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Magma's Dilemma

Who: Fusillade, Magma
IC Year: 2028
Location: Brig - IHQ - Nightsiege - Cybertron
TP: Vindicator

Fusillade travels to the brig to get a better understanding of one of the gestalt members who isn't taking very well to the forced conversion.

IHQ Brig

Its only entrance and exit being through the shielded tunnel that leads to the security area, the brig is a most unpleasant place indeed. There are three rows of cellblocks that run out from the central brig in various directions. Each cellblock ends in a dead end and contains enough cells to keep all but a massive number of prisoners in separate cells from one another so that they might be prevented from working together on escape attempts.


The tap of feet on the flooring of Nightseige's basement is distinctive, and not the methodical pacing of soldiers. With a crafty glint in her optics, and easy enough smile on her face, Fusillade dallies by the sentry post. There's a bit of muted conversation, although a few sharp words from her seem to indicate that she's not going to be getting her way completely. A few moments later, she rests one shoulder on the bulkhead by the forcefield, the faint sizzle of air oxidizing against its surface buzzing in her audials. She languidly glances in at the cell's occupant, and shifts the container in her hands, perhaps rethinking the wisdom of what she was about to pull.


Magma is curled up under the bench, because the puzzle that Catechism had brought him is completed and sitting atop the bench. His optics are black, as is his plasma energy system, though all the vents are open, indicating it was functioning at one point. There'd be more to pose, but that about sums up his situation!


Fusillade stares for a few good moments at the prone figure. "Smelt, just how did he get those wings and tailfin /under/ there?" She wonders aloud. Shaking her head, she then keys in a few codes. They most certainly won't be letting him out, but that didn't mean that she couldn't go in. Hefting the small box of supplies, she sets it down by the puzzle as the forcefield snaps back into place behind her. "Hsst, Magma," she half-whispers, not even sure herelf why she's lowering her voice. "Wake up, there."


Magma replies rather bitterly, "Sadly I -am- awake, though I'm trying very hard not to be." his tone is cold as one optic flickers on dimly, "What do you want, Fusillade?" he actually sounds kind of pathetic. He peeks out from under the bench and stares at her with a look that might indicate just how little spirit he has left at this point.


"Well, in that position, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Ever consider going into the circus biz?" Catching the hollow, haunted look from him, she ahems. "Well, two things. Do you have nose art? And well, I was hoping you had some information tucked away somewhere about astrogation." She leans over to fish out a few brushes that look well-loved and broken in, but not broken.


Magma grunts faintly, "Nose art? I don't even know what you're talking about, who puts art on their nose?" he struggles a little and wriggles free of the area beneath the bench, his swing wings opening as he struggles up to his feet, moving every bit like a 10 million year old mech might. He then moves over to the furthest corner of the cage and tucks himself against it, burying his face in his arms.


Fusillade relents for now on the information part of the visit. There was just something about being able to interact with another, instead of the tedium of teaching tracks... She raises one fingertip to nosetip, and tchs. "Not our noses in robot mode," she remarks, before dropping her hand to proudly tap on the side of her belly. "For the jet modes, silly. See?"


Magma hmmphs, "Such decoration isn't exactly useful when you spend your days in the shadows of DCI." he replies petulantly, peeking up at the artwork for a few moments before dropping his head back down, "Why do you insist on torturing me? Leave me to rot in peace, you've no reason to be in this hole of a cell."


Fusillade breaks into a full-bellied laugh. "I don't know of many decorations that ARE useful, for anyone. That doesn't mean they still can't exist!" However, at the torturing comment, her expression falls. "What? Am I really that bad? Although you're right about one thing. I don't have a reason to be down here. So hmm, what else could it be?" She furrows her optic ridges in mock contemplation in an effort to drive home that this goes beyond the commodities game.


Magma replies, "You? No... watching you get up and walk away? Yes... you mock me with your freedom while I rot in this prison for expecting to have even the smallest expectation of freedom." his voice is despondent, and he draws tighter around himself as he rolls onto his side.


Fusillade's own image is that of a metallic eagle diving down upon a victim below, with the text 'Hellion' emblazoned underclaw. "But by the logic you've presented earlier, it's not true freedom. Gilt bars still make a cage -- you referred to it as enslavement, I think? Now are you done being an ig-yak's aft? I can draw a shrikebat!" she offers, while digging through the few basic colors she brought along with her.


Magma replies rather sharply, "I have no interest in being drawn upon, thank you!" his venting systems suddenly firing, a burst of heat surrounding him as his plasma generators kick on, "Bars that are not seen can be ignored in the greater pursuit of work. I'm not even being allowed to do the job I have done for 8 million years."


Fusillade snaps up her hands. "Okay, okay, smelt. I was just trying to..." She trails off, frowning deeply as she slaps the materials back in the crate. Trying to do what? She wasn't even entirely sure. Stubbornly, she parks herself on the bench, "Well, you did run off. That aside, though, if you really did have the chance to do work, to immerse yourself in the information and knowledge that you love so much, would you actually be happy, or at least, satisfied? I'm not too terribly sure that you would be."


Magma replies evenly, "I -was-. Before -this-." his tone cold, "I will never be satisfied, or happy. Not like this."


"And you're seriously going to take it out on the rest of us?" Fusillade exhales, sprawling a bit on the platform. "Well, OKAY..." She shakes her head. "You're not going to get out like this. And moldering away? Phht. C'mon, who wants to do that? You object that your freedom was taken away, but it's not like you were doin' much with it in the first place."


Magma replies icily, "I was doing what I enjoyed. Just because YOU do not appreciate what I did, does not mean *I* didn't. My days of frivolous flitting about are long behind me, as yours will be before long. Enjoy your -youth-, eventually you too will be obsolete and unnecessary, and then you will have to do as I did... find another niche and quickly, if you hope to stay alive." that was rather bitter and acidic, not to mention hurtful, "When the hell did I ever say I wanted out? There is no point in being OUT, what I want I will never have, and that is freedom of this abominable merging, the freedom to stay in my Datacenter and do what I love. Even if I were set loose, I could never have that."


Fusillade draws her lips tight, and glances down at the crate in her hands. "Right. Well, let me get right on that enjoying thing," she drawls out, Magma's effort quite effective in repulsing her enthusiasm; too efficient for anyone's good. "Abominable, 've heard that before," she grumps, ducking her head and turning on her heel to pace to the doorway.


Magma hmmphs quietly and rolls onto his side, then rolls so he faces away from the exit, refusing to watch as you exercise your freedom of movement right in front of him. Though another noise accompanies his movements, the hissing of superheated metal against metal, his plasma generator apparently still cranking hot.

--End--

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