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| - Message: 2/28............Posted..........Author Temporary Obituary.......Mon Apr 10......Scrapper =========================================================================== Scrapper appears and reports, "As was reported earlier by, er, Fusillade herself, Colonel Fusillade suffered a massive internal explosion. It was as bad as it looked - fatal. Let us pause for a moment of silence." Scrapper dutifully pauses. "In better news, I think that based on the success I had with Fleet, I can get her back up and running. That said, I'm going to mark her down as on medical vacation. Scrapper out." =========================================================================== Scrapper is hunched over a medical table bearing what appears to be a miniature version of Jetfire, all dolled up for Halloween in the deadest of greys and cross-crossed with battle-scars and with nowhere to go. The machine needs a hobby... oh, wait. This *is* his hobby. Despite its dead-looking appearance, it is hooked up to a large number of curious device and arcane monitors, with eldritch green phosphor displays. Calmly, Scrapper demands, "Spanner, Scavenger. Soom, soon it will be time!" Scavenger is playing assistant today, helping Scrapper with his slightly less than savory work. Bringing back the dead, something about it just doesn't sit right with Scavenger, but hey, Scrapper's the boss and he'll do what he says. "Spanner, Scrapper," he says, handing him the tool. Scrapper accepts the spanner and notes casually, "I hear we're in for some thunderstorms, Scavenger." He tightens a few bolts, the coup-de grace on has macabre work. Scrapper muses, "It took some research and work to figure out who was behind it all, but given that she herself perceived the psychological warfare applications, I simply could not resist the poetic applications." That said, Scrapper flips the switch. Scavenger gives Scrapper a look that suggests he has no idea what's being talked about. Then again, that's fairly normal behavior for Scavenger, even when he /does/ understand what's going on. Unless, of course, there's some stupid non-Constructicon to show up. Then he smarts hinmself out the wazoo. "Er... what?" he asks. "Who's behind what now?" The boot of surging systems as they drain the capacitor causes several spikes on various readouts, accompanied by faint 'whump' of the discharge. Blunted fingertips clutch spasmodically at the polished tabletop, as the mechanism reflexes its torso backward nearly double against the restraints. A hiss of disarticulated vocoder merges with the whine of four priming engines as they draw their first. Hands alternately flex to find freedom, only to recoil at the lingering inundation of pain. The figure's optics remain glassy deep grey in their inactivation. And then, the voice rasps out, echoing one of the last few words heard. "Behin-h-d." Scrapper will accept confusion from Scavenger. It is, at least, better than the condemnation of some. He's a little hurt that even some of his brothers have decried his work. As the subject stirs, Scrapper clasps his hands together. He cries, "It can still talk! Did you hear that Scavenger? You heard that, didn't you?" He fairly bounces, optic band gleaming. Then, the engineer pauses and snaps his fingers. "Oh, scrap. Quick, run for the Jetfire action figure while you still can, Scavenger!" Scavenger is, for the moment, pretty much rooted to the ground. Fortunately, panic soon overrides slightly less panic, and he dashes for the doll. Quickly, he grasps it, careful not to break it, before returning it to Scrapper. "It's... it's... not dead..." he mumbles, trying to grasp the mechanics involved in resurrecting the dead. It's not a concept he's figured out and frankly, he thinks it's impossible. Scrapper's exclamation makes the figure only flinch briefly away. The voice falters whenever it ventures past a whisper, "S-h-tatus." Casting about for the source of sounds, the ash grey figure rises to a half sitting position, ducking its head. "No visual." Shoulder mounted wingtips quiver slightly from the tremors that course over its form, fist servos straining from the tightness as it clenches against the still cycling pain afterimages permanently seared on its processor. Scavenger nervously goes for his gun. Drawing a weapon in medical is probably a bad idea, but when your teammate's bringing the dead back to life, it occassionally comes in handy to have a little bit of firepower in your corner. "Just say the word, Scrapper," he says, "and I'll put 'er down again." ...It occurs to him that if you've collected somebody's spare parts and added them to your junk collection, it's probably not a good idea to hang out with their zombie incarnation. Scrapper throws his arms in the air and bemoans, "Why are all my brothers trigger-happy morons? I appreciate weapons as much as anyone, but there is a time and a place, but put that away Scavenger. Did you hear it? It can't even see. Now hand me the action fiction." Scavenger groans inwardly. Scrapper just doesn't seem to have the right kind of self-preservation instinct. Still, he's the boss, so he hands him the action figure, even as he stows his weapon. Ah well. Even without a gun, a few good whacks with his shovel would probably be enough to take down a zombie long enough to get away. ...He hopes. At Scavenger's words, the phantasm halts. Even the sound of constantly pulled air ebbs into nothingness. And then, with the rest of its form perfectly immobile, the head begins to turn and tilt toward the sound of the geologist's voice, a series of thin-pitched squeaks from the motion. "F-h-reedom," it demands, point blank. And then, a few more squeaks, and its face is turned toward Scrapper's relative position. "Your doin-h-g. T-h-his is your doin-h-g." Hands lurch down to hips expectantly, only to find emptiness where its holsters and wingblades would have been on the original frame. An incoherent, guttural sound of rage struggles from its throat as it finally slips off the table, shoulders hunched. Scrapper takes a few steps back and agrees, "Well, yeah. I seem to be the only oen seriously intereste din the area, and... I made this for you!" He holds out the Jetfire action-figure. "It's got a head that you can pop off and it snaps right back on. The limbs are pull-and-snap, too! Perfect for taking out your unholy rage and frustration." Sixshot has connected. "The ex-h-p-h-losion is not en-h-din-h-g," the ghost of Jetfires past reports, even as the figure is snatched up in the same way that a salmon might be slapped up onto shore by a grizzly. It's squeezed mercilessly, and is halfway up to the angry, still-fanged maw of the agonized thing-that-should-not-be. However, the tell-tale nosecone of right forearm comes into murky view. All rage is sapped momentarily, as murky vision attempts to parse the design in front of it... and then said gaze snaps down to bulkier feet, and finally, the twin tail ailerons tacked onto its shoulders. This last detail, mere inches from nosetip, clenches it. With a splintered gasping cry, it lurches back against the table's edge. And then, welling from deep, low within, a more familiar timbre to the voice. "Oh no, oh no, you did not. You... did not, you... did... You did." Stacatto laughter wrenches from the thing's gut for the next several minutes straight. Scavenger this is just about too much for Scavenger, who takes several steps backward. "Couldn't you have put a control chip in this thing or something?!" he asks, starting to panic The doors open with a hiss, and thus enters the six changer. He moves somewhat dispassionately towards an auto-repair station, plopping down. His amber optics seem disinterested with the lesser workings of the base, although he does glance up a little towards the constructicons at Scavenger's worried words. Scrapper nods-nods. He exclaims, "I did! It took a lot of study and forensics, but I figured out that it was probably his fault, so... I hear it's bad to be haunted by a doppleganger. Time for him to have some bad luck, ah?" Or maybe Scrapper just really wants to pull a prank on a Guardian, Air or not. Unbidden, the phantasm raises a hand to rest on its midriff at the recollection. Some spritely part wishes to make a pun about carrying things, Jetfire, belly, but the articulation doesn't come. Instead, a vindictive rasp, "Jet-h-fi-re." Another moment to get bearings, and minimal information about surroundings, before it straightens. "My over-c-h-locking. It is not ac-h-tive? Hnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." With head still tilted, it paces one step closer to Scavenger. "Con-h-t-h-rol not neces-h-sary." Sixshot speaks quietly and calmly, "Scrapper. What is that?" Scavenger freaks! Taking a giant step backward, he looks around, frightened. "I just want it on record that I think this whole thing is a /bad/ idea!" he says. Trying to raise the dead... especially when the dead person's been rebuilt from the ground up, just screams of being a bad idea. But noooo, does anyone ever ask Scavenger what he thinks? Nooooo Lolling its head to the side, the phantasm states the obvious. "Unit in Dee Cee Aye. Not my juris-h-dic-h-tion." Scrapper sighs and raises a hand to his head. Then, he paces over to a medical ward computer and flickers on a force-field around the revenant, since the natural Decepticon reaction to the dead seem to be to flip out and shoot them. Then, perfectly poised, Scrapper answers, "That is my latest experiment, Sixshot. You may address it by the name it had in life - Fusillade." Sixshot regards the wraith, "Fusillade is dead, Scrapper. This...thing...you have created is nothing more then a ghost." His head turns to Scrapper, and he speaks again, that quiet, dangerous calmness, "Destroy it." Fusillade takes her ease, and quite handily ambles to the periphery of the forcefield. "F-h-reedom," she demands again, before clutching the leg of the sacrificial action figure, and whacking its head against the shimmering surface until it goes flying off. That jerky head motion is sent towards Sixshot's direction. "High Com-h-man-h-d does not an-h-swer to you." A few more cracks, and an arm and ball and socket joint wing and engine pack from the figure spins across the floor, coming to rest against the forcefield at the far end of the protected space. "I will not f-h-ly far," she insists to Scrapper, convinced she is the reason the seal was put in place. Scrapper crosses his arms, digs in his feet, stares up at Sixshot despite every voice in his head screaming to run, and says simply, "No. I am a medic, and this is the medical ward. My word is law here." Then, Scrapper notes that the dead are restless. He turns and rushes to the side of the forcefield. He soothes, "Fusillade, calm down. If you can go a day or so without keeling over, I'll consider letting you go off base, if you've got a medic along - say, Fulcrum - but for now, there are bad people probably want to shoot you, and some of them are on our side." And one of them is probably Hook. Bah. Stupid brothers. And Scavenger! Scavenger would shoot him too! Except... of course, he wouldn't, because Scrapper would yell at him. And Scavenger dearly does hate to be yelled at. Still, it looks like there's a power struggle in the making between Scrapper and Sixshot, and that's something he can get behind. Support for his brother and all, even if he is a dead-raiser. Sixshot looks at the creature in the field, "...your word is not law on the battlefield, medic. However I find myself doubting you ascribe to many laws... Let the dead rest, or you will find yourself keeping company with them." He strikes towards the field, "Thing. Do you enjoy this comedy to which Scrapper has descended you?" "Ful-h-c-h-rum? He... no. No, n-h-o." Her voice is tiny, shaken. "No. He can not see me." That moment of vulnerability is shaken, however, as Sixshot approaches, and threatens. There is a previously absent sharpness there, a visceral rise to challenge that could not be cleft from the tiniest fraction of a living Decepticon. "It hur-h-t-h-s. But exis-h-tence is s-h-t-ill t-h-hat. S-h-pen-h-d your energ-h-y el-se-w-h-here." Scrapper sighs, relieved. Good girl. Very encouraging results, indeed. "Not Fulcrum? Well... I really don't want you going out alone. If you've got to get out, at least nab Slapdash or Repaint. For your own safety." Scrapper shudders. Oh, that their own comrades are more the enemy! "Now, your current body, wretched as it is, does have weapons-" Yes, Scrapper's keen on arming the dead. Has been ever since Hook decided that shooting his first test subject was a Good Idea. "-and let's review those now." ~And it gets me away from the zombie,~ Scavenger thinks, as he heads out the door, grateful to get away from what can only be trouble brewing. Sixshot nods slowly, "...I see, I will honor your wishes for the moment, and see that your end when it comes is appropriate to a Decepticon..." He turns, regarding Scavenger for a moment, "And final." He then glances to Scrapper, his optics cold, dispassionate and yet...dangerous...like a jagged blade resting on a wooden table, "..." Scavenger exits a set of doors to the imposing slope of Mount R'lyeh to the east. "T-h-he b-hlack-h-s-h-mit-h-h does not need t-h-his right now." Fusillade insists, remaining lucid for the moment on all things Fulcrum. And then, as Sixshot offers what? A release? She continues to tilt her head to the side, gazing -- in theory -- at the One Man Army. "Weapons," she queries of Scrapper, awaiting information. "I see no end," Scrapper counters, shovel flicking up. Not only does he know something that no one in this room does - indeed, no one but him and the dead, who tell no tales, - but he is quite fond of this experiment. Arachnae had no idea what she was unleashing when she suggested that Scrapper pursue his own project on his own terms. "Ah, weapons... take a look and see. I think that you'll find them amusing, at least." Sixshot looks at Scrapper, he then turns and heads towards the door. Sixshot leaves the NCC Medical Ward for the NCC Arena to the west, a polished set of doors swishing behind him. Fusillade remarks, "Not as power-h-ful, likely. But useful. We can per-h-hap-h-s sow c-h-haos in the Autobot ran-h-k-h-s." Sixshot's departure is noted, but she doesn't do more than preoccupy herself by playing soccer with the scattered toy pieces. It might get put back together, but not any time soon. Scrapper nods and says softly, "You're going to be burning more energon than usual as it is, so there's no way I could fit in his level of amped-up power. Still, you saw the potential for psychological warfare. As he took your body from you, make him hate the look of his own frame. Just give it a day or two to make sure that you're stable and make sure that you don't go alone, please?" He's pleading at the end, shovel down low and visor surprisingly piteous. Fusillade considers this for a good long moment. The promise of revenge whets her interest, this much is clear. "Ener-h-gon. How can I? I t-h-houg-h-ht t-h-here was no ap-h-petite for it?" She appears to be recalling Fleet's description of no energon cravings, still tensed wire-tight from the never-fading pain. Scrapper shakes his head and answers, "Fleet... did not take well to it. Perhaps I did not give it enough impetus to want to endure." However, Fleet is so quiet, that even if Scrapper had had the idea of making an action figure then, he'd be darned if he knew who Fleet wanted to maul. Aside from Scrapper. He's pretty sure that Fleet wants to hurt Scrapper. Then, Scrapper says, "It refused to drink of its own choice. Try to keep to the pure stuff, though. I don't think your filters will be working all that well." Long Haul arrives from the steel-spun tunnel from the NCC Spinal Pathway to the south. Long Haul drops Dead End. A disappointed, "No jet fuel c-h-haser," comes from Fusillade in regards to her favored white high grade. "Res-h-t for now, t-h-en," she concludes, before looking towards the doorway. "P-h-rivacy," she queries. Fleet had his quarters, could she return to hers? Or at least get a curtain of some kind if she were to stay here? Not that she could talk fast enough to ask that. She begins glancing around the protected area, looking for some kind of tarp or covering for her own use. Scrapper takes down the forcefield and notes, "If you want to *really* rest, a medic will have to do it manually for you, but your own quarters should be decent for our purposes. Report to back to the medical ward as soon as possible if you feel anything is awry." He sighs and folds his hands, not looking forward to Long Haul and Scavenger's news. Heck, Stunticons are never good news. Long Haul is carrying a dead looking Dead End, although, perhaps, not as dead looking as he could look, as he's not yet grey. But beside the lack of grey, he's definately very dead seeming. The Constructicon dumps the body on a medical table and turns towards Scrapper. "Not sure what it is, but I'd look for electrical damage, overloaded components, that sorta thing. I found him hanging from some live cables comin' outta the ceiling in the Troop Hall." Scavenger nods. "And I couldn't find nothin'. Even tried scannin' him with my shovel." Heck, this might even be a mystery Scrapper can't solve. And if three different Constructicons can't solve a mystery, it just can't be solved, period. Unless there's a fourth. The typical medley of replies is summed up in a simple "Yes," from Fusillade. If nothing else, the ashen Commander-but-not will become more succinct in the days following this ordeal. "Out-h-side not yet safe. Will s-h-tay here." She doesn't seem too happy at the prospect -- but then again, there's not really ANY expression on her features right now. A few random outbursts will come from her over the next few hours, but for the most part, she will remain in her corner unless given some kind of outside stimulus. --End--
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