Space Hardening

Who: Fusillade, Scrapper
IC Year: 2028
Location: NCC Medical Ward, Earth
TP: Non-TP

(July 2028) The groundwork for a space-going Fusillade is laid!� Pressure sealing and EMP hardening is a good place to start.

NCC Medical Ward Like its previous incarnation, this medical ward was designed with the medic in mind, with all the modern advances to make the dirty work of repairs a world easier. It is well lit, the blue and violet metal of the walls and decor is a shade paler here, and the ubiquitous filigree is missing, all to assist in ease of cleaning. Still, the place veritably sparkles. In the furniture, there is a subtle motif of blades and sharp edges, as if to evoke the scalpel of a surgeon, although it is all quite safe. Around two dozen beds, more comfortable than their sharp looks would suggest, fill the medical ward, laid out in a tidy grid, and more can be flipped out of the walls should emergency demand it. A set of tracks on the ceiling mirror the grid of beds, allowing advanced scanning equipment and tolls to be swiveled around to the various beds. Computer terminals and cabinets are molded right into the walls at intervals, and while there are the normal medical security cameras, it appears as if someone has set some of the cameras specifically to watch the cabinets.

Scrapper is hanging out in the medical bay, looking over aerial photos on his computer that he got some poor shmuck of a Seeker to take for him. He presses a button every so often, causing the photo to automatically advance to the next one. They're all very pretty, and Scrapper looks really relaxed as he goes through them. So relaxed in fact that his lime green feet are resting up on the desk.

The doors pop open to reveal a rather ebullient Fusillade. Flouncing in, she clutches half-crushed refit orders in her hand, and immediately begins scanning the repair bay for lime green. None there, tracking, tracking... ah ha! "SCRAPPER!" she belts out! "It's your lucky day!" She practically vaults over one of the tables to settle down in the surgeon's line of sight.

Scrapper looks up from the desk, still keeping his feet on the table. He'd be a lot more startled by Fusillade's entrance were it not for his already relaxed position. "Omega Supreme suddenly exploded in a shower of sparks while screaming in agony about how the Constructicons are so much better than him?!" Scrapper asks in an excited tone as his optical visor almost lights up at the possibility.

A faint chuckle escapes Fusillade, and she plants one hand on her hip. "No no no, even though that would be a pretty cool visual. I have clearance to get into space. Which means that for better or worse, I get to be your test bed. Again. We've had soooooo many wonderful experiences together..." There's an undertone of tension in her voice, even as she looks expectantly over at some of the more specialized work benches. "But I expect this won't be an overnight transformation, so whenever you feel motivated..."

Scrapper is briefly disappointed by the lack of Omega Supreme explosions. No matter rare it may be, he always gets his hopes up for that day when Omega Supreme will explode for no reason whatsoever. "Get into space?" He asks. Does Fusillade want to get chucked out an airlock like Megatron? "Oh! Oh, right, upgrade to be space capable. Sure, that's doable." He finally takes his feet off the desk, "Though why you'd want to go into space by yourself when you can take a perfectly good and well armoured shuttle instead is beyond me."

B-1B Lancer falls into step behind Scrapper even as a few techs, Tweak among them, bustle off to the lockers for whichever items Scrapper may request of them. "Well, it's more intuitive. I see you've effectively blocked the trauma from the last few times I tried piloting..." There's a devilish grin. "Besides, Cyclonus, Scourge, and other High Command have been emphasizing space campaigns as of late. I may also need to have my weapons altered to be able to function in the vacuum as well. And deal with all the radiation. And high-velocity micrometeors, and the extreme cold..." She sounds a bit more knowledgeable about some of the dangers that await in space, at the very least. "I don't want to have to wait until the boat moves to figure out whether or not steering worked, you know? And I can carry at least one person."

The sleek bomber rears up, wings collapsing onto hips even as the rear fuselage splits to form arms. The horizontal stabilizer slides up, the forward fuselage folds up accordian style, and Fusillade hops up on thrustered feet.

Fusillade falls into step behind Scrapper even as a few techs, Tweak among them, bustle off to the lockers for whichever items Scrapper may request of them. "Well, it's more intuitive. I see you've effectively blocked the trauma from the last few times I tried piloting..." There's a devilish grin. "Besides, Cyclonus, Scourge, and other High Command have been emphasizing space campaigns as of late. I may also need to have my weapons altered to be able to function in the vacuum as well. And deal with all the radiation. And high-velocity micrometeors, and the extreme cold..." She sounds a bit more knowledgeable about some of the dangers that await in space, at the very least. "I don't want to have to wait until the boat moves to figure out whether or not steering worked, you know? And I can carry at least one person."

Scrapper nods and admits, "Space did get more interesting when our top three Commanders suddenly became heavily space oriented." Megatron was so useless when he'd transform into a pistol in space. "Becoming seriously space capable for extended periods of time is actually quite the production. As you mentioned, there's the radiation, the cold, the general stress of the high velocity movements, the micro-impact hits.... but anyway, that'll be your problem when we get out here." He looks over the upgrade order. "Well at least I don't have to worry about installing an FTL drive. Your systems have already undergone a lot of changes due to the Gestalt project."

"The FTL will come once we have subdued the Silver Mako. It eluded Cyclonus and me on Monacus." That one line might make some of the pieces fall into place. Hopping up onto a table, she drums feet, waiting. However, Tweak soon scoots by, and with a nervois flick of platinum and sea-foam green wings, begins unpacking sets of maneuvering thrusters. "Hey, those look pretty small for engines," Fusillade says suspiciously. "And yeah, the gestalt thing..." She drums fingers anxiously. "I think they all fell into blackholes to avoid me."

Scrapper nods, "I haven't seen the other Constructicons in a while. Mostly out doing maintenance elsewhere in the Empire. I think Scavenger might have fallen in a hole or something and forgotten how to fly out." Scrapper shakes his head. If he had an astronickel every time that happened... "Anyway!" Scrapper steps up to Tweak and checks out the thrusters that he's unpacking. "It doesn't matter how big they are. Just how you use them."

"They're for maneuvering, like going here and there to make you twistnspinngogogo!" Tweak corrects Fusillade, bouncing on his Seeker-toes. Fusillade blinks. "Whoa whoa whoa, like... fine-tuning one's path so they don't go crashing into things twisting? Ah, okay." She hmms a bit even as she kicks back on the table, folding hands on her chest, and giving Scrapper a mercurial, hopeful smile. "Maybe like Scourge's verniers?" Tweak breaks into a sharp twittering laugh, and points at Fusillade, before darting off to fetch a suite of EMP-hardened motherboards to service Fusillade in the radiation-soaked vastness of space.

"Ah, it's space. What are you going to crash into, anyway?" Scrapper asks rhetorically. Can't be anymore dangerous than flying around in the sky, where if you screw up there's the chance that gravity will make you its bitch. He may know a lot about upgrading space warriors, but not much about actually flying in space. Fusillade will probably need an actual trainer for that kind of thing. "But yeah, it's something like that. We'll start with the easy stuff and see about getting your robot form to function properly in zero-g, both surviving the environment and being able to maneuver." As Tweak runs off, Scrapper calls out, "Bring back an ener-hacksaw with you!"

"Well it's LOCAL space, so plenty of things. Moons. Asteroids. Comets. URANUS." Fusillade enjoys a moment of sass, before those casual words chill her to the core. The smile immediately fades, and she lapses into the same kind of watchful silence that chicks give lurking vipers. With a cheery whistle, Tweak whirlwinds back to the table, and then says, "Oooh oooh ooh we have to change the paint too, because of the raaaaaaaaaaadiation! Yes! Pattern to protect the circuitry, yep." Fusillade half-cringes away from the slathering tech, and growls out to Scrapper. "It's like being on the dancefloor of the Marionette Palace during Primacron Break! So yeah, let me know what to open up and which way to turn."

"Yeah well if you can't avoid an asteroid then you deserve what's comin' to you," Scrapper says in an off-handed manner, waving a hand dismissively. Tweak returns and says, "Oh right, new paint job. What's your interest, Fusillade? Chance to sport some new colours? We have green if you're interested. Lots of green. Lime green, too. You'd look absolutely dashing as a lime green bomber." To Tweak, he says, "Switch off her pain and any movement circuits below the neck. Then start cranking open her leg servos. We'll start with the easy stuff."

Fusillade doesn't really get a chance to complain as the eager customizer dives in. "No wait, GACK!" At this point, she thunks down, and then asks smarmily, "What, don't want another bite in the elbow for your trouble?" She then half-pouts a bit, before the labarynthine stretches of her main engines, their coolant and fuel systems, are bared to the world. Several thigh compartments are popped open, and promptly emptied of ill-gotten gains, at which point Tweak dives in to his elbows, cackling giddily. "FREAK!" Fusillade objects, before Tweak corrects, "No, Tweak."

Scrapper peers at Tweak, temporarily forgetting about his idea of changing Fusillade's paint job to be lime green. "You'er a little bit crazy, aren't you?" he asks. Apparently the Constructicon has never really worked with him before. Either way, Scrapper doesn't sound particularly concerned. "Don't screw anything up or I'll turn you into an ashtray," he tells the techie. Looking over Fusillade's schematics, he says, "Ok, so we'll be replacing the maneuvering thrusters and hooking in some new ones."

"Sir? I don't have any maneuvering thrusters in my current airfra--" "SHADDUP!" Tweak interrupts Fusillade before falling into a volley of giggles on the ground. "Look at those General Electric turbofans! Wowee! And just to think that we're gonna be adding MORE! More more more is better, nyah ha!" He then shakes himself back to sanity, and cheerfully begins to install the firing systems for the rockets into Fusillade's navigation systems. "Nyoh ho ho need some in the arms too and on the nosecone and the tail and the cockpit toooooo."

Scrapper glances at Tweak. Stares for a little bit. Glances at Fusillade. Scrapper makes the 'crazy' motion with his finger, twirling it while pointing at his own head. If Scrapper had facial expressions, they'd be slightly apologetic for her having to suffer through this moron. Looking at the instructions, Scrapper gives advice, "Now, be sure to insert peg A into slot B."

Fusillade then sniffs, and glares fiercely down at Tweak. "I will snatch your head off like a paper TOWEL!" in a voice more akin to her typical assertiveness. However, Tweak seems blissfully unaware as he plumbs the intricacies of Fusillade's innards, happy in his work. Fusillade nnnnghs a bit more, starting to look restless under the immobilization. "Hey, it's been swell, but the swelling's gone. When do I get outta here?" Not until you've had your fluids drained, m'pretty.

Scrapper whistles to himself and pays no mind to Fusillade's death threats towards this Tweak fella. This is not his problem after all. It's Tweak's problem! "Heh heh," a funny thought crosses Scrapper's mind: Once Fusillade is able to fly through space, she could just toss Tweak into the sun. "How are we doing time-wise, Tweak?" Scrapper asks, since he himself isn't sure about the answer to Fusillade's question.

"Oh, the retrorockets are almost inyeahyeahyeah. Whirl-a-gig! But that's not all! EMP boards in, and... paint job! And hydraulics, no whirling when too cold!" Tweak's wing-tips quiver before he bolts for the lockers, and returns. "This one's good! She won't freeze up, stay nice'n'hot, oh yeaaaaaaaaaaah." At this point, he raises a cannula needle, silhouetted menacingly against the lights of the repair bay, and then stabs it into one of the major joint junctions of Fusillade's knee. The bomber's face is etched in a silent scream, before she hisses out, "Yeesh, that LOOKED awful." The mechfluid seeps out, even as the astute tech helpfully offers Scrapper canisters of the space-grade hydraulic and coolant liquids.

Scrapper takes the canisters of space-grade liquid. "If anyone asks if I participated in this upgrade," Scrapper mutters to Fusillade, "I'm just going to say 'no' so he's the one that gets executed and not me." Scrapper holds the canisters for a little while before finally setting them back down. He looks over Tweak's shoulder. "Make sure you dig that thing in there real good," he says of the needle. "It won't work unless it's in all the way. Put some strength behind it."

Fusillade breaks into a grin a mile wide at the radio, casting Scrapper a sly look. And then as Tweak heeds the Constructicon, that grin fades. "No wait don't do that, it'll hurt more once you turn me back on! I! HEY!" However, there's not much else to be done as the liquid is pumped in, a final over-pressurized spurt sending the cannula flying loose for a moment. "Nyah, I've had all I can take," Fusillade whines. Tweak looks over greedily to the paint cabinets. "Light gloss grey to reflect EMPppppppppppPP!" He seems satisfied with the myriad of empty boxes and canisters of the Empire's precious resources that have been dumped into the bomber. Time for the icing on the cake.

Scrapper takes a step back as Tweak works his magic. He wants no part in this crazy voodoo like method of upgrading Fusillade. And here he thought he could spend the evening looking over photos of the kickin' new Olympic site. "Ok so the paint makes sense, but I don't know about all that liquid. Just make sure her knee doesn't explode. She might need it in case she has to knee an Autobot in the head." Or walk, but Scrapper doesn't bother mentioning that since it's pretty obvious. "Are you almost done here or what?" he asks the crazed techie.

"I swear, I will turn you into a CRUISE missile and fire you into a Syrlaxian whorehouse if you botch this up, you little scraplet," Fusillade growls out as a few other techs shimmy up to clean Tweak's rapid, but messy, progress. There's a quizzical look sent his way as he begins to spray over areas with the paint, but the colors fall into her normal range, and that seems to quiet her down. "Impatient, Scrapper?" A few more sprays, and then Tweak looks up, hopeful. "More fins!" To which Fusillade and the choir of techs respond, "NO!!!!" Tweak shrugs, and then slaps the controls off, at which point Fusillade winces and emits a howl at the different integration points. "Augh, that smarts!!" One of the maneuvering rockets spurts, and her foot pops up in the air. "Hey, I can do the can can!"

"Alright alright alright, I'm taking over the effort here." Scrapper mutters, having had enough of watching poor Fusillade get tortured by Tweak. The Constructicon moves forward and, assuming the gumby isn't doing anything critical at the moment, kind of tries to bump him aside with his mighty Constructi-strength. "Galvatron would probably blame me if I let some loser techie mess her up." Galvatron can be so unfair sometimes.

What Scrapper will find, once he sops up the stray puddles, is that the work is actually well-done. All the connections and pump pressures seem secure, and boards integrated. The conversion and hardening of airframes to go into space is pretty intensive, and the groaning was inevitable. "Nnph. I feel like my legs and elbows were the main course at a Sharkticon buffet. And hey, what's up with what they were saying on radio earlier, anyway?" She slowly angles herself upward, wincing again.

Scrapper arghs and goes about getting rid of all the puddles. "Slag, this looks like slag," he mutters even though it actually looks pretty good. "Completely awful work. You should really be ashamed of yourself. Buuuut... uh... I suppose it's good enough for now, so, um, I'm not going to bother making any other major changes." Addressing Fusillade while he works on closing Fusillade up, he says, "Not sure. Stunticons are out causing mayhem or something." Scrapper hates the Stunticons, but causing havoc is at least something they're good at.

Fusillade arches an optic ridge, and sorely rises to her feet. "Okay, I'm giving it a bit, and then I'm gonna give it a whirl in the training room. You'll be hearing from me..." She flickers an optic playfully, "If anything goes wrong. Granted, you'll probably hear from me anyway. Ta. Thank you, you're building a stronger Empire!" She begins to wobble over to the discharge desk.


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