapper says, "Yeah, get going, Scavenger. I'll handle this myself."

~And it gets me away from the zombie,~ Scavenger thinks, as he heads out the door, grateful to get away from what can only be trouble brewing.

Sixshot nods slowly, "...I see, I will honor your wishes for the moment, and see that your end when it comes is appropriate to a Decepticon..." He turns, regarding Scavenger for a moment, "And final." He then glances to Scrapper, his optics cold, dispassionate and yet...dangerous...like a jagged blade resting on a wooden table, "..."

Scavenger exits a set of doors to the imposing slope of Mount R'lyeh to the east.

 Long Haul's voice sounds rather weary. "Prelim ain't good. Hopefully Scavenger can spot something I can't... but we might have..." he trails off for a moment. "Eh. Talk to you later."

"T-h-he b-hlack-h-s-h-mit-h-h does not need t-h-his right now." Fusillade insists, remaining lucid for the moment on all things Fulcrum. And then, as Sixshot offers what? A release? She continues to tilt her head to the side, gazing -- in theory -- at the One Man Army. "Weapons," she queries of Scrapper, awaiting information.

 Something that might be Fusillade fires off a stacatto burst, "0101010001101000011010010111001100100000011010010111001100100000011100100110010101100001011011000110110001111001001000000111001101110100011000010111001001110100011010010110111001100111001000000111010001101111001000000111000001101001011100110111001100100000011011010110010100100000011011110110011001100110001011100010000001001001001000000110001101100001011011100110111001101111011101000010000001110100011000010110110001101011001000000110011001100001011100110111010000100000011001010110111001101111011101010110011101101000001011100010000000100000010100110111100101101101011100000110100001101111011011100111100100101100001000000110001101101111011011010110010100100000011001110110010101110100001000000101001101101001011110000111001101101000011011110111010000101110"

 Long Haul says, "GAH! What in the PIT?"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "The latest atrocity of your brother's speaks, Constructicon."

<Decepticon> Long Haul says, "Ah, okay. S'that all?"

"I see no end," Scrapper counters, shovel flicking up. Not only does he know something that no one in this room does - indeed, no one but him and the dead, who tell no tales, - but he is quite fond of this experiment. Arachnae had no idea what she was unleashing when she suggested that Scrapper pursue his own project on his own terms. "Ah, weapons... take a look and see. I think that you'll find them amusing, at least."

<Decepticon> Long Haul says, "Hey, Scrapper! Think you can make your atrocities a little quieter next time?"

<Decepticon> DCI Operative Symphony says, "And she speaks to me it would appear..."

<Decepticon> Something that might be Fusillade says, "010100110100100001010101010101000010000001010101010100000010000001010011010010010101100001010011010010000100111101010100"

Sixshot looks at Scrapper, he then turns and heads towards the door.

<Decepticon> Scavenger says, "Scrapper, shut that slagging thing up!� I'm /trying/ to /think/ here!"

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "She appears to be reverting to a more primitive form of communication out of frustration."

<Decepticon> Long Haul says, "She's usin' her radio. How primative can it be?"

<Decepticon> DCI Operative Symphony says, "She seems displeased with Sixshot, I cannot fathom why however..."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Binary, the most basic language of all machines! How more ancestral does it get?"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "I offered her respite from this walking misery into which Scrapper has trapped her."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Some see misery. Some see... opportunity."

<Decepticon> DCI Operative Symphony says, "Just what exactly are you -doing- Scrapper?"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "Reanimating the dead."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "Please do me a favor, Sixshot, and stay away from me."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Oh, this and that. I made Fusillade a little Jetfire action figure! Its head pops off."

<Decepticon> DCI Operative Symphony's tone drips of disbelief, despite hearing Fleet speak as well, "Reanimating the dead... primus save us... what made you think -that- was a good idea?"

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Arachnae said I needed to do more projects for fun."

<Decepticon> DCI Operative Symphony says, "This cannot end well, mark my words... just keep those things away from me... *sound of a radio clicking off*"

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Why not? They're dead. Might as well put them to use. You know, like zombies. Everyone loves Zombies.

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "That's the spirit!"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "I am meant for more then to become the plaything of some madman."

Sixshot leaves the NCC Medical Ward for the NCC Arena to the west, a polished set of doors swishing behind him.

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "One thing though...they don't eat us, do they?"

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "No. You don't even seem vaugely appealing to me."

<Decepticon> Chimera says, "What you are ment for, and what you become rarely coincide..."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet sighs, muttering, "Why do people keep asking me that?"

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "It's the TV. I'm telling you. The TV says they eat people."

<Decepticon> Chimera says, "Fear."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "You... speak with TVs? And you're worried about me?"

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Well, that...and it also says they can't speak coherently. And you are, and stuff. I don't talk to it. I just listen to what the box says. It always tells the truth, right?

Fusillade remarks, "Not as power-h-ful, likely. But useful. We can per-h-hap-h-s sow c-h-haos in the Autobot ran-h-k-h-s." Sixshot's departure is noted, but she doesn't do more than preoccupy herself by playing soccer with the scattered toy pieces. It might get put back together, but not any time soon.

<Decepticon> Chimera says, "Fear consumes from within, blaming the dissolution of self on that which seems un-natural."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet sighs again. "You just go on believing that." He makes a mental note to have his quarter's lock reinforced before the villagers show up with pitchforks.

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Wait, TV doesn't always tell the truth? Oh dear...

<Decepticon> Something that might be Fusillade queries upon hearing Fleet's voice, "Ca-h-rafe?"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "To raise the dead is an insult to those who survive. It is a cheat. It will be adapted to."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "It seems to me returning to life after losing it is the ultimate adaptation."

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper says, "Why do you waste your time watching that disgusting human (growls) stuff?"

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "I disagree."

<Decepticon> Chimera says, "to raise the dead is an advantage that the enemy does not have. It removes the fear which binds. It wastes not materials which would otherwise lie and rust."

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Because....if you're going to beat something, you have to understand it, right? That, and it's funny when the british lady with the poor disposition slaps the british guy that's stuck up.

Scrapper nods and says softly, "You're going to be burning more energon than usual as it is, so there's no way I could fit in his level of amped-up power. Still, you saw the potential for psychological warfare. As he took your body from you, make him hate the look of his own frame. Just give it a day or two to make sure that you're stable and make sure that you don't go alone, please?" He's pleading at the end, shovel down low and visor surprisingly piteous.

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper growls softly. "I don't need to understand anything about those insects short of how easily they die."

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "Such necromancy is the opposite of advancement. A legion of the dead affords us little against an army of the living. And do you believe that Scrapper will not wish to add more to his legion of corpses?"

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "You just wish you were undead! Undead are cool! The news says so."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "Lot of dead Decepticons in storage, Sixshot. I'm told that for the, erm, intial expiraments, he needed more recent dead, but if this works, we've already got our legions."

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper spits. "You believe those human vermin?"

<Decepticon> Scrapper makes a note to give Jetstream some energon goodies later.

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Sure. Except when they talk about us. They're totally wrong. We just rule. We're just so awesome that they can't accept how awesome we are.

<Decepticon> Chimera says, "Legon of the dead is an army which knows not fear of death, as they have already passed beyond the grave.... and returned to serve the empire."

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "An army without concern for its life? Without a desire to truly better itself? Phalanx after phalanx of corpses? The already incompetent raised to perish again and again and again without ceasing and without purpose. Pah!"

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper scoffs at Jetstream. "Considering such propoganda, how can you trust anything those worms say?"

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "I'll have you know that I am MOST concerned with my life... unlife. And with bettering myself!"

Fusillade considers this for a good long moment. The promise of revenge whets her interest, this much is clear. "Ener-h-gon. How can I? I t-h-houg-h-ht t-h-here was no ap-h-petite for it?" She appears to be recalling Fleet's description of no energon cravings, still tensed wire-tight from the never-fading pain.

<Decepticon> Jetstream says, "Because I only watch their entertainment and sports news. Swindle said if I learned sports, I could make him alot of energon."

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "I have my doubts, thing."

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper laughs loudly. "And you believe SWINDLE?!? Given the chance he'd sell your spare parts for scrap and tell them that it's from some human contraption."

<Decepticon> Red Alert shrugs, "I dunno.� I figured I could trust my own kind.� I know if I died, I'd want Scrapper to bring me back.� Then I'd totally gnaw on someone or something.� But anyway, I have to recharge.

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Oh, come on. What's the big problem with the undead? Cuddles is practically a Kraken, and I don't see anyone whinging about him! We Decepticons make use and create whatever curiousities and abnormalities that can be of use to our cause."

<Decepticon> Jetstream shrugs, "I dunno. I figured I could trust my own kind. I know if I died, I'd want Scrapper to bring me back. Then I'd totally gnaw on someone or something. But anyway, I have to recharge.

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "You create curiosities, Scrapper. I do not dirty my hands with such things."

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet says, "This would probably explain why you're in Military Operations and not MSE."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "I'm sure that you'd like me to dirty my hands when you have wounds that need patching."

<Decepticon> Something that might be Fusillade says, "Dee Cee Aye."

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "That is your function, Scrapper. You repair warriors."

<Decepticon> Rippersnapper speaks with disdain. "There are those of us in the Empire you can trust, Swindle is not one of them."

<Decepticon> Sixshot says, "This is a useless waste of my time however, I have better things to accomplish today then banter like a common fool."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says nothing, letting that speak for itself.

<Decepticon> Gopher Fleet pauses as he tries to make out what Fusillade says. "Ah. So he's not Mil-Ops, either. Okay."

Scrapper shakes his head and answers, "Fleet... did not take well to it. Perhaps I did not give it enough impetus to want to endure." However, Fleet is so quiet, that even if Scrapper had had the idea of making an action figure then, he'd be darned if he knew who Fleet wanted to maul. Aside from Scrapper. He's pretty sure that Fleet wants to hurt Scrapper. Then, Scrapper says, "It refused to drink of its own choice. Try to keep to the pure stuff, though. I don't think your filters will be working all that well."

<Decepticon> Long Haul says, "Scrapper, incoming. This is beyond us."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "All right. Want me to come there? I think that my current experiment is capable of transit now."

<Decepticon> Long Haul says, "Erm. Already on my way there, brother."

<Decepticon> Scrapper says, "Right-then."

Long Haul arrives from the steel-spun tunnel from the NCC Spinal Pathway to the south.

Long Haul drops Dead End.

A disappointed, "No jet fuel c-h-haser," comes from Fusillade in regards to her favored white high grade. "Res-h-t for now, t-h-en," she concludes, before looking towards the doorway. "P-h-rivacy," she queries. Fleet had his quarters, could she return to hers? Or at least get a curtain of some kind if she were to stay here? Not that she could talk fast enough to ask that. She begins glancing around the protected area, looking for some kind of tarp or covering for her own use.

Scrapper takes down the forcefield and notes, "If you want to *really* rest, a medic will have to do it manually for you, but your own quarters should be decent for our purposes. Report to back to the medical ward as soon as possible if you feel anything is awry." He sighs and folds his hands, not looking forward to Long Haul and Scavenger's news. Heck, Stunticons are never good news.

Long Haul is carrying a dead looking Dead End, although, perhaps, not as dead looking as he could look, as he's not yet grey. But beside the lack of grey, he's definately very dead seeming. The Constructicon dumps the body on a medical table and turns towards Scrapper. "Not sure what it is, but I'd look for electrical damage, overloaded components, that sorta thing. I found him hanging from some live cables comin' outta the ceiling in the Troop Hall."

Scavenger nods. "And I couldn't find nothin'. Even tried scannin' him with my shovel." Heck, this might even be a mystery Scrapper can't solve. And if three different Constructicons can't solve a mystery, it just can't be solved, period.

Unless there's a fourth.

The typical medley of replies is summed up in a simple "Yes," from Fusillade. If nothing else, the ashen Commander-but-not will become more succinct in the days following this ordeal. "Out-h-side not yet safe. Will s-h-tay here." She doesn't seem too happy at the prospect -- but then again, there's not really ANY expression on her features right now. A few random outbursts will come from her over the next few hours, but for the most part, she will remain in her corner unless given some kind of outside stimulus.

--End--