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Did You Do Your Hair?

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Did You Do Your Hair?

Who: Fusillade, Jetfire
IC Year: 2028
Location: The Steel Balloon
TP: Vindicator

Jetfire surmises that there is something definitely different about a recharge-deprived Fusillade, but doesn't quite figure out that it's gestalt technology sitting in her joints.


The Steel Balloon

Within the Steel Balloon, there is a dance floor immediately past the front door. Behind the floor is the main bar, which curves around like an elongated half-octagon. Several bartenders busily serve the customers that flow into this place at any given time.


Jetfire sits near the very back of the 'club' his appearance unmistakable, even in the relative obscurity of the back most booths. He's alone, and his red visor is lit, gazing towards the entrance of the bar silently as some energon mixture of a particularly unusual orange color sits untouched on the table in front of him.


The resonant thoom of the dance floor washes over the Steel Balloon, the strobe lights swish through the room, yellow, green, red. Immersing herself in the sensations, Fusillade lingers at the threshold, a clear expression of relief on her features. She doesn't dally long, though, earning a few curious looks as she passes up multiple chances to socialize on the floor. The beeline motion is noticeable against the bobbing and milling about of the other patrons, and slapping a wingblade on the counter, she raises one palm to her temple, and half-groans out her request. One hand feels around blindly to pull up a barstool.


That implacable red band follows the progress of Fusillade as she moves over to the bar, her apparent condition noted and a small smirk curling his lips behind his datamask. With a slight thought the optical and scanning equipment switch to distance enhanced mode and zoom in, beginning to run what diagnostics can be done across the distance of the Balloon, a slight tilt of his head resulting from the limited findings. Most interesting... he turns his attention to his drink for a moment, which somehow had about a quarter of it vanish sometime in the last few moments.


Fusillade's figure still bears the slim armoring of her atmospheric alt mode, curves and all. The typically vivacious flier doesn't even bother looking up until she's polished off the double-shot of high grade plunked down before her. It might be a trick of the lighting, a scintilla of stray UV irradience, but it seemed like there were residual signals lingering around her core and multiplex systems before it gets washed out by the overexposure of the energon slipping through. A few more moments of deadly silence, before she looks up and begins looking back to the dance floor. It's at this point that she catches the albedo of the Air Guardian's frame. A resigned whuff escapes her, before she skates off the stool, and skims over to a knot of merry-makers.


The ruby gaze traces her movements, the scanner units still running as he sizes her up. Yep, something is definitely off of spec, but he's not too concerned. She looks like she's already hung over, and that can only lead to good times. He tilts his head slightly and activates his internal commsystem, sending a message << You look like hell. Try astrogation again? >> he then settles back in the shadow, the red glow fading out as his scanners go dormant.


Stepping into the slinking motions of the group, Fusillade twists sinuously while simultaneously activating anti-gravs, something akin to bliss on her features. However, that shatters the moment that the feedback from a very close-range radio hail starts. Near-inverted, she flails a bit, before excusing herself from the suspended dance jam to plunk back down on terra firma. Striding, nearly stalking over, she shakes her head, and waves over a waiter for another serving. Clutching the edge of the glass betwixt thumb and forefinger, she stands, and knocks it back, before speaking. "Not exactly study hall, Jetfire," she remarks. "The Pit? That's a pretty good analogy. M'just trying to forget some things. Intentionally. At least for a little bit."


"You've been modified, and I'd imagine by the looks of it quite against your will. Such a pity that they chose to fiddle with you, I fear you may never be quite right after this." Jetfire states easily, acting as if he knows more than he actually does, "I mean, those excess signals can NOT be good for you." his drink is now a bit lower down the large glass, his dark optic band scanning up her frame, "But, I see they didn't bother to improve on your physical design any... pity."


Fusillade pauses, and then glances down at the blazing orange drink, the room only faintly beginning to tilt. Struggling against the ghost recollections of events she never participated in, she asks, "You done with that?" And then, he speaks, glibly, smug in his confidence, three different emotions wrenching her in disparate directions. "SO sorry y'don' get the plezzur of blowin' up somethin' high-end." At that point, she trudges back to the bar, squares up the tab, and plods to the freedom of the doorway, and the open skies.


Jetfire stares after Fusillade for a few moments, "You know..." he comments essentially to himself, "Sometimes it's just too easy." he rises, the last of his beverage gone, and follows Fusillade out, having squared the tab quite a bit sooner.

--End--

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