Only accessible via the Turbolift, the Security area is highly restricted. The security station, a large U-shaped desk, is filled with various monitors and controls for the entire level, not just the cells. Behind the desk, a tunnel large enough for Omega Supreme leads north to the Brig and its cells. All the walls, floor, and ceiling are heavily armored to prevent those present from blasting their way out. On each of the other walls are large armored doors that to various other facilities. Shield generators are hidden within the ceiling to protect the entrances and the security station from attack when activated, the hidden lasers remaining retracted unless there is an attempted escape.
<Decepticon> Dead End says, "Love. What a cruel emotion."
<Decepticon> Cinderblock says, "We love Dead End? I didn't sign on for that..."
<Decepticon> Vertigo says, "We do! As a matter of fact.. I'm gonna throw him a party!""
<Decepticon> Catechism says, "Actually, if you check subsection 9.7.56 of your contract..."
<Decepticon> Vertigo says, "I'd offer to be his girlfriend, but he'd like that."
<Decepticon> Dead End says, "A party... How humiliating."
<Decepticon> Cinderblock says, "He's Dead End, he could be in a universe composed only of motor oil, lubricant and energon and he wouldn't like it, frail. Anywho, is Fussilade still alive? I kind of need orders..."
<Decepticon> Vertigo says, "Fussi! Wake up!"
<Decepticon> Dead End says, "We would become complacent and boring with such abundance... It is only through our scarcity and suffering do we even remotely know that we still function."
<Decepticon> Vertigo says, "And it is through your cheery dispostion that we are remided that things could be much much worse."
Things from Fusillade's corner of the brig have been quiet. Perhaps entirely too quiet... When polishing of blades doesn't keep her entertained, Fusillade stows the weapon, and begins to type in several notations on a padd with nimble fingers. She pauses for a good, long moment at the radio conversation regarding usefulness of Seekers, and appears sorely tempted to intervene. "If they're stationed on Neocron, no, it really can't wait," she dryly remarks in response. Any impending wrath from Cyclonus about the earlier indiscretions is going to come later, and in another setting. A few moments pass as she enters in the questions she intends to ask once it becomes clear that she should ask them. Until that time comes, she attempts to play nice with the rest of the waiting Torquolons by grinning wickedly and gesturing at what she thinks are amusing doodles on the screen's surface. The organics don't seem to be too enthused.
Cyclonus gestures again, and the table moves slowly, brining it into view of the gates, and the other cells. "Excellent. Perhaps you would be willing to discuss some of the details of your work? Our resident specialist is enroute. I'm sure he would enjoy hearing of your contributions to this 'Neocron'." his mouth twists slightly into what might be a grin at the last word. If it had any mirth, warmth, or compassion in it all, it might be called one.
Scrapper sprints out of the elevator, looking fairly excited, a toolkit in one hand and a datapad in the other. He likes interrogations, so long as he's outside the bars. Oh yeah, the information-gathering is all well and good, but Scrapper just thinks that interrogations are pretty and inspiring. That's what he really likes about them! He comes to a halt, glances about, and inquires, "Right, someone wanted someone from MSE?"
"Well," Bryxis rubs his blue-gray beard thoughtfully, replaying the wild and whacky chain of events that led him to his current internship in the Decepticons' dungeon in the bowels of Cybertron. "It's always been hard work for engineers and architects on Torqulon to find work domestically once our planet-wide organic super-computer came online... It was capable of building and designing modifications to itself, so there really wasn't much in having us around. When the Quintessons came and offered us such a generous offer to assist in a little planetary-scale construction, well, who were we to say no? Nyxis... The, ah, Head Architect General of Turqulong commanded us to participate." He pauses for a moment, "I designed Neocron's sewer systems, mainly. Probably my most ambitious design to date... If you had any idea the harsh requirements for waste processing Quintesson excrement creates, you'd probably go mad." He smiles to himself. "Ah, but I was always a sucker for a challenge..."
Cyclonus turns as Scrapper enters, "Ah. Excellent. Bryxis, was it? This is Scrapper. Amoung the best of our engineers."
Symphony pipes up softly, "Come now, lets not hedge Commander, Scrapper is the best we have."
Cyclonus steps back a little, making room for Scrapper at the 'table' the Torqulon is sitting on. "Of course. How nice of you to join our 'friendly' conversation." Only a slight emphasis is place on the word, perhaps to make one wonder what his defenitionof 'unfriendly' would be.
Symphony hovers over towards the organic to regard it for a moment before turning to Cyclonus and commenting quietly, She mutters to Cyclonus, "... Cyclonus,... a... be... to borrow Colonel... a... are some... DCI... take... long.... afraid... matter... hand... pressing... it... a... at..."� she keeps her voice low enough that it shouldn't be completely clear what she is saying.
"Everyone's a critic," Fusillade growls out at the Torqulons that shuffle away from her farcical doodles. Stowing the padd, she straightens up to her full height, and inclines her head to scowl the group around the questioned engineer. And at the strident volley of requests for her on the radio, she straightens shoulders, and sighs out, "It seems the masses are clamoring for me. If I cannot dispense bombs, then I should at least be able to dispense orders," she says sourly. A brief, sharp nod is send to Scrapper as he barrels in. The snatch of 'Colonel' causes her to snap her gaze around toward Symphony, and it's with a sharp snort that suggests she's not going to make it easy for the DCI operative that she stalks toward the elevator doors.
<Decepticon> Cinderblock says, "Hrm, what was that Fussilade? Stay in the Apocalypse and get over-energized until your rotors switch to metric? Can do, ma'am!"
<Decepticon> Fusillade snarls out of no where, "STOP SLURRING MY FIRST SYLLABLE YOU OVER-TORQUED BRICK!"
<Decepticon> Vertigo bwhahahaha!
<Decepticon> Vertigo says, "Maybe he's already two wings into the wind?"
Cyclonus attempts to looks as genteel as possible, "My apologies. A situation has arisen. Symphony, you may have to make an appointment."
You enter the Elevator.
The massive central lift provides access between the many levels of IHQ. An access panel in the wall near the doors contains the controls for the voice-operated lift. To operate, one simply says the floor number out loud.
Transmission from Cyclonus: A demonstration may be in order, Colonel. See that it's dispensed. And do attempt to remain in control of the situation.
<Decepticon> Cinderblock says, "Yes, Ma'am....duly noted ma'am."
<Decepticon> Fusillade says, "Those of you who are currently in Military Operations and have not availed yourselves to the past... month's public order rotations may wish to AVAIL yourselves of such before I shove my wingblade up their ports and THEN open them!"
<Decepticon> Cinderblock says, "*grumbles* Roger and out, commandtrix..."
JABBING the elevator controls, Fusillade scowls down at the clitter of the trailing platinum and hyacinth DCI Operative. "WHAT?" Jab-jab-jab.
Symphony regards Fusillade as she shoots through the doors as they close, "We need to have a little chat about your incident I think..."
Fusillade scowls visibly as she waits on the elevator, even slapping the hold control so that Symphony may avail herself to a few extra questions on the way to corral her Military Operations officers.
Symphony smirks faintly, "Rank is not so important in DCI as it is in the rest of the drugery. In some cases my lack of Rank makes my job quite a bit easier." she glances up as the elevator moves, "I do not take what Fulcrum describes as face value, unlike him I know that the Autobots are not nearly so duplicitous as our own kind, and more importantly wouldn't recognize an opportunity like that without being clubbed over the head. So what I want to know is what interest an Autobot would have in you..."
Fusillade repeats, "I did pull myself from the roster for now." An indolent roll of one shoulder as she leans back against the elevator railing. "I don't know. Still new to command, they see an opportunity to get info from an inexperienced officer? A capture event? It's not like I walked up to the blast door windows of his quarters and started serenading him," she grouses out.
Symphony chuckles faintly, a musical tone that rings from the walls of the elevator, "Indeed. The ironic thing about this entire situation is that based on history -he- is the least likely to take any sort of 'pity' or interest in a Decepticon. Few have a bigger reason to loathe us then he does." she regards Fusillade, "That makes me suspicious. So if there's anything about the encounter that you failed to tell Fulcrum, I recommend you divulge it. There will be futher inquiries into what happened and it will be uncovered if there is something you're hiding."
You step out of the central lift into...
IHQ Command Center
This massive chamber lies at the core of the upper level, its ceiling high enough for even a gestalt. The walls are covered in monitors and consoles from floor to ceiling, while narrow catwalks rise from the floor to the upper areas where additional terminals and consoles are housed. At the center of the chamber is the column containing the turbolift, while on five of the walls are large double doors, four opening into the various divisional wings. Between the MSE and DCI wing entrances is a smaller sets of doors leading to the War Room. Two huge main screens dominate two of the eight walls, displaying information and images sent by the main computer. Atop the column is the communications room, accessible by the catwalks on either side of the column.
Trouncing after Symphony, Fusillade huffs out, "Well I don't know exactly what else -TO- say, Symphony. Repairs, yeah. Look, he cited the tactical necessity for the repairs." Her optics glint fiercely. "He mentioned something in passing about detecting airframe issues when I was flying out on the sortie for the strike on the Sharkticon factory. All of this happened RIGHT there on the grounds between Metroplex and Trypticon. Anyone could review the surveillence footage. If it's really that big of a frakkin' deal, why in the smelt didn't someone come stop it? Not like it was over in a blink of an optic!"
Fusillade doesn't quite seem to be yelling AT Symphony per se, so much as rather vehemently trying to solve the puzzle presented to her.
Symphony replies evenly, "Ahh, I see." she states, considering the words that Fusillade has just tossed haphazardly into the air around the two femmes, "This isn't an issue about Jetfire's actions at all." her optics fix rather pointedly on Fusillade, "This is an issue about you. Good, that makes things much clearer to me. I will review the footage as you suggest certainly, but I get the feeling more is being read into the situation than is actually there. To put it bluntly... I believe you brought this upon yourself."
"Yeah, well just don't believe, KNOW," Fusillade hisses downward slightly to Symphony as she plants hands on hips. "And if you /really/ think an intradepartmental witchhunt is the way to go, then have at it, twinkle toes. I want back out /THERE/," she pointedly jabs in the direction of where Neocron hangs over the horizon, through walls, through the night. "Bad enough it even happened in the first place." There's a dangerous glitter of shame embroiled with wrath rolling about those optics. "Speak," she subconsciously orders, "What questions have you to get to the bottom of this?"
Symphony replies evenly, fluidly, in a purring tone, "I have but one question. Aside from the recorded incident... just -when- was the last time you'd had a proper maintinence check to ensure your systems were not over stressed? If what you say about Jetfire's motivations is true, I tend to think you'd been shirking your duty to maintain yourself at fighting optimum. Something that is normally a bad idea, and in a time such as this borders on treasonous."
Making a face at Symphony as if she had asked something wholly tacky, like what her yearly income or dress size was, Fusillade says, "Find me a medic that was actually available on Neocron."
"They're either bolstering the bases, working on technology to bust that planet wide open, or out fighting themselves."
Symphony replies, "That is what the Space Bridge is for. We have fully qualified Medics here on Cybertron as well. Further..." she steps over to a terminal and taps some keys, "You are aware that all designs have inherant stress points that should not be exceeded. Even if I wanted to, I could not operate for days on end on high alert combat readiness. My body simply will not tolerate it, and would begin to fail. It is our -duty- to ensure that we do everything we can for the war effort, short of damaging our ability to contribute. Do you know why? Because an injured soldier whom cannot give 100% effort is useless to the Empire. It seems now based on your answers and evasiveness that you had degraded your ability to contribute. A failure to the Empire that personally I would never forgive... thankfully I am not the one who gets to make that decision. However there will be a report regarding further aspects of this incident filed with those in charge."
"Shame you have to depend on weaponsmith's reports to sniff out potential sources of treason, Trainee," hisses out from Fusillade. "There's far worse offenders, in greater numbers, out there."
Symphony chuckles softly, "I follow all leads. I had hoped this would lead to an investigation of the Autobots, not you. But you seem to have nipped that in the bud rather efficiently. Ashame really, I had hoped to find probable cause to run sabotage missions on Metroplex while we have such easy access to him."
Symphony adds, after a thought, "Cling to rank if it makes you feel superior, Colonel. But know that where treason is involved, there are no degree's. You are guilty, or you are not. All those that are guilty recieve their punishment as decree'd from Lord Galvatron, those 'others' you speak of? They are all under surveillance, you military types never seem to understand just how thoroughly you are watched. Had no Fulcrum reported, the incident with Jetfire would have been flagged for investigation by one of our data couriers anyway. It just so happens this was the path that developed."
"That ease of access will only last as long as we need Metroplex to survive as a species. Your sabotage runs would have been counter productive to the aims of the Empire. Oh wait, could it be that... was... the very same thing you were calling me out on just a bit earlier?" There's an appalling lack of remorse on her part.
Symphony chuckles again, "You are indeed a military mind to not understand how Sabotage works. Metroplex would remain in perfect working order until such a time as we were ready to strike. Or do you not remember the lessons of Doubleback? He was our top agent buried so deeply behind Autobot Lines they believed him one of their own. He brought Iacon to it's knee's in the space of 10 minutes, and we finished the rest off within an hour or two of heated fighting. I do not tell you how to drop bombs, do not presume to know more about my trade than I do."
Continuing to bristle at the direction the conversation is taking Fusillade hrnphs to herself as she clacks heels together. "I'm not telling you how to do your job, you can drop the insults, as easy as they are to drop when you're in a situation where you have the advantage." A thin smile crosses those lips, "I'm not exactly sure what it is that you think is required to undo what has already transpired. No, it should not have happened in the first place. That is past. I answered your questions."
Symphony shrugs, "It is not mine to consider what you ask Fusillade. I am merely pursuing the duties I hold as a member of Central Intelligence. It is entirely possible, I dare say likely given your past performance record that this indiscretion will be over looked, or at the very least a mild rebuke. But that ultimately depends on whom it is that handles the case." she taps a few more keys and turns to regard Fusillade, "Your cooperation in the questioning will be noted, of course." a double-edged sword perhaps?
"And you will answer no more," Shockwave says as he emerges from, ironically, the DCI wing. His purple armor glistens against the bright lights of the command center, a reflection of his sense of self-confidence. Splitting the difference between Fusillade and Symphony to form a triangular-esque formation, his optic holds Symphony in that maddeningly passive blink. He could be wishing he was on a tropical beach with lots of nude co-eds bouncing around, or he could be calculating the numerous ways to end a specific transformer's -- even Decepticon's -- life.
Symphony bristles slightly as Shockwave enters, she turns after a moment or two to regard the Commander with a calm expression, though she's quite certain he can see in her body language the controlled rage, "Greetings, Commander Shockwave. I was just handling an inquiry into a recent incident with Colonel Fusillade and was preparing to submit a report to High Command. How... fortuitous that you would choose this moment to arrive."
Ah, Cybertron, your cursed foul acid-rain laden, sunless skies! Being so close to home brought with it such cheerful things creepy brain-essense sucking mentors! Those rafters were starting to look mighty good right about now. Or even diving back down the basement. Clicking teeth into silence, a final last sneer is sent Symphony's way, before Fusillade slips into a square-shouldered, formal stance. "Master Shockwave," she intones dryly.
Shockwave is quite aware of the hatred eminating from DCI's finest, but aside from noting its continued presence after so much time has passed, it seems to have no effect on him presently. "'Fortune favors the bold', it's been said. Irrelevent sayings notwithstanding, I assume your debriefing of this unit has been completed?" If he heard Fusillade's direct address, it goes unacknowledged for the moment as his attention is clearly, squarely placed at Symphony.
Symphony nods, "Indeed I have all that I need between the data recordings and her own testimony on the subject. I'm just preparing the report now if you require it. One way or another it will be filed in the DCI Databanks for easy retrieval in case of future incidents."
Shockwave nods in return, only now taking a moment to look in Fusillade's direction. "As is the established procedure. You've performed your duty to a satisfactory level, Symphony. You may transmit the report to my attention in addition to the DCI databanks when it is ready." He pivots to the right to face the subject of that report squarely. The optic blinks, but he says nothing for the moment.
OH how it's been a long time since that needling sensation has crawled up and down her vertebral column. If it's one thing that Fusillade has dealt with in the past, it's that inimical silence, expertly brought to bear. The urge to fill the silence often lead to self-incriminating speech, and Fusillade has made that blunder several times in the past, with the very hulk of amaranthine Commander before her. There would be no words from her as the gaze bores through, a tautness snapping between the two of some rather heavy-handed tutelage in the past. Standby. There is only the intent flicker of orange-crushed optics waiting for proper address. Was there some unspoken cue, Symphony might find herself wondering. Poised, stiffened in stance akin to a heron poised right before it snaps up a fish... the perfection of the petrification of the typically flowing, coursing Commander is a minor miracle in of itself.
Subject: Incident Report
After reviewing Trypticon's external recording devices and speaking with Colonel Fusillade, it has been determined that while the Autobot designated 'Jetfire' perhaps overstepped bounds in conducting repairs on the Colonel, that the issue at hand should be more squarely focused on the Colonel's own insistence in not following proper MSE Protocols regarding maintenance and upkeep. Records indicate that Fusillade has engaged in excessive flight hours since the Neocron invasion began while having no clear records of her last visit to the Medical Ward for servicing. Couple that with damage received during operations being patched rather than properly tended and the picture painted is one of negligence.
Given the Colonel's service record, it is perhaps not so severe an offense as it could be deemed. However the timing of the indiscretion is most unfortunate... at a time when we need every able bodied mech and femme at peak performance to allow such a lapse in proper protocols shows poor judgment indeed. Regarding the Autobot involved, a separate investigation will be launched into his motives and methods however said investigation will be handled by a different party to ensure objective reporting on the matter at hand.
Shockwave sometimes muses that he invented the silent, cold stare and has perfected it over millions of years in various situations. The range runs from interrogator to torturee and all stops inbetween; his presence and position in the Empire today speaks to his ability to withstand such treatment, if not to also dish it out. Symphony's report queues to his own internal inbox. The out tenth of his optic remains staring at Fusillade while the 90% beneath start to scan the report, Shockwave never flinching through the entire read. It's like reading a book while on the toilet! Only someone's in the bathroom with you. Someone of the opposite sex. Not that that matters, here.
Oh how the urge rises to say something that would just worsen the situation. However, if it's one thing that she very quickly remembered, it's that numbers were in this case her friend. An abberation caused by an abberation, fractal like in its design. She was art! And not even the kind of art that Scrapper made. The unusual quirks were what caused the Military High Operations High Commander to take initial interest, correct? Fusillade can't stand the silence any longer, but diverts to useful future directions. "Once the investigation has been resolved, I intend to return to proper active duty. Provided I am allowed," she states dryly. Her demeanor suggests that this is a matter of course. The duck appears serene atop the water, but paddles madly below...
"That," Shockwave begins, satisfied that he was not outplayed to the point where he would have had to break the speech embargo first, "depends on your attitude towards Symphony's findings. The desire to impress with endurance-based feats of valiance runs through all Decepticons and specifically those within Aerospace. If you did not before, you must now understand the necessity for routine maintenance and repair as performed by certified technicians." He was going to let it drop at that, but one final detail remains. "Decepticon technicians, at that."
And then that trademark irrepressible speciousness returns, a faint thaw in the lingering dead of metaphorical winter. Arms rising to cross, Fusillade speaks despite herself. "I do not deny that the events occured," Fusillade states emphatically. "That will not be an issue. I have been put on notice by my MSE Liaison that I will be personally tracked by him should any scheduled servicing be skipped. Not quite sure how Fulcrum would fare as a Sweep, but..." Somewhere in the back of her cranium, her better sense CRINGES at the forthcoming pun. How could it NOT be said, though?! "He hammered the point home."
Shockwave, usually immune to puns, finds that one drawing energon and has to make the slightest movement to fight the urge to groan. There would be eye-rolling at least save for the fact that he has no eyes. "And I will be watching him as he watches you. A repeat performance will earn you a reduction in energon allowance as it will have been made clear to me that you do not require the designated alotment."
Popping her mouth open, Fusillade furrows her brow as she prepares to question the logic that connects lack of maintenance with reduction in energon. Taxing self-repair systems would suggest a necessity for MORE energon. However, she doesn't quite find it within herself to argue. The time away from such strict observation has been telling. However, hope remains. A simple "Understood" is sent Shockwave's way.
Shockwave offers only a slight nod of acknowledgment, unaware that someone was about to DARE! to question HIS logic!!! Presuming their affairs to be complete, he about-faces and heads to a terminal, busying himself with whatever it is purple commanders do when their players need sleep.
See how they run! Fusillade manages some decorum instead of just bolting like a spooked filly out the barn doors. "Evening," she says noncommittally.