So... frag any Autobots recently?

Who: Catechism, Megatron, Ramjet, Sunder, Vortex
IC Year: 2029
Location: Wing n' Thruster - Airbase Argosy
TP: All Hail Megatron


Wing n Thruster <WT>

Fashioned from multiple suites which have had their adjoining walls removed, The Wing and Thruster provides a modestly spacious lounge area for the commander and crew of the Argosy. A bar is set just inside the door along one wall and is manned by the barkeep- Oilcan who knows when to say when -most of the time - even if some of his patrons may not. Throughout the rest of the lounge are scattered tables and booths that provide seating for nearly any size Decepticon. A large glassteel window provides a view of the skies through which the Argosy is currently flying, and patrols of Seekers and flights of Sweeps can be seen entering and leaving the hangar from this vantage point. A large trophy case has been erected along the wall behind the bar and is filled with momentos of past battles. Type +case to have a closer look. Along the shorter side wall is an elliptical meeting table with a holographic display on the wall beside it. One or more Sweeps can usually be found here, planning a Hunt or reviewing footage from past missions. Entering +hboard will show you what the Sweeps are currently up to, if you so desire. And +commands will display available commands for the meeting table. At the top of the board glows their current primary objective: PRIORITY OBJECTIVE: To make pay those who refuse to bow before Galvatron's Might

Thing Contents: Sunder Fusillade Vortex The Wall Bill the Sock

Sunder walks to the bar, pawing forth some credits to Oilcan, the bartender. "Bloody Seeker, please," he requests, and the drink is rapidly assembled and put in front of him. He takes a sip and sighs heavily. After a day like today, the Sweep needed to relax.

Ramjet walks into the Wing n' Thruster with a head-forward stride. The expression on his face is one of irritation and displeasure. Irritation over the pressure bombarding his cranial circuits and displeasure of having to be amongst Sweeps -- Ramjet can't ever get no satisfaction. Walking clear to the bar in a straight line, his head and shoulders knocking aside anyone who doesn't move out of his way.

Stepping foot, Ramjet shifts his posture a bit to lean against the counter with his hip. "Ener-stout," he declares to Oilcan. Simple drink for a simple Decepticon. Nothing girly and nothing that might earn one a sudden punch in the face if they caught you ordering it. As Oilcan plucks a pilsner glass and begins to fill it, Ramjet eyes him and raises his chin at him. "No. Bigger," he motions. "Much bigger." His headache isn't going to correct itself on just a pilsner-sized drink!

Catechism has never been here before. She supposes that she might as well be familiar with the place in case she needs to attack someone here. Know thy terrain and all that. She gawks rather obviously.

Ramjet catches Catechism gawking with his -peripherals-. Peripherals, as every overcharged Decepticon air-warrior knows, is the best way to check out their flygirl colleagues without getting decked. Well, not right off the bat, at least. Ramjet's drink comes sliding across the countertop and stops when it touches his elbow-servo. Reaching for his glass, the hardheaded Decepticon takes a long drink before allowing his exhaust-studded chest to heave out in a contented sigh. He turns his head and leers at Catechism for a bit. Anyone close to him could almost swear he mumbled something about, ".. such a generous amount of cone.."

Catechism looks at the hunt board. Catechism stares at the hunt board and stabs a finger at it, asking, "Red Alert? Atrocities against Seekers? What the..." "Eh?" Ramjet raises his optical ridge at Catechism. After another lengthy sip of his glass, he then follows Catechism's optics to the hunt board.

Priority Objective: To make pay those who refuse to bow before Galvatron's Might

|Prey         |Status       |Reason
01|Jayson Redfie|Online       |The Shuttlebeast must be eliminated
02|Rippersnapper|Online       |Because of that insufferable smirk
03|Sunstreaker  |******       |Because he is Sideswipe's twin
04|Defcon       |******       |"He /SPAT/ on one of my pretties!" -- Fusillade
05|Red Alert    |******       |For atrocities committed against Seekers

Ramjet looks at the hunt board.

Ramjet doesn't seem to match Catechism's anger. Red Alert's entry fails to interest him. "Drink, Sarge?" He calls out to his similarly-colored superior-for-the-minute.

Catechism is rather weirded out by Ramjet referring to her as Sarge. It's not like she actually has anyone assigned to her. As far as she can tell, it's a just a vestigial rank, from back when she actually meant something. She smiles at Ramjet and replies, "Sure." Catechism could use something to take her mind off that hated car.

"Another," Ramjet leans back to command Oilcan. He reaches up and flicks his blocky forefinger forward to emphasize the order. It doesn't occur to him, thickheaded as he is prone to be, that she might want something else to drink. Another ener-stout slides up and stops when it delicately clinks against Ramjet's half-emptied glass. It is a dark fuel beverage, with a thick creamy head. Definitely not a drink for a rookie. To those with the taste pores, its as close to silicon heaven as someone can get with a beverage -- not including anything silly, like Ore-13 or nucleon.

Ramjet reaches over, grasping the glass with a heavy hand. He offers it to Catechism in a smooth motion. "Just got back," he tells her, trying to spark conversation. "Got sent to the outer-rim. Had to be retrofitted into the old tetrajet frame and everything."

Catechism can handle her drinks. She usually goes for the heavy drinks that'll leave her messed up later, but Ramjet's selection is fine enough. She grins and replies, 'Oh, thank you very much!" She moves to accept the drink. "I've been busy trying to get my demolition certs. Getting turned human - ugh - set me back a lot."

Ramjet listens to Catechism and then, eyes her with wide-stretched optics. "You were turned into one of the meat?" He asks, his voice edged with revulsion. "Must've sucked not to fly." He sniffs sharply and happens to let his optics graze all over Catechism's chasis before resting just above her eyes -- at her forehead. "Looks like your cone is still in good shape."

Catechism exclaims, "Oh, it was horrible! But my human body haad this detachable, useless armour called clothes, right? And I had a Picklehaube for a helmet. It's like a hat... with a spike on it." She puols out out to show him - the stereotypical WWI spiked helmet. It's tiny in the palm of her hand. She takes a gulp of her drink, and her optics dim in appreciation.

Bad memories, yes, and outright nightmares. Sunder had enough of Hyooman bodies for a lifetime. He grumbles into his drink.

Ramjet's fixation is drawn from Catechism's head, his interest caught by the strange thing Catechism holds in her hand. "Uh.." He mutters as his circuits lag and render him speechless. He reaches for the hat, slow and gently. The motion of his arm echoes the look on his face: awkward, with a touch of fear and interest of such a strange thing. He pokes the point with his fingertip. Then, Ramjet pokes it again just to make sure. "Weird," he says as he looks back up to Catechism. "Reminds me of Cyclonus."

Catechism shrugs and remarks. "At least it was pointy, you know? But it was about a hundred years out of style, so i wasn't allowed to wear it in public. it blew my cover like a cannon through Bumblebee.""

"Yeah." Ramjet replies. "Kind of odd .. since it isn't a part of you. What would happen if it fell off? Or if the tip broke?"

Catechism shudders and tries to lightly tap Ramjet on the shoulder. Another gulp, and she protests, "Don't even talk like that, man!" That's crazy talk.

Megatron has arrived.

Ramjet shivers to echo Catechism's shudder. Some things are too repulsive for even the bravest of Decepticons! "Yeah..." He mutters before washing down that thought with a hefty drink of stout. His generously tapered head shakes to clear out any remaining thoughts from his RAM. "At least everything is back to normal. Or, uh, mostly normal." He says, his thoughts changed by having a brief interaction with Megatron all over again. "What's this about getting your bombadier cert?"

Megatron comes in the door just then, saying "What?" into his radio.

Catechism puts away the helmet and waves a hand. She corrects, laughing, "Nonono. My demolition certification! Y'know, to be qualified to make bombs from scratch." A slightly unstable conehaded Seeker making bombs. What could go wrong?

Sunder listens intently to the conversation, though he is not part of it. As the Nosey Sweep, he makes everyone's business his business. Even when they don't know that he is.

Ramjet stares at Megatron as he makes his arrival. It takes him a moment to react completely as his processors have to work through the slog of the shock and awe. "..uh," he mutters. Lowering his glass of ener-stout at a poor attempt at concealing it from view, Ramjet snaps to attention. "Hail Megatron!" He calls out as his posture stiffens according to regulation. He isn't much for regulation -- just when the big G, or in this case the Slagmaker, is around. Drawing his right arm in, Ramjet closes his fist against his left shoulder in salute. "...uh," he begins to finish what he wanted to ask. His coned head turns to the left and the right of Megatron's physique, trying to spy if there is any Decepticon looming behind him. "Uh.. just wanted, uh, to verify, uh, that Starscream didn't get rebuilt either, sir."

"Starscream is dead," replies Megatron as he approaches the bar, holding up two fingers to the bartender. "And, for the time being at least, his shade rests easy. Presumably he's gotten tired of my killing him whenever he comes back."

Catechism bows formally to Megatron. She is something of a stickler for protocol when not angered. Catechism has a glass of whatever it is Ramjet has and has been enjoying it so far.

Sunder notices his Emperor--though vastly altered in appearance--and salutes. "Hail, Ga-errr, Megatron!" the Sweep shouts enthusiastically. Unicron, when was he going to get used to the name-change?!

Megatron nods in return to the polite conehead-seeker. That's a nice change of pace. "I do have ambitions of returning to my Unicron-forged body... it must still be out there somewhere, in Oort Space, where the aliens put it. But this one served me for geological aeons, and it will do for now. Does that explain things sufficiently, Ramjet?"

Ramjet looks visibly at ease. Starscream was a pain in the retrojets for certain, he thinks to himself. Though that he wouldn't particularly care if the old Air Commander came back, he just doesn't want him reminding Megatron that he -- along with the Constructicons -- were pretty supportive about tossing the deadweight back some twenty-nine years ago. Next on IRN, when Boner Moves of the Past Return to Bite You in the Empennage! As Megatron makes his order, Ramjet takes it a sign to be at ease. He turns to his leaning posture against the counter and takes another sip of his ener-stout. "Oh," he says to Catechism, going back to their conversation before Megatron had entered. "Who'd they assign as your proctor? Cyclonus?"

Catechism frowns and sighs, "Haven't been assignd a proctor yet. Can't even get a tutor! Bonecrusher ditched me. But... look at the time. I have watch duty to stand. It's been lovely, Ramjet. I'll have to get you a drink sometime, hmm?" She moves to exit, again bowng formally at the door before she leaves.

Ramjet watches Catechism run off rather interestedly. It is one of those hate-to-see-you go, love-to-see-you-leave sort of things. "That ain't all you can get me," Ramjet mutters to himself after Catechism enters the hallway of the Argosy.

Megatron seems to consider that water under the bridge as he puts away his first of two quarts of high-test oil. Either that or he's forgotten it, that's possible. It's always hard to tell with him; sometimes his mind is like a steel trap and other times he puts *Shockwave* in charge of *getting things done,* so who knows.

"....?" Ramjet blinks as he catches Megatron in the very same peripherals that he oogled Catechism with. However he isn't particularly keen on oogling a Dead Mech Walkin'. Scrap, did he just hear him say aloud his inappropriate thoughts about that tall order of feminine cone? Awkwaaaaaaaaaaaard, Ramjet thinks to himself. "So.. uh," he coughs to get his leader's attention. "How's it, uh, going? Frag any Autobots recently?"

"Bumblebee, Silverbolt, Bumblebee again, a few others..." replies Megatron, unscrewing the cap of the second quart. "I suspect someone has dropped Bumblebee on his head. Someone besides myself, that is. He's not been himself lately."

"You .. noticed?" Ramjet asks, unbelieving as he takes another sip.

"Well, I noticed him throwing himself at me in a manner which redefines 'reckless abandon,'" muses Megatron, swirling the oil in his goblet. "He shouts continually about Optimus as he does so. It was a distraction when I was obliged to put down Silverbolt in Japan. I suppose he must be unsettled by my appearance returning to normal." Ramjet glances off to the side as he raises his glass to his lips, masking the look he's trying very hard to suppress. "I, uh, can only imagine.." Ramjet begins to wonder if Megatron will start looking sickly and demand to eat someone's cranial circuits. Thankfully Sunder is in the lounge -- he'd be a fine meal for zombie Megatron!

Megatron sets his goblet back down with a decisive clack. "Glad to see you back from deep space, Ramjet. I can always rely on my Seekers. Well, apart from the obvious few of course." He departs with this, and a grim expression.

Ramjet has no time to say anything in reply. Ramjet bristles inwardly. Earth just got a whole lot more weird!

Vortex looks up from his little long place, cleaning a rotor blade. He notices other people around him for a moment. "Oh slag.. um.." He decides to stay quiet and out of the Slagmaker's line of sight.

Megatron vanishes out of reality. Megatron has left.

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