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Choose Your Fights Wisely

Who: Bonecrusher, Fusillade, Long Haul, Scrapper, and Swindle.
IC Year: 2025
Location: New Crystal City, Earth
TP: Non-TP

None


Summary: (May 2025) A still-functioning smart mouth, and a lack of custom parts, makes an Air Commander target #1 (at least for the evening) on the list of the Constructicons.


NCC Medical Ward


The Crystal City repair bay is far larger than previous versions in Imperial Headquarters or Trypticon himself. Clearly it was designed by a medic, for a medic. The entire room is rectangular in nature with medical beds arranged in a neat grid pattern. The beds themselves vary, with some being precious little more than metal slabs, and others having full scanners and tools attached, as well as everything in between. In total, there are about twenty beds. There is room for more in an emergency situation. The cabinets line the walls, spaced out between medical terminals. Everything has a place, and organization is key. With battle mode being initiated, the huge windows are covered up as the bay is encased in metal for its own protection. Access can still be gained with the right codes, however. Red warning lights flash on and off.


Long Haul putters around the room, righting things and gathering up broken test and surgery equipment, grumbling as he does. "Jus' when we're startin' to get this place back in order... when I find out I'm gonna... wait 'til I'm back to snuff..." His movements are even clumsier than usual, and tend to be rather jerky, as he's forced to turn his entire torso to look at things, and has to be careful how he carries anything to avoid blocking his line of sight. Also, he's being careful not to strain us, meaning that some of the heavier items, items he could heft without problem before, are being left and place.


Oh, yeah. And he's still missing his head.


Being unconscious certainly doesn't mean that one doesn't exist. Fusillade has at least been equipped with proper stasis equipment. Currently, she is in fact the very same condition that she was deposited here. Last evening's posing on the table and the clean-up job, both by Bonecrusher, appear mostly intact, although there are some fluid-stained mottles on the floor from where additional sea water had dripped out from her chassis. In robot mode when she was struck by a rocket salvo, she is pretty much stripped of any external kibble. Wingblades, horizontal and vertical stabilizers, and a good amount of super- and infra-structure along both arms are missing. The nacelle cowling to one of her legs is also wholly missing, leaving only the main shin strut connecting her knee and foot. Some would pay well to be in the same room with her and silence.


Oh! And that's just the stuff that can be seen on Fusillade. It doesn't look TOO terribly bad, but there's a slew of internal stress fractures and frame-shifts riddling that half-curled dark grey and white figure.


Scrapper has been out working on other parts of the city, trusting that the invisible medical gumby can keep order in the medical ward in his absence. One glance, and Scrapper peering through a crack in his fingers, whimpering. That medical gumby is going down as a doormat. Just as soon as Scrapper catches him. Slaggin' invisibility.


Bonecrusher has been out working as well. His first words upon arriving are, "It is not my fault, Scrapper."


Maybe it was a mistake of Bonecrusher to busy himself elsewhere, but that can't be changed now. He hastily makes his way inside, almost slipping on a puddle of fluid on the ground, and beholds Long Haul, who's busy cleaning up. "/He/ should be cleaning up his mess, not you," he growls.


Long Haul finishes what he had been doing and then tilts forward at the waist to examine the liquid leaks on the ground. Does he want to take care of that? Well, it's rather hard to operate a mop when you have to lean forward just to see what you're mopping up. That's that, then. Long Haul trudges over to a corner where he's converted some still-present bit of rubble into a seat. "He, who?" he asks.


Scrapper is about to verbally bludgeon Bonecrusher into admitting this mess is all his fault, because since he's denying it, it's got to be his fault, when Bonecrusher starts talking about a 'he'. Fingers still firmly clamped over his optic band, Scrapper gravel-growls, "'He' did it, huh? And suppose he's mysteriously not in our records, right?"


"Now, c'mon, Scrapper," Long Haul actually defends his brother. "You know when Crusher wrecks things, he does a more complete job than that!"


"He is Astrotrain," Bonecrusher explains testily, though his anger is obvious directed at the absent triple changer, not at Long Haul or Scrapper. "Our lovely shuttle boy thought it wise to play with Cinderblock when we came back after the scuffle with Jetfire. And before you ask, I don't have a piece of the slaggin' Autobot for you, either.


Despite her own body as evidence to the contrary, Fusillade's overall strategy during the encounter at least halted the Guardian's surveillance of NCC. Astrotrain's subsequent arrival and the ensuing rivalry between he and Cinderblock does not exist from her point of view. Intermittently, during the short, tense pauses between the Constructicons' clipped comments to each other, a droplet can be heard. But only rarely. Maybe once or twice during the shouting. And eventually, once during an intermission.


Scrapper takes a few uneven steps towards the door, uneven due to his insistence on walking with his primary visual sensor covered. He mumbles, "I'm going to go away. When I come back, this place is going to be clean, and Jetfire's head is going to be sitting on a steel plate, surrounded by energon shots."


A dream world? Assuredly. But a nice diversion from a reality. He can only imagine all the repair work, both on Decepticons and equipment, that he'll have to do. Tricursed Triple-Changer! He drops his hands to take in what is. "So. ...where to start?"


Long Haul points to the unconscious Air Commander laying on the table. "She might be a good choice, boss." He leans back and stretches out his legs, emitting a sighing noise. "Damn, I could use a drink," he mutters, "but it ain't easy with all these damned jury-rigs and all..."


Bonecrusher agrees. "Yeah, she's in pretty bad condition. I'm gonna wipe up the floor in the mean time, and Long Haul? You tell me what's too heavy or too difficult for you to move." With this, Bonecrusher goes looking for a rag in order to get to wiping.


Swindle follows the narrow path that has been cleared of the rubble and detritus of the destruction of the city, nodding to himself as he finds it leads into the medical bay. That's quite logical, after all. With a grin he strolls into the ward with some sort of equipment tucked under one arm, half-heartedly he sweeps an appraising look across the remnants of the medical ward. Oh well, nothing much that he can make use of. "Evening all," He announces cheerfully to those that he can see present in the area.


No flying surfaces. Innards shaken like a martini and drained nearly dry. Not a good few past days for Fusillade. That's okay though! She's not complaining -- yet. In fact, the idea of shipping her back to Cybertron might come to some, but be dismissed or not even considered by others.


Scrapper shrugs. She-jet it is. He paces over to the table where she's been laid out and muses aloud, "New edict: the next time Astrotrain sets foot in medical, he is to be converted to office chair form as soon as possible." Then, he considers the 'patient'. "Airfoils and pig iron, she looks worse than-" he pauses, well, yes, she does look worse than Sideswipe did when Scrapper was done with him, but that's a rather incriminating non sequiteur, "-worse than Omega's FACE. Yeah. Let's see what I can do..."


He leans over and fiddles with a few internal connections. Nope, no anesthetics for when she wakes up to the ruin of her body. Thank goodness for the lack of Decepticon medical malpractice laws! It's absent-mindedness, really, coupled with the fact that he's got a bunch of patients who *don't* like being doped up. Really.


Scrapper goes to work on Fusillade, bringing her back to consciousness.

You slowly regain consciousness under the ministrations of Scrapper.


Long Haul turns his torso towards Swindle when he arrives so as to get a look at who it is. There's a faint whirring sound as gears try to activate a neck that isn't there, and then he just replies, "Hey," before turning towards Scrapper. "Worse than Omega's face? That's pretty bad... I'll keep that in mind 'bout Astrotrain, though. You gonna make that public?"


Bonecrusher; meanwhile, has found a good sized rag and is mopping up all the various fluids on the floor. "If it was up to me, I would make Astrotrain wipe up that floor on his hands and knees," he says. Bonecrusher himself isn't wiping on his hands and knees - he has found a metal rod - possibly the same that Astrotrain misused - to combine with his rag into an impromptu mop. Improvisation is the life of MSE!


Swindle's gaze turns rather puzzled as it falls upon Long Haul and he hesitates in his path. Falling to a complete stop he takes a closer look at the actual people that are in the bay, possibly to make sure that at least the majority still possess their heads. "Sooo, how are we all...?"


"Long Haul is missing his head, Fusillade will need a lot of work until she will look marginally like a jet again, Scrapper has to do said work, and I am cleaning the mess someone else made," Bonecrusher states the obvious. "So how slag was your day?"


With a whiplash motion akin to that of a striking snake, Fusillade snaps to sitting position with an agonized half-groan, half-bellow of some primal monosyllable intended to clear intakes of excess seawater. The fingertalons of one hand screeches on the table counter surface, while the other slashes blindly in the air, whistling through the air bare inches from Scrapper's faceplate. Optics activate in a weak topaz shade, and she clutches the ruins of her arms atop her knees to brace herself momentarily as she shakily assesses her surroundings. Almost immediately, she begins to list to one side, dangerously close to the edge of the table.


"Shoulda maybe shut down her motor functions first," observes Long Haul calmly in response to all the flailing. Like he's /such/ an expert, but this won't stop him from being a backseat medic! Then he again torso-turns towards Swindle and adds to Bonecrusher's assessment, "Yeah. Jetfire chopped it off a few days back," as he lifts his right hand to point at the spot where the head should be. Strangely, he almost seems less annoyed with the affair than Bonecrusher did.


After considerable recuperating time, you feel somewhat recovered, although your weapon systems remain offline.


Scrapper recoils with a terrific cringe and blurts, "Ack, it's alive!" He always knew that one day, his patients would arise as zombies and devour him. Wait, that's Ratchet's nightmare, not Scrapper's! Close enough. So not only is his patient obviously a mother-board munching member of the walking dead, but she's about to fall off the table, too? Oh, the indignity.


In a tone that is not assuring in the least given that he's still shaky from his near-clawing, Scrapper says, "Whoa there, girl!" Then, he reaches out to grab Fusillade, hoping to keep her on the table. Foolish, foolish Scrapper. When will he learn not to meddle with the forces of the undead?


Scrapper succeeds in grasping Fusillade, throwing her off-balance.


Bonecrusher keeps mopping up and tidying all the while, trusting Scrapper to handle his unruly patient. He wouldn't be much of a medic if he couldn't wrestle down one half-dead jetgirl by himself.


Scrapper recoils with a terrific cringe and blurts, "Ack, it's alive!" He always knew that one day, his patients would arise as zombies and devour him. Wait, that's Ratchet's nightmare, not Scrapper's! Close enough. So not only is his patient obviously a mother-board munching member of the walking dead, but she's about to fall off the table, too? Oh, the indignity.


In a tone that is not assuring in the least given that he's still shaky from his near-clawing, Scrapper says, "Whoa there, girl!" Then, he reaches out to grab Fusillade, hoping to keep her on the table. Foolish, foolish Scrapper. When will he learn not to meddle with the forces of the undead? <repose for Swindle>


Swindle nods in commiseration, hefting the equipment that he's been carrying up into one hand to demonstrate, it's clearly something that used to be expensive. "Slag." He simply comments with a grimace, before tucking it back under one shoulder. He would just hurl it into a corner, but Medics can be touchy about that sort of behaviour in a medical bay, no matter how junky it already is. "So what was that you were saying about Astrotrain?"


Bonecrusher repeats himself, elaborating a bit more this time. "We came back here. Cinderblock had no legs - or still has no legs. Astrotrain had to carry Cinderblock. Astrotrain didn't like it. Astrotrain batted Cinderblock around with a pole and made a big mess that we have to clean up now." The Constructicon is clearly still miffed about that. "And I had my hands full keeping a ranking officer from leaking all over the place," he adds.


"What?" Long Haul exclaims, straightening before leaning forward. "He's a Primus forsaken TROOP TRANSPORT! You mean he was breakin' up medical because someone actually made him transport a troop?" He growls softly, then continues, "I mean, I may complain about my job, but 'least I do it without tearin' things up about it. Some peoples gots no work ethics."


Away. The shooting pains in her leg, the meat-grinder rawness of arms, and the hard-to-comprehend cacophony of dull and sharp aches, all of these were things that had to be escaped, moved away from. And there was suddenly a rather burly, rather green, roadblock to the haven of quivering in a corner. One that had to be eliminated. Arms are pinned, and with a shrill that would make any hellcat proud, Fusillade lurches to bury those silvery rows of fangs into the inner crook of Scrapper's arm. However, the inescapable reality of pain snaps her short like a charging dog at the end of its lead, and soon Scrapper's iron grip is met with only the most feeble of queasy opposition. A faint "He's going to be so mad," whimpers out from her as she releases Scrapper's arm. She plunks her forehead on the tabletop, head down between legs. Another sound then begins to escape her, one of jostled, insulted tanks protesting against the overload of sensory information. It sounds disturbingly like dry heaves.


"I was trying to tell him that, but did he listen?" Bonecrusher chips in. Indeed, he had pointed to the example of his headless-but-hardworking brother. Then he looks over at Scrapper and Fusillade. "Need any help there?"


Swindle tilts his head as he listens, giving his full attention to the matter at hand. He then leans back against the wall near the door and smirks slightly, "Business as usual, then?" He comments, turning with some interest to watch the display that Fusillade is putting on. Almost absently, he tosses the heap of junk from one hand to the other as he watches the scene unfolding before him.


Scrapper is bit! Now he is doomed to turn into a B-1B by the light of the full moon. And Cybertron has multiple moons. Auuugh! Scrapper twitches, optic band brightening dangerously, and he's a wire away from shaking Fusillade until she stops moving. Then, the patient busies herself with getting friendly with the table, and Scrapper stands there awkwardly, wondering just what the heck to do here. "Some of that re-os water... no, that's not going far enough. Chainsaw, stat!"


Bonecrusher snaps into "dutiful nurse" mode and puts aside the piece of junk he was moving to go and quickly fetch a chainsaw for Scrapper. After a few moments' digging, he actually finds one in the "parts that are still good" pile, revving it up for a second to test it, then bringing it to Scrapper.


"Scrapper, I doan' remember seeing a chainsaw on any of the transferred inventory lists," Long Haul points out as he automatically starts to pull himself into a standing position, his movements more awkward than usual due to his 'eyes' not being where he's used to. "If there's one about, Scavenger probably has it, but it's kinda hard to go through his stash when my, uhm, peri, uhm... my side vision's all screwed up like this."


Or there's one right there. "Hnh," Long Haul adds as he hears one revving. "Then again..." then he grumbles something about inventories being out of sorts.


A typically barked out 'Are you SERIOUS?!' only really comes out as a croak of "Reuse aeries?" to Scrapper's declaration to using such a highly invasive instrument. Fusillade makes another attempt to straighten back out, before collapsing back on the table, turning onto one side and half-curling. "He really /is/ going to be mad..." comes out tremulously. At the sound of the activating motor, she gives another start, but it really only looks like little more than a half-hearted flop. Fusillade waits for the inevitable. Military healthcare meets contracting to the lowest bidder, at its finest.


Swindle regards the chainsaw warily as he straightens up, leaning away from the wall. "Anyway," he comments, "I only came in here to mention..." He holds the junked part up in one hand, "This is, /was/ part of a Kaderan tripmine, specifically the IFF sensor. I can't seem to find the rest of the explosive so, if anyone's heading down around near the old troop quarters, step lightly, okay?" He flashes a grin to those present as he drifts out of the doorway, possibly before anyone can get ahold of him.


Long Haul waves a hand towards Swindle, almost not acknowledging. "Eh. We'll just send Bonecrusher down there first. He likes things that explode."


"Yeah, I'll take care of it," Bonecrusher says, equally unfazed. Handling explosives is a routine part of his job, after all.


Swindle would reply, but he's already drifted away. Let's just hope that no one has to clean up the ash later, huh?


Lowest bidder? Scrapper only works for the Decepticons because that way he avoids getting Omega Supreme dropped on his head, really. He didn't so much bid as he was extorted into the position. It explains a lot. It doesn't explain his sudden desire for a chainsaw.


Scrapper gleefully takes the chainsaw from Bonecrusher, and for a moment, seems inclined to turn it on his own arm. Yes, crystal cabin fever is in full effect, and all work and no play has indeed made Scrapper into a something something. As Swindle leaves, Scrapper notes, sighing, "Check up on that when you get a chance, will you, Bonecrusher? And, right. Fusillade? You've got a lot of twitching and stuff," so technical! "going on. That'll make a clean set of repairs a bit tricky, if you don't quit with the moving. So I'm just going to send someone to get some happy-fun anaesthetics, okay?" A chainsaw in one 'breath' and 'happy fun' anaesthetics in the other.


Long Haul turns towards Scrapper and just stands there for awhile, staring through his headlights as he rests his hands on his waist. Happy fun anesthetics. He decides that he's going to /have/ to drag Scrapper out for a break here soon. Just as soon as his head had been rebuilt. What he says out loud, however, is, "We got some in here, actually. Some of them aren't even expired yet!" With that he plods over to a cabinet that's seen better days, wrenches it open, and starts sorting through the contents carefully, holding each bottle up to one of his headlights before moving on.


So she gets happy-fun anaesthetics and Bonecrusher just gets strapped down when it's time for his repairs? Talk about fair and equal treatment. Unless "happy-fun" is just a codeword for "blow over the head to dull the pain sensors." Not that Bonecrusher would ever /ask/ for any happy fun anaesthetics. "Sure, I will," he casually tells Scrapper, keeping up with his tidying since Long Haul is already looking for the happy-fun.


At the conversation from Scrapper, Fusillade is marginally aware that she should probably take offense to that somehow, and make more of a howling cuss-storm over the matter. She continues to lie on one side, shoulder hunched up against her neck and hands slung out over the edge of the table. The only acknowledgement that Scrapper really gets is a rhino-like bleat from Fusillade, and very little motion, sharply contrasting with the earlier bucking undulations. The revving sawblade gets a glassy eyed stare, even as a few uncomfortable sounding gurgles sound out from Fusillade's innards.


When Scrapper gets bitten by another Decepticon who doesn't have an animal based mode, he starts getting out the drugs. Preferably the drugs that come with big smilie faces on their bottles. He considers his chainsaw. Why did he ask for that, again? Well, aside from the inbuilt desire to combat the undead, it'll be useful for removing large swaths of ruined components quickly. He nods to Bonecrusher. Yes. Let the demolitionist deal with mines. To Long Haul, he directs, "Look for the one with the smilie on it." Fusillade, he just eyes warily.


"The smilie? Got it," Long Haul mutters as he continues to sort. It takes awhile, there's some noise, and a few things are dropped (darned lowered line of sight because he has no darned head), there's a few curses concerning improper tinning, and finally... he walks towards his brother, only stumbling once because of his confused perspective. "This whatcha looking for? It's got a smilie."


Clawing at the air and Scrapper post-reactivation. Dry heaves after biting him? Surely the paint must be toxic, what with that color and all. The shock from all the trauma has settled in nicely now, though. Fusillade, sans most of one lower leg, all of her flying surfaces, and the greater part of her arms' superstructure, is practically frozen in a slack-jawed gaze at Scrapper and his chosen medical instrument. The emulation of someone having been clubbed over the head is stunning, but it's highly likely that Scrapper isn't risking another spastic cuisinart moment. Her head begins to creak to the left infinitesimally, closely watching Long Haul and Bonecrusher in their search once their presence has established itself.


Warning colours of toxic contents inside? Ah, for all that Mixmaster is surely poisonous at times, on Scrapper's part, surely it's just a ruse, like the king snake and the coral snake. Holding the chainsaw loosely at one side, Scrapper snatches up the smilie happy-fun anesthetic from Long Haul, crowing, "That'll do nicely!" He turns off the chainsaw and puts it aside, moving to administer the drug.


Bonecrusher has no idea why Fusillade would be watching /him/! He is not bringing her any happy-fun drugs. He did bring the chainsaw, but now, he's just tidying.


"Oh, SCREW, it's not like this hasn't ever happened before," Fusillade rasps out, raising head to blearily regard the attending Scrapper as he comes into view. "I just know that he's gonna be..." She trails off, some part of her mind snapping out that they really don't care. Passively staring at the ground, she mumbles out a "Thanks", and complies nicely enough to any ensuing handling.


Long Haul steps back several feet and... just stands there. Occasionally, to anyone listening very closely (which would be... no one in this room), the faint sound of whirring as small motors move uselessly can be heard, but mostly he is still, only adjusting his stance as necessary to keep a non-eye on Scrapper. He does pay enough attention to get curious, though. "He, who?" he asks.


Scrapper just dumps the anesthetic into Fusillade's most-intact fuel tank. Yeah, good thing this is a time-release deal. It won't knock her out, but it will make it not hurt when Scrapper finally decides to use that chainsaw. "So tell me when it stops hurting, okay?" He's not so sure she's really up for any complicated answers. He also has no idea who this 'he' is, but Long Haul already asked about that.


"The big purple fuck," Fusillade snipes out. Gee, considering who and what she's been dealing with as of late, and as of not so lately, that could be any of three distinguished commanders. Best not to pry for details! Although, after the liquid is dolloped into her most intact tank, perhaps it COULD be good fun. A few shifts of weight are all that escape Fusillade as a rosy sheen tints the corners of her saffron optics. At this point, she looks damned well like she doesn't care. "Bonecrusher comes out to fights. He'd be okay if he didn't hang out with most of you guys! Yes indeedy, he's a sweetie!" Oh dear Primus, insipid rhyme. A good clubbing right now might do them all good, but it's a clear bet that yes, things have stopped hurting, and have moved beyond into the 'not aware they're even there'. Otherwise, she might have attempted to leap off the table.


Bonecrusher, who is still busy with tidying and waiting to see if Scrapper needs assistance again, turns his head at the unfamiliar swear word. Apparently, Fusillade has picked up some of the "taint". And "sweetie"? "She's in a deliri... not knowing what she is saying, right, Scrapper?" he asks.


Scrapper pauses and stares at Fusillade. Did she just say that? Yeah, she just did. He tilts his head sideways and inquires of Long Haul, "Think I could convince Arachnae to ban *all* of Aerospace from the medical ward? Maybe if I caught her one of those Autobot cars and wrapped him up all nicely? Because really... I'm not putting up with *this*. And Bonecrusher, scrap, she could be, but... need I remind you that you are not a warrior, and that your tasks construction are and should always be your first priority?" Then, Scrapper picks up the chainsaw and flicks it on. Vmm-vmm-vmm!


Long Haul wouldn't have pried for details if she hadn't kept repeating herself like that! Besides, there are a lot of folks 'big purple' can describe. We won't go into the third word. Not that it matters, because the next thing Fusillade says completely distracts whatever else Long Haul was thinking about.


The transporter takes two steps forward and clenches his fists reflectively, emitting a growling noise as he does. "Oh, /that's/ a bright thing to say to the folks who are gettin' you in working order AS WE SPEAK, the folks who are gonna be responsible for buildin' where you're gonna be livin', the folks who... who..." then he practically roars before continuing, now shouting, "As for showing up for the FIGHTS! Who do you think I LOST my head to begin with, huh? Only /I/ went up against that guy solo! And /we/ were there on the oil rig attack! And who think TORE DOWN THE WALLS of Autobot City? AND WHEN THE FRAG WAS THE LAST TIME /YOU/ WENT ONE ON ONE AGAINST METROPLEX, YOU ARROGANT LITTLE TWIT!?!"


Bonecrusher looks at Scrapper with the expression of someone who has the vague feeling that he's being accused of something, but doesn't know why. He didn't say anything about being a warrior, did he?


"Thank you, Long Haul. Your opinion is duly noted," Scrapper notes coldly. "Bonecrusher? Fetch me a dead Seeker for your jetgirl friend." He honestly doesn't have any Lancer parts in stock, but Scrapper has another reason behind it. Custom models are often fiercely proud of their individual looks. To be reduced to the mass-produced looks of a bog-standard factory model would be quiet humiliating, Scrapper figures. She's even a bit of an artist, isn't she? All the more reason for the lack of creativity in the Seeker design to hit her like a slap in the face. Also, it'll get her fixed and out of Scrapper's way, which he considers a Good Thing.


The bite of the saw into ruined armor fills the bay with its metallic grind, even as the trio descend upon Fusillade for her boldness. Long Haul gets a flat, distant, "Yes, you are the epitome of perfection. How foolish of us to forget that," There goes the 'delirious' theory out the window. "Go ahead, use your superior knowledge to make something better. Lose that twitcore and slap on a few extra layers of armor on someone else. No need to bother with the parts." There's a decidedly lackluster tone in the words, and it's unclear whether or not it's the effect of the dulling additive, or something else entirely. The slap of materials on the ground continues for some time.


Bonecrusher looks at Scrapper for a moment. When did he fall out of favour with his brother? Then he looks over to Long Haul and asks, "Where do we keep the Seeker parts again?" The flat babble from Fusillade vaguely creeps him out.


"Find 'em your damn self," Long Haul growls, tilting his body towards Bonecrusher. "I ain't doing a thing to help that... that..." finally he finishes with a lame but breathless, "to help her."


"Fine!" Bonecrusher gives back, rather snappish himself. He rushes outside to where the Decepticons used to keep NCC's dead. Let's hope the destruction of the city left some Seeker bodies intact. Shortly thereafter, he returns, dragging the body of what used to be a Seeker and dumps it in front of Scrapper's feet.


"C'mon, it'd be so easy," Fusillade hisses out, gaze locked fiercely upon Long Haul. "You really ARE ready to believe the worst in all of us..." The corner of those hematite lips crack upwards into a smirk as she hears Scrapper's edict, mind touching upon the idea, the concepts, before she says, "Look at you. Fixed in the throes of rage that can only come from an arrogance equal to that which you claim I possess." Still remarkably detached, she angles her head, and peers at the spectre. "My albatross, Scrapper?"


Scrapper finishes hacking out the irreparable parts. Chainsaws do make it quick. Then, he sets upon the dead Seeker with the chainsaw. He comes up with the bits of the Seeker that roughly match the bits of Fusillade that are missing. Apropos of nothing, he answers, "Huh? I'm, pretty sure this guy used to be a F-15. Fokker Albatros Seekers are pretty rare." Then, he sets about grafting the newly severed Seeker-bits to the Lancer.


Long Haul couldn't have seen Fusillade, because he had his body turned towards Bonecrusher and currently lacks proper peripheral vision. But the words are heard, anyway. "One, Bonecrusher knows damn well where we keep the bodies, like you saw, if he'd stop to think on his own for a second rather than just immediately askin' for help. Two, you say things like whatcha just said, and I'm gonna believe bad things aboutcha. Worse I done was tell you I ain't totin' your stuff around for hobby, or that it's faster to sort something myself then train you for it for a one time deal. And you wanna talk 'bout belivin' the worse? I even say that much, which is the truth, and you go runnin' off in a huff, like I just insulted you or something. I wasn't calling you stupid, least not then! I was sayin' you don't know something you don't know! Hell, I don't even like Mixmaster gettin' into my supply shelves, and he's a fraggin' /genius/. I don't even like Scrapper doin' it, and he's High Command! But you get pissy 'cos I'm not treatin' you /special/? And arrogant? Maybe. I do got pride. Pride in what I do, in here and out there, and you indicate I ain't pulling my weight on the battle field, yeah, that's gonna piss me off."


"Phfft, whatEVER, I was out flying with Bonecrusher to find your frickin' head in the frickin' outback the frickin' night before, of course you weren't frickin' goin' to be frickin' at the frickin' flying fight with frickin' Jetfire. You've got your OWN inadequacy issues to be immediately thinkin' that I MUST have meant YOU. You ain't gonna be stickin' your neck out for anyone... *snrk* anytime... *phhhff-ff-tt* soon. BWAHHA." Those last few words of Fusillade's are starting to break up into a faint snicker as the absurdity of the situation finally begins to sink in.


Scrapper finishes up a repair job that ended rather more grisly than his usual work. He doesn't really listen to Long Haul's rant, given that if he started doing that now, he'd never get anything done, but he does pick out a few things, and in the end, Scrapper starts laughing. Not maniacally, but actual doubled-over laughter. At least, he lets in the others in on his own private joke, "Y'know, she sounds just like Axis. But without the accent. I'm going to clear out. I've got some hydrodynamics data to verify." With that, the Constructicon takes his leave of the medical ward.


Belatedly, an idea strikes Fusillade as she addresses Scrapper, she perks up. "Hey, since this was like a misunderstanding -- I know how you darlings are upset because of the work environment. I'd be upset too if my favorite workplace was all banged up." She cants her head to the side wondering if Scrapper's snickering with or at her. "Axis? Is that a bad thing? He comes up with some great ideas. Anyway, I was wondering if there was any spare white and yellow color schemes to go with this?"


Bonecrusher looks somewhat baffled. He didn't quite get Scrapper's joke, and he gets even less what Fusillade is getting at. "White and yellow colour schemes? What, on you? You want us to paint you up like Fleet?"


Scrapper would be smirking at the moment if he could, but what he says is, "I think all we've got left is purple, but oh, gee. You'd have to ask Long Haul. The paint stores are more his area."


Constructicon neeeenja vanish! Well, Scrapper just makes for the door. Same difference.


Long Haul snarls, taking another involuntary step towards Fusillade before he regains control of himself. Then there's another step. She's laughing! She's laughing at /him/! "I don't imagine who /else/ you'd be talking about, 'if he didn't hang out with most of you guys'! What other guys are in here?" He doesn't seem to hear Scrapper. Even without his head (which doesn't do much in the emotive department, anyway) his rage is evident. It looks for a moment that he might have to restrained, and then there's at least some concession on her part, and the conversation moves on, and Long Haul continues to focus on getting his rage under control. Had he a head, with eyes, one could imagine he has them closed right now. Had he a need to breath, one could imagine he'd be gulping down breaths.


And then it's gone. As though a light were turned off. Constructicons, for all their surliness, can change moods rather quickly. "The Axis thing... no, that ain't good. But anyways. You was saying something about paint?"


There are some frightening gaps in Fusillade's knowledge of Decepticon gossip and vendettas. "Axis did something to piss you guys off?" There's a genuinely incredulous look on Fusillade's spattered features as she tries to peek over the standard issue Seeker's lilac and jasmine intakes at the seething Long Haul. She appears to hover between curiosity and fear.


To Bonecrusher's uncommon sense, Fusillade murmurs. "You know, now that I think about it, that would wind up making me look like him, wouldn't it? Huh. Didn't think about it. I suppose I could manage for myself though so you guys can do more important things."


Speaking of which, Bonecrusher has more important things to do right now, so he putters off. Maybe someone else will get Fusillade some paint, maybe not.


Long Haul nods his head. Well, the little gears that would contribute to that action whir, and then Long Haul remembers he has no head. He starts to cross his arms, but as they pass his headlights he remembers that they'll get in the way of his vision. He sighs, or makes a sighing noise over his speaker. "Some months back, during the whole Battleship business, Axis had an engine go out in the middle of battle. He gets on and makes a public report about how it was due to 'shoddy Constructicon maintenance.' Thing was, no Constructicon had ever worked on him. Scrapper makes a pronouncement that, since our work can't be trusted, he'll make sure only top notch technicians like Beadblast and Kitbash do the work on him. Then Galvatron makes an announcement that if Scrapper gives him substandard tear, he'll rip his face off. Anyways, eventually Axis admits we never did any maintenance on 'im, and then says turns out no one has due to some filing error that had him listed as still dead. But anyway... yeah. Kind of got on our nerves." Then Long Haul points towards one of the corners, one not near his seat. "Our painter's there. It's wrecked, but we still got some paint in it, and in the cabinet next to it. We got another store for paint on level 6-F out near the hub. We got primer and basic protectant sent in from Cybertron in the temporary storage sheds, bud I'd prefer you ask me before just digging into those, as that stuff's on inventory."


Regathering herself atop the table, Fusillade wobbles into a fair approximation of a cross-legged sitting pose. The motion sends a flex of wingjoints. Catching the motion out of the corner of her left optic, Fusillade yipes and slams hands down on the table, digging into the hardened surface and giving the single-pieced, fixed geometry appendages the same kind of look that most mechs gave Unicron upon seeing the planet sized entity sneak up on them... "They're... they're..." Leaning forward excessively to counterbalance the new sensation of the back-mounted weight, she cants her head upwards and listens. "Ain't that a shame. I... don't think I've ever done that?" At the mention of primer and such, Fusillade hums. "White primer with a sealant coat." She shrugs. "Gloss white all over. Why the smelt not? And you're already stressed about the place being messed up, no reason to add on to that." How many damned facets are stuffed in that high-strung processor?


Long Haul shrugs his shoulders. Considering they no longer frame a head, this move looks rather strange. "You mentioned bein' ready to believe the worst about folks. Well, look around us. We're the Decepticons. We /all/ tend to assume the worse 'cos that's usually what we get. Not that I seen into anything better on the other side. They just /pretend/ to be nicer. If we read a little too much into what you said, that's 'cos it's what we've heard millions of times before over millions of years. For every Mil-Ops sort who's willin' to give us respect for what we do, there's twenty lookin' down their nosecones 'cos we're builders by creation. We're no-" he shuts off suddenly, deciding he'd rather not go there. His earlier rage seems to have burned itself out, leaving him tired and a bit empty. Of course, he's always a bit empty, and has been that way for nine million years. "I'll carry in the primer and sealant sometime tonight. You prolly shouldn't leave, anyways." Then he pauses. "Oh. I'll letcha know 'cos you're his boss, but if Astrotrain shows? He's not s'posed to be in here. If onna us catch him in here, we've got orders to reconfigure him into a chair."


A cryptic, "Cybertron had to come from SOMEWHERE," serves as oblique affirmation to Long Haul's role as master draftsmech. From time to time, Fusillade glances expectantly to the gap between shoulders, only to drop her gaze to Long Haul's chest, or wherever the approximation of his 'face'? "Not like I have anywhere else to BE right now anyway." She snaps her attention over to the still waiting form of Cinderblock, and asks, "Just WHAT were they doing? Not like they'd recognize me at this point anyway." Pissing off the better half of MSE, no control over the troopers in her own branch, and despite being in a better equipped body, not having the customization slots to support it... not looking good here. Not in the least. Jumping into a large Tesla arc sounded good right about now.


Long Haul's speaker emits a burst of static that could be a snort. He starts to cross his arms and then lowers them again. He stays still as he tries to shake his head again, remembers he doesn't have it, and growls softly, muttering, "Y'know, s'hard enough doing the non-verbal part of communicating when you doan' even got a face... this is gonna get on my nerves quick..." before he says out loud, "I'm hearin' Astrotrain, y'know, guy who's /function/ is troop transport? I hear he got pissed 'cos someone actually asked him to, you know, transport a troop, so he tossed Cinderblock around a bit to vent his frustrations. I mean, me, yeah, I understand hatin' your job, but I tend to go find a drone or an Autobot to take it out on." Then he absently waves a dismissive hand in front of the place where his face would be. "But that's just second hand. Bonecrusher saw it, you'll have to ask him for eye-witness details. Anyways..." he turns and plods towards the door, "I got work to do. I'll be by later with that stuff. You'll want someone else puttin' it on the out of the way spots, as my visual uhm, ac... my seeing isn't what it should be atta moment."


A fair enough job of taking in the information is done by Fusillade as she nods. First about the fighting, and then about the painting. "Um, thanks? You could have just done it yourself and taken it out on me some more. Bye." She ducks her head, and then swings legs off the side of the table, tapping the surface with now single-thrustered heels. A few moments after Long Haul slips out, Fusillade stiffens, looking up sharply, and wonders aloud to a room empty of those qualified to answer... "Frak! What's this going to do to my transformation sizes?!?"


--End--

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