Summary: (February 2027) Fusillade gets an Austin Powers Fembot makeover!
Act 1: Consultation
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.
The quiet hours before dawn cling tomb-like to the corridors of the Medical Ward. Under cover of the relative silence, there's still entirely too many telling glances from the sentries. Fusillade trudges in, expression drawn. she nictates optics against the brightness of the facility, raising one arm to shield her face. Plunking down at one of the energon refueling stations, she impatiently waits for the dispenser to finish loading up the simple, but serviceable carafe she brought in with her.
The forge unit that has dominated med-bay for several cycles now is silent, no glow coming from its tarnished cauldron, no hum of micro-fusion units keeping metal at a constant temperature, just the normal background hum of the repair bay equipment. The cause for the relative quiet is the almost-finished armor that hangs on a skeletal, seeker-shaped frame to the side of the room, the dour blacksmith Fulcrum standing before it, running his hands over the smooth grey metal, searching for tiny imperfections of flaws. Finding none, he nods with a certain degree of satisfaction, the sound of someone entering med-bay behind him causing Fulcrum to turn and nod again, this time in greeting. "Fusillade."
Fusillade nearly drops the entire container on the floor as she starts, whipping around. Snapping a hand out to steady the carafe's bottom, she nods to Fulcrum in silent greeting. Standing, she begins to pace over. Still sipping at an unusually conservative pace, she murmurs, "So, you're finally almost done with it. You've been working on it for some time. Must be difficult to handle. I remember seeing you repeat a few steps." There's still a tense clench lingering about her jaw.
Fulcrum shrugs, not noticing yet the tension in the other Decepticon. "Pure Unicronian metal is difficult to work with, and hard to alloy. But yes, it is complete now, at least the plate segments. I still will require assistance to modify my feedback sensors to fully integrate with the armor." He pauses for a moment, something fighting for his attention, something to do with Fusillade, and.. oh. That's right. She's being removed from command.
A decidedly lackluster 'yeah', escapes Fusillade at Fulcrum's explanation. "When do you think that you'll be able to get a skilled technician to help you with that?" She winces visibly as something internal disagrees with her. "Smelt shouldn't have gone through that entire container," she mutters, before looking up briefly. "There had been some talk several weeks ago about me accessing my alt mode's weapons while I am in my robot mode. Would you have enough time before your qualified technician comes around to be able to install that particular kit? You had said you wanted me to report to you directly for maintenance anyway."
Fulcrum makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "Scrapper has promised to assist me, but that was the last I heard. So I beleive I have time, yes." He gives her an evaluating look, wondering just how much energon she has consumed before trudging over to one of the medbay terminals, tapping at the interface and quickly bringing up Fusillade's schematics. "Where do your bomb bay doors end up on your robot mode?" he asks, turning to face her once more.
Shifting weight to rest the edge of forearms on the console's edge, Fusillade fixes Fulcrum with a wistful gaze. The creases around the corners of her optics suggests light senstivity from the aftereffects of overenerigation, of this the blacksmith could be sure. "Urm..." She clutches the sides of her torso briefly, puzzling over how to explain. "The main stores lie slightly forward along the craft's belly, which gets folded into..." She trails off, fending off the jackhammers ringing in her cranimum, before she gives up and then half hangs forward and over the monitor to select and zoom in on an animated transform sequence. "The cockpit and forward fuselage fold up on themselves twice to give a three layered form for the torso. It's REALLY deep in there, hence why there's been no convient rummaging around in my chest to just pluck them out. Half my infrastructure would come with it, and for all I know, I'd wind up yanking my laser core out." There's a lingering sour undertone at her perceived lack of competence.
"And of course there's the mass shifting" Fucrum adds, going over the sequence in his mind as she zooms in on the animatic. "Hrrm." He remains silent for a while, staring at the screen, fingers idly tapping at the side of the console. "One way..." he finally says, "...would be to trigger a partial transformation - have your cockpit section flip up and surrounding chest panels unfold. Using the subspace activation triggered by the sequence, we could access your bombs, propelling them from subspace at some velocity via the opening."
"That's kind of gross," Fusillade says in a low whisper to Fulcrum as she leans further over the counter, as if she were passing on a carefully guarded secret, and not a mere opinion. "Maybe move to the side inside first, then launch?" She seems curious about this idea, although the part about having a sternum with a mind of its own doesn't seem to appeal too much to her. She finally sits back on the nearest table, giving Fulcrum his room as she gazes back to his work in progress. "Managed to finagle acess to a better ordnance too, and persuaded the weaponsmaster to keep it that way." The words are conspicuous by their absence of smugness.
Fulcrum's optics flicker. He hadn't really considered that but.. hm. He could see how it could be somewhat disturbing. "Well your muntions are inside you" he says with an amused look. "They have to come out somehow." And there are worse exit locations. "Move to the side.. you mean your cockpit section, or the bombs themselves?" He takes the opportunity to take some energon from the dispenser, filling what appears to be a beaker with the glowing liquid.
"The bombs? Being dispensed. I'd... prefer as few external moving parts as possible, please. That's just, eww." She reiterates. She winces again, and sips on the unaltered energon as she sits on a table near the far side of the medical ward. There's an empty shell of a Seeker hanging on the wall, looking like a corpse, perhaps. Fusillade herself is clearly worse for wear, although the exact nature is hard to tell. Until she opens her mouth. "I couldn't even transform. I had planned on going out and flattening something." She trails off as she considers, "Something to piss EVERYONE off. And I had it figured out too. At the time. Can't remember it though. How'd you finally get it to work, anyway?" She nods to the armor. "And is it going to augment or replace your current cover? And am I asking too many questions? I don't want to wind up dispensing my fuel tanks out in the middle of a fight."
Fulcrum considers the problem as Fusillade talks, his technical train of thought derailed as Fusillade talks of rash action designed to provoke a response.. from 'everyone'. "Everyone?" he asks, sipping at his own energon, face impassive despite the slightly clinical taste of the fuel. Medical grade never tastes quite right. "Hrm." He wonders if he should ask more, but instead is drawn to answer her questions instead. "Replace" he says, glancing down at his green and grey banded armor, still different from his original color scheme, then at the raw metal-grey armor hanging on the frame. "As for your missiles.. Unless you want the bombs to appear one at a time from subspace, I think there will have to be some exterior shifting."
Fleet has spent entirely too much time in medical of late for his taste, especially considering he's been trying to avoid Scrapper, but some problems just require the attention of a professional. The pastel wonder steps into the room and scans it, looking first for a hint of lime-green. His optics brighten, perhaps a bit startled, at the seemingly dead Seeker-thing, and he stares at it a moment before his mouth opens in a silent 'ah' of dawning realization. Then he enters more fully into the room and inclines his head towards those he knows. "Fulcrum. Fusillade. Good cycle."
Fusillade waves a hand, irritated with herself. "Nevermind about that," she finally concedes, before she says, "Maybe a number of changes spread out over time. Dispensing one at a time will be fine for now." As she watches him draft up the changes, she squeezes the edge of the table as she begins to mull matters over. "This isn't what I wanted to talk about, though, honest." The appearance of Fleet causes her to tilt her head to regard him for a good long moment. "Hey," she responds simply, quelling the desire to ask for duty rosters, patrol findings, or any of a million other things that she had gotten used to seeking from the Seeker.
"Oh?" Fulcrum says, with a sudden sense of deja-vu. Hasn't Fusillade said the same thing in the past, just before leaving? The appearance of Fleet interrupts his thoughts and he nods a greeting. "Fleet. We were just discussing the feasability of accessing Fusillade's alt-mode weaponry while in robot mode." He looks back at the recently demoted femme. "Well if it's one at a time, a simple subspace relay should be sufficient. Although you would then have to throw the bombs yourself, by hand."
"Ah," Fleet replies, dipping his head in a nod. "All right. That could be handy." As a Seeker, his most used weapon is available in both modes, but he does have a few single-mode abilities as well.
Fusillade makes another face. "/THROW/ them? That's... urgh, no." She raises obsidian hands to cup her cheeks, looking positively miserable. "Launching would be good. Something to give them proper distance before they self-propel." She twists around at Fleet, and suggests, "So. Dancing, huh?" Maybe she's looking for something to fill the gap of free time that has once again re-emerged in her life.
Fusillade adds one last request to Fulcrum, "Just... don't make it look too stupid?"
Fulcrum frowns. Having the cockpit section flip up and the breastplate panels open to launch a volley of missiles isn't stupid! It's awesome! "Perhaps only the panels either side of your cockpit could open" he replies. "We can launch the bombs via subspace through the gap."
Fusillade claps her hands on the white vertical panels that flank the rear of her cockpit, and then raises palms up and out, complete with little 'whssh' sound effects. "Huh. That might not be too bad," she concedes, before nodding to Fleet. "Yep. Just how... agile would one have to be in order to be any good at learning that sort of thing?"
Fulcrum can't help but chuckle at Fusillade's pantomime. "Something like that, yes" he says. "It should not be too difficult to make the modifications, though you may take a while to get accustomed to aiming them successfully."
Fleet frowns and considers the question as he leans against the wall in the waiting section. "Ah... fairly agile, I suppose. Of course, part of the point is it helps one improve their agility. And, of course, if one isn't going to be in any formal competitions, it needn't be that dangerous, so there is more room for mistakes," he answers, expression thoughtful and distant.
Fleet's optics flicker, obviously startled, as Fusillade waves her hand around in front of his face. He shakes his head to clear it, then continues to shake his head. "I'm fine. Well, fine except for a strange rattle in one of my engines. Nothing major, but I'd like to get it looked at before it becomes major. Why do you ask?"
You say, "Because I worry over certain mechanisms whether they need it or not?" Fusillade ventures to Fleet. "It seemed like a particular thought was on your mind, is all. And maintenance is important." She casts a pointed look at Fulcrum at those last words, recalling the vehemence that prior lapses caused in him.
Fleet smiles slightly, perhaps a bit wryly, and shrugs. "Well, I was just thinking that if you were interested in learning how to dance for yourself..." he makes a face then continues, "I'm afraid you probably wouldn't be allowed into many formal competitions, anyway. Some people are very old fashioned about that sort of thing." As a random medic, Haphazard, finishes up with his previous task, he waves Fleet over. The pastel Seeker eyes the other warily.
"There are certain parts of the community-mindedness within the Seekers that I would never deign to breach," Fusillade says to Fleet. "The formalized dance heirarchy or sorting or whatever it is, is one of them. Somethings are best kept a mystery. Even if the ol' bird has a few surprises up her sleeve," she speaks fondly of her alt mode. "Looks like the tech's ready for you." Despite this, Fleet gets a sympathetic glance from Fusillade at the definite non-union flavor of Haphazard.
"I know," Fleet murmurs as he reluctantly pushes himself away from the wall. "That's what I'm afraid of..." and then he turns towards Fusillade. "If you so wish. I've never been on the Purist side of the arguement, anyway, but..." he flinches and looks back at Haphazard. "I suppose that's something to deal with another day." He approaches the tech, struggling to keep the worry from his features.
Act 2: The Procedure
Fulcrum is in med bay! Where all the cool people hang out! Thankfully none of the cool people are hanging out here now, which gives him the time to go over some specifications - his own specifications, to be precise, as he works out where the best place for the neural buffers to be installed.
After her earlier consultation, Fusillade had slipped back to the armory, and availed herself to the inventory lists of the different types of air to air munitions that were available to soldiers in the Empire. She does not come traipsing in with live rounds tucked under each arm, thankfully. Instead, their dimensions are rattling around in her head -- namely, their sizes relative to her own frame while in robot mode. There's some motion in the background or another, and Fulcrum might soon feel the tingling sensation that one often gets when the back of their head and neck is stared at for too long.
Fulcrum glances up, finally noticing that he's not alone. "Fusillade" he greets, turning away from the flickering screen to face the femme.
"Hey," Fusillade vents out over intakes at the blacksmith, resting forearms on the back of the chair. "So, you still haven't lost the grey and green camo yet, huh? I talked to Arsenal while on my way back in from patrols, and snuck a peek at some of the different missile varieties we have. It's... quite fascinating. Can I tell you about 'em before I forget?" She flashes a half smile, before handing a pad over. "I did finally decide to stop being difficult about how they're deployed, too. So... If I can once again distract you from your tasks..." She peers at the work in progress.
Fulcrum nods. "As before, I'm stuck without assistance. So feel free. And I will be returning to my original color scheme when I have completed the new armor."
Fusillade gives a disappointed, "Awwww," at Fulcrum's comment. "Shame. The pattern's rather fetching." She then waves Fuclrum over and drapes herself over a medical table, idly tracing a fingertalon on the surface. "Anyway, their size as is compared to well, most Transformers in robot mode is... crazy. Like... half my height. I was thinking of going for something small, narrow to start with, nothing too large in the extraneous fin department. More like a torpedo, really. Sidewinder, ASRAAM, that sort of thing."
Fulcrum approaches the table, head tilted as he regards "Hm. True. Trying to fit such a large munition though a relatively small apeture could be difficult, if not impossible, even with some subspace expansion. Best to start with something more realistic. It may be possible to include larger weaponry in future, or multiple instances of the smaller rounds."
"Yeah, the weight itself isn't an issue, I don't think. Just the threading through the space can be quite a challenge. But honestly? Having something like that just hanging off your wings? Tac-ky. Couldn't do it." She rests one hand under her head and pats the edge of the table, beckoning. "I saw some of the larger ones, and they were quite exciting. I must say, up to half a ton? Phew. I know I can handle it if I work up to it, especially since that thing has a range of... 126 miles. Can you believe the hyoomans actually came up with something that effective? They'd have to, to deal with us." And then at that point she sighs gustily. "I never tried to make anyone do stupid things while I was leading. Go forth and raise chaos. What was so hard about that?"
"Human weaponry seems impressive on first look" Fulcrum remarks. "But it seems to lack the penetrative power of Cybertronian armaments, designed as they are to take down more fragile, less combatitive human craft. True, some of their larger munitions are up to the task, but they are a minority. I'm sure we could find a Cybertronian equivalent that would be just as good, if not better." He pauses, as Fusillade speaks of the leadership issue for the first time, clearly something that has been bothering her for a while. "I'm not privy to the decision making process of High Command. Sometimes they seem a bit.. arbitary."
Fusillade mmms, and nods to Fulcrum. "Quite insightful there. So, let's get to it, and..." She trails off, staring pointedly at the medic for a moment, before sagging her weight on the table, flicking at one of the equipment leads to idly pass the time. "Don't -remind- me," she states in chagrin, gaze cast down in shame.
"Did you have a particular munition in mind?" Fulcrum asks. "If not, the computer system has a large selection of blueprints and images for you to go over until you find one that you like." He leans back against a table, resting on the edge. "It wasn't my intent to agrivate" he apologises. "Are you going to contest the matter in the arena?"
Fusillade rests her head in the crook of her arm, and says, "Next to the smallest to start out with. I said I went down to the armory, you know, because of that very reason." At the question, she furrows her brow and gapes up at him. "Not your intent, but... you're doing a terribly good job of it. I... I don't think so, Fulcrum. There's plenty of opportunists there that want the position, so let them have their crack at it. It merely underscores the fact that how I got where I did in the first place was not... the Decepticon way." Fusillade mumbles into her arm as she flicks optics off, "Shouldn't have been there in the first place."
Fulcrum shrugs. "The Decepticon way is whatever is appropriate for the moment" he replies cynically. "How you got there is irrellevant. You were a successful commander until High Command decided - for whatever reason - to remove you."
Fusillade reasons, "I think the permissiveness offended their hard-on for order. Or something. I'm not sure. I... really don't want to talk about it more. Not right now, at least." One fingertip continues to worry at the metal table. "So, full shut down for this or can I still run my yap at you while we're doing this? And ASRAAMs are fine."
"A full shutdown should not be required" Fulcrum replies, standing up and tapping at the keypad of the table Fusillade sits upon, a data-interface cable extending from a hatch on the side of the unit. "If you would lie down, we can begin."
Fusillade eyes the medic, the table, the console. The changes this would bring, the change it represented, did cause an excited stir within her. However, with a brief split second of her usual typical smile, she rearranges herself in a much more procedure-amenable orientation, straightening out on the table, resting folding hands across her chest. Oops, wasn't that the place that was going to be worked on? "So I never really figured out the whole feedback thing on that armor of yours. It still creeps me out."
Fulcrum leans forward to flip open an access hatch on Fusillade's neck, carefully attaching the cable to the socket within, allowing him some control over her basic functions via the medical interface. "It's simple. I will be able to adjust the amount of information I receieve from my neural feedback circuits. During combat, I will turn the sensitivity down, allowing me to fight on despite injury." He brings up the command codes for Fusillade's transformation sequence on screen. "When not engaged in combat, the sensitivity will be dialed back to normal."
Fusillade had always made a game of guessing what would come next when she was on the table. Some things she had seen more often than others. Battle injuries were easy to anticipate. The rare chassis alteration? Much trickier. After a few moments of peering down toward the weaponsmith, Fusillade softly clacks her head against the metal surface, satisfied to just let things happen for now. "Yeah? It still sounds like you run a risk of TOO much damage during the fight. I don't want you blowin' up on me. That'd just be sad." Another moment, and she hmms. "You and Bandit should pair up. Call yourselves Hammer and Sickle for the tourney."
Fulcrum chuckles. "That might be interesting" he says. Fulcrum gets along quite well with Bandit, for fairly obvious reasons. "Move your hands please.. I'm going to attempt to use a partial transformation sequence to open your chest panels." He carefully inputs a sequence of commands and hits activate. Hopefully this should flip open the white panels either side of Fusillade's nosecone section, operating her body by remote control. If not, well.. Things may get messy.
Fusillade raises her hands to the sky gods! and then mm-hmms at Fulcrum's chuckle. "Got ya. Always could do that." She reassures herself. There's a interested and yet horrified expression on her face as she watches the panels accordian out like freakish metallic origami. One foot begins to paw at the end of the table. "Ur, ahm, Fulcrum? This is... really starting to creep me out..."
Fulcrum looks up from the terminal, regarding the extended panels thoughtfully. "Hm. That should be adequate." He tilts his head, slightly surprised at Fusillade's reaction. It is, after all, an extension of the perfectly natural function of Transforming. He's mystified as to why she is being creeped out by it. "Are you in pain at all?" he asks, reversing the sequence to fold the panels back into their original configuration.
The half transformation of that particular portion of Fusillade's body does provide a LOT of visual insight on how to handle the mechanical apsects of the installation. As Fulcrum reverses the expansion, Fusillade says, "No, no pain, but... it's..." She looks around a bit, "It's WEIRD. Like watching someone clean out their..." She groans, and claps hands over her face. "Keep going, I'm not watching," she insists. She crosses her legs at the ankles to keep any extraneous motion from interfering with the rummaging about in her chest. "You're being very gracious about this," she thanks Fulcrum.
Bonecrusher is puttering about, ready to assist Fulcrum, should he request it. The demolitionist is by no means the most couth of mechs, but he still has enough decency not to stare at Fusillade's exposed innards - too much.
"I have seen much worse sights" Fulcrum says, once more running through the sequence to unfold Fusillade's chest armor, this time the action smoother and with less extraneous extension of surrounding plates. He pauses the sequence at full extension, moving around the table to peer into the opening, the free-standing subspace field allowing him to see into the normally spacially compressed bomb-bay rather than the workings of her robot frame. "This should work" he replies, looking back up at Fusillade, slightly amused by how she covers her face with her hands. "It may be easier to install the rack in jet mode."
Fusillade is in fact, laid out on a medical table, lower legs crossed and hands clapped over optics self-conciously as Fulcrum toys with the entire assembly to get it properly able to dispense weaponry while she's in robot mode. Racks? Chest expansion? All here. She ever so slowly raises one finger to peer out, but the flash of a green more pale than Fulcrum's causes her to immediately return the impromptu blindfold. "OH smelt," she says in mortification, before she says, "Not to you, Fulcrum. Um... just point me to the proper clear space.
Scrapper stalks into the medical ward and, for once, doesn't find it full of Sweeps. He is uncertain as to whiter or not this is a good thing. While Scrapper certainly doesn't *like*, per se, having his medical ward full of Sweeps, the thought of the Sweeps being out on the lose is perhaps more worrying, especially because Scrapper knows them to be particularly angry Sweeps, one of which does not to seem to like Scrapper's choice of XO. Scrapper sidles over to see what Fulcrum's working on with Fusillade without a word, in that annoying way of people who don't actually need detailed explanations about what's going on and in fact may be judging the proceedings.
Bonecrusher isn't one to be overly defensive, and "I wasn't looking at your new rack, promise!" could be take the wrong way anyhow, so he says nothing as he notices Fusillade peering at him. Then he spots his brother. "Hey, Scrapper! What's going on? Need anything?"
Fulcrum straightens up, then starts as he realises Bonecrusher and Scrapper have entered medbay while he was busy. Quickly regaining his composure, he returns to the med-table's console, once more retracting Fusillade's chest armor. "We can retract most of the tables to clear a space" he says. "Or we can set up a temporary unit in a hangar, or in the spaceport."
"I'll be sure to tuck 'em back," Fusillade says of her wings when she glances over to the indicated area. There's a belated /stare/ and clap of arms over her chest as she notes the presence of Scrapper as well as that of Bonecrusher. "Hey, guys," she manages in a slightly chagrined tone, before hopping off the table and clattering over to the indicated area, looking to her left, right, behind, and in front of her to make sure she was positioned as close to the middle of the bare brushed metal floor as possible before transforming.
Fusillade leans forward, wingblades whipping out to their full span, even as her arms lock backward in place as the rear fuselage. Her torso folds out to the become the cockpit of a Terran B-1B Lancer, ready for flight!
"Oh, hey!" Bonecrusher replies in an innocent, nonchalant tone. He's just a harmless Constructicon, he's not staring, really not! Bonecrusher makes sure to get out of the way as Fusillade transforms.
Scrapper idly pulls out a datapad and taps at it. He replies to Bonecrusher, "Well, it would appear that Fusillade is getting a new rack. As for myself, I was just hoping to find a little time to finish rewiring my electrical systems but that can wait." It can certainly wait while there's such a show to watch. Scrapper pulls back and leans against a cabinet, to give the Lancer plenty of space. He greets, "Hello, Fusillade."
One of the Sweeps stalks in, heading for an out of the way station to tend to some minor talon sharpening.
Fulcrum glances at Scrapper, frowning. He doesn't like to work under such close scruity, but he should be used to it by now. Taking a small hover platform from a storage cabinet, he lies back on it, scooting under the B1-B bomber that is now gracing medbay. "If you would open your bomb-bay doors..."
B-1B Lancer, once she has finished ratcheting her wings as far back as she can manage. There's plenty of headspace available under the gloss white belly, and there's a 'clack' as she snaps back the doors of her forward, main stores bay. Nowhere near as mobile in this form, Fusillade flicks one nose canard, easily the length of a human's forearm, and emits, "Heyya, Scrapper. Gettin' some new gear in. The three different rotary launchers I have are FABULOUS, but I just need to spice up the wardrobe a bit. How have you been, hun? And... say. I'm planning on a few missions of mayhem and destruction. However, I've been having some trouble with Autobots with flying alt modes." She practically purrs the next part, "Any chance you could provide me with a supply of about... oh, a dozen of those darling claw-shaped transform inhibitors? Maybe a week turn around time so I can go do something worthwhile before the stupid free for all?"
Scrapper snarks, "Do I look like a factory, Fusillade? And do you want this before or after I do those designs for you?" However, his hands are already sketching out designs on that datapad of his, even before his mind has put sarcasm to sound. Scrapper would wonder what Fulcrum's problem is, but it's Fulcrum. He vaguely takes in the arrival of the Sweep. Well, that's one Sweep not causing untold mayhem. Yet.
B-1B Lancer rocks back on her rear landing gear carriages a bit. "Well of course you're not a factory, Scrapper. That's why the coolness of what I requested /appeals/ to you. Of course, I suppose you could just satisfy yourself instead with any number of other, less technically challenging projects."
Bonecrusher lets Scrapper deal with the designs - he'll tell him if he needs anything from him, won't he? He also notices the Sweep, but isn't too bothered. At least /this/ Sweep isn't gnawing at anything unsavoury - yet?
Fulcrum reaches up and begins modifying Fusillade's weapon racks, his assistant Kitbash handing him parts and tools as he installs a sliding ratchet mechanism to move the racks into the precise positon of her chest-plates when in robot mode. A mistake could see an internal detonation, and he knows full well that Fusillade does not want another one of those.
Dredclaw takes the file and begins *rasp* *rasp* *rasping* as he swivels in his seat to watch the show. He smirks at the thought of Fusi's requested TF inhibitors. Anything claw shaped is good by this Sweep...
Scrapper sighs and glances upwards. He says slowly, "Fusillade, I'm seriously considering building a giant magnetic ball and rolling it through Iahex. Lack of creativity is not my problem. It's resources. I'll need some heavy metals. Get me those, and I'll build you your inhibitors. Unless you want reusable inhibitors. Those are trickier." Scrapper tilts his head down and aroudn at the Sweep and says, "There's a buffer, too, once you're done with the file."
Dredclaw's fangs flash as he applies the file to a burr with gusto. "That would be appreciated." he rumbles, adding "Sir." belatedly.
You say, "They don't have to be reusable," Fusillade assures Scrapper. "You'd really do it?" the Lancer practically chirps. "Ha, that'd be awesome." She settles down, making Fulcrum's life much easier. The area to the fore of the bomb bay is crammed full with navigational and defensive systems, although there is some room to spare along the middle leyline of the craft."
Fulcrum doesn't have much space to work with, but the loader doesn't have to be that large - just on target. He checks the action on the racks again, then attaches the mechanism to one of Fusillade's neural connectors. "You should be recieving information about the new installation now" he calls out. "Try to move the new rack yourself."
Dredclaw sets down the file and retrieves the buffer that he applies with a *whirrrrr*
B-1B Lancer hmms. "Hey, Bonecrusher, since I'm asking for some favors -- I really should have done this a long time ago, I really don't know what I was thinking -- guess I was just a bit too hung up on being able to do everything myself when I was out on a mission. But... would you mind too terribly much if you could build a nice-sized, static bomb for me? I have an /idea/ for a mission." Upon hearing Fulcrum's instructions, she hmmms, and patches through the information. With a telescoping whisk, the assembly retracts up and forward into Primus knows where inside the bomber's innards.
"And the pink paint is in the middle of the paint cabinets, over there," Scrapper says. It seems he's researched this recently. "There's quite a few different shades." To Fusillade, Scrapper nods and say, "Eh, sure. Why not? They'll just do a short EMP blast, causing a short-out that results in modelock. Needs something that decays pretty fast, though, but not too fast. Don't want the half-life making the inhibitor expire before use."
Bonecrusher ignores the inevitable noises of Sweep-manicure the best he can.
Fulcrum nods in satisfaction, sliding back out from underneath the bomber, standing up and moving to a sink to wash the oil and grease from his hands. "You can return to robot mode" he says, drying off his hands with a burst of air from the sanitation unit. "I should check the alignment."
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 reaches up to run hands along her flanks, frowning some. "Feel a bit heavier," she says, skimming along the open space until she returns to the work space. She bobs a few times, gauging any impact it might have on her already mediocre ability to dive out of the way of weaponsfire. Satified that it appears to be perceptul, she shrugs, and says, "I'll get used to it." She mulls over Scrapper's commentary, and ultimately frowns over her lack of comprehension. "Radioactive?"
Bonecrusher could say something about how heavy babes aren't a bad thing, but that would likely get him thwapped.
Scrapper chatters, "A nuclear detonation produces an immediate flux of gamma rays from the nuclear reactions within the device. These photons create high energy free electrons, which are then trapped in the Earths magnetic field, giving rise to an oscillating electric current. This current causes an electromagnetic pulse. Of course, we all know that EMP isn't good for machines, and if you tune it in the right ranges, it can knock out transform circuitry."
Fulcrum gestures to the table. "I need to check the alignment" he repeats patiently. "Then I will install the semi-transform as a subroutine that you can access. Then all that remains is installing the actual missiles, and for you to practice with the new system."
Fusillade remarks as she once again reclines on the table. "Oh, I know about EMP messin' Transformers up. Just didnt' realize you could get it to knock out one specific thing on them with out... killing them." She flicks optics briefly, as she mulls over the deal with Killarn, and once again lapses into silence as she presents to Fulcrum.
Scrapper continues, "It depends on persistency and penetration. Some types of radiation are easily blocked. Some are not. Also, one has to consider how excited and energetic the carrier particles are. It's the difference between a scalpel and a sword. They're both blades, and they both cut, but one's a lot better for beheading than the other." The Constructicon's shovel flicks, amused.
Fulcrum once more attaches the lead to Fusillade's neck-input socket and activates the sub-routine, unfolding her chest armor. Walking around the table, he looks into the opening, satisfied that the launcher is aligned correctly with the apeture. Returning to the console, he saves the semi-transformation sequence and adds the launcher firing mechanism, installing it as a reflexive weapons subroutine. Running it reverse to close the panels, he looks up at the femme lying on the table. "Now, attempt to open the hatches and fire a missle. Don't worry, there's nothing loaded at the moment, so all we should get is the action."
"There's people watching!" Fusillade hisses to Fulcrum.
Indeed, the Sweep is near oogling...
Bonecrusher says, "Hey, nothing I haven't seen before!" Bonecrusher exclaims."
Fulcrum blinks. "Hm" he says, not realising that Fusillade feels so uncomfortable about this. It's not all that different from when someone is damaged and being repaired, and there always seems to be people watching then. Still, if it makes things easier... Fulcrum taps at the console, an semi-opaque forcefield springing to life around the repair-table, blocking all but silhouettes from view.
Dredclaw finishes buffing his talons out and begins applying the fresh coat of paint.
Not exactly the reaction one should be having in the battlefield, to say the least. Fusillade ahems, and then straightens herself, before flicking her gaze about. Ah, that dark bluish purple ink blot in the corner there looked like a fantastic target, and... then blurs out of existence. "I was gonna do it, honest," Fusillade protests to Fulcrum. Her voice drops to a whisper as she leans in to tap her forehead against his briefly. "It is nice though." There's faint shimmer of that usual lop-sided smile, before she slides off the table and, mindful of the still-connected leads, bellows out, "Tally ho!" and initiates what she hopes would be a successful dry run.
Fulcrum's optics flicker, unsure how to react. "Yes" he replies, though exactly what he's agreeing with is unclear. As Fusillade activates the new systems, the white panels of her chest-armor open smoothly with a truncated variant of the familiar transformation sound, an audible CLICK-CLICK coming from inside her frame as the empty launchers attempt to disgorge missiles that - at the moment - do not exist. Looks like the procedure was a sucess.
Scrapper looks up from his vivid scribbles of radioactive claws of doom and protests, "Fulcrum, I can't see what you're doing!"
Fusillade's unconventional cry still echoes through the Medical Ward, bouncing off the hard walls. Granted, all that can be seen at the moment through the privacy screen is Fulcrum's frozen, stock-still form, and Fusillade's triumphant pose. She turns, and says even as the sounds of retracting machinery can be heard, "Okay, that wasn't too bad. Hey, go ahead and turn that thing off, everyone else can see now. We still need to talk about the girth and length of what I will be able to handle."
Dredclaw is sitting in a corner, finishing up his talons with a fresh coat of paint, he smirks to Sunder as his wingsib enters. "I found a box of bot fingers in the Sanctum, Sunder... don't leave your snacks about." he tosses a small grey box to his brother.
Fulcrum nods, deactivating the force wall, the medbay snapping into view once more. "Well as you said before, it would be best to start small, to get yourself accustomed to the action. The apeture can be extended fairly far, with subspace assistnace, so when you are confident, you should be able to handle larger and more powerful payloads. There may be some problems with accuracy when using the larger weapons, but their size means that this shouldn't be important."
Scrapper finally decides that, since things seem to be wrapping up, maybe he can go see about finishing his electrical system! After all, Fulcrum appears to have not killed Fusillade, so all is well.
Fusillade ahs, and fingersnaps. "That's what I was looking for, whether it would be necessary to retool for other sizes. Thank you, Fulcrum. I still need to talk to you about a few matters, particularly since there's been a shift in power structure paradigm." She finally turns around and flicks saffron optics at those gathered. "Whaaaaaaaat? You'll get your chances later. And Scrapper, I'll see what I can do about getting those materials to you. Could prove to be fun. Thank you." She gives the Constructicon, and his bulldozer brother, a flourished bow, before tending to a few last arrangements. Otherwise, she does not linger too long about the Medical Ward.
Fulcrum nods to Fusillade, then goes to check on something. Something awesome! Something mysterious. Something like his player wanting to watch Dr. Who.
Dredclaw� is sitting in a corner, finishing up his talons with a fresh coat of paint, he smirks to Sunder as his wingsib enters. "I found a box of bot fingers in the Sanctum, Sunder... don't leave your snacks about." he tosses a small grey box to his brother.
Sunder catches the box with lightning-quick reflexes. "I was looking for those," he murmurs, "I don't remember leaving those there." He digs into the box, grabs a "snack", and starts chewing on it. "So what happened with Arachnae? Is she finished being repaired?" he asks.
Scrapper is suddenly called away! Has Scavenger fallen down the well? Does Verdant need help weeding his garden?