| abstract
| - A line of skyscrapers reach for the sun/stars here, their pointed fingers stretching far higher than human construction is capable of. Or rather, their ribs, for that is the body part these inward curved-buildings most closely resemble. The blues used in the city are at their palest here, like they've been bleached from exposure, and in daylight, striped shadows stretch across the area, casting the entire area into extreme contrast. Stretching from building to building are spun-metal walkways of gleaming silver, larger 'beads' shimmering along them like dew on a spider's web. The insides of these walkways are sturdier than they appear, while their outer edges are razor sharp, providing both defense against foes and challenges for daredevil Decepticons. The faint blue shimmer of the ribs and their walkways counters the pale grey figure of Fusillade as she sits on one of the many tower precipices. The faint, piercing whisper of metal on metal as she glumly plucks fingertalons on the sharpened outer edge of one of the railings. A faint internal hum suggests that she's steadily crunching through reports, or at least attempting to. As a counterpoint to the low hum comes the metallic sounds of heavy footsteps, as Fulcrum makes his way across the Residential area, from the Shark's Rib towards New Crystal City's medbay. He doesn't look particularly over energized - obviously he lacks the time for such endeavours. Or he's out of money, either or. Fusillade tenses as she spies a certain snatch of grey and olive among the walkways. She hovers up, and then with a near soundless glide, descends to intercept Fulcrum. A faint clack of feet on the ground behind him, and a hushed, local radio. <> Fulcrum starts, halfway across the walkway, then makes a conscious effort to relax, his armor plates shifting back into their original configuration. There's only one person that could be. Turning on the spot, he nods a greeting to the undead commander. "Fusillade. No.. I am not on duty at the moment, and nothing restricts me from leaving the city." He pauses giving her an unreadable look. "Why?" The blacksmith's guarded expression causes a pang, even through the dull roar of the residual explosion imprint. There's a full three seconds of hesitation before she responds, still on radio. She glances upward at the sky. <> Fulcrum's expression softens slightly. "Perhaps we might" he replies, suddenly sympathetic towards the monochromatic femme. "Are you able to fly that far unassisted?" Fusillade considers for a bit, mouth unmoving. Her posture is more alert at the possibility of travel, wingtips aquiver as she turns to look upwards again. <> Fulcrum nods. "We could either bring supplies, or attempt a raid on the way back. In your condition, I would suggest the latter." And then they could have a delightful picnic! Or something like that. "I have been eqh-uipped with weaponh-s," Fusillade volunteers. And it's with the line of that reasoning that she lurches skywards. A leaden whisper escapes the ashen robot as it reconfigures into a derelict starcraft. You fly up from the NCC Residential Ribs below. Pallid Starfighter speaks not a word about her form. The faint grey shifts to an almost blue cast, other times darkening to a dove grey in shadows. The patterns almost seem to hover a half inch above the airframe's skin, making her hard to look at. Contrails stream away from wing and tail tips. <> MiG-29 's drab scheme is a splash of color by contrast, as he flies just ahead of the hollow mockery of a Sky Guardian, leading the way to one particular razor-sharp peak. "It is not meant for easy ground access" he replies, suddenly dropping from the sky like a dart. Transforming at the last moment, his boot jets roar as he flexes his wings, touching down in an unremarkable clearing. The MiG-29 twists around and folds in on itself with a grinding sound, transforming into the robotic form of Fulcrum. "Good aeries woulh-d not be," vents out from Fusillade as she transforms and gouges up a few pieces of sod from her landing. Almost immediately, those smoky quartz optics begin sweeping the rock faces for any Transformer-sized clefts, or fissures that would make suitable shelter. "Isolated," she remarks, finally daring once again to look towards the weaponsmith, even if only for the direction that they should go. Fulcrum nods, casting his optics over the lands below before turning back to face Fusillade, suppressing the desired to shudder. Her mental faculties seem intact, despite her altered speech pattern and ghastly palor. Although to Fulcrum, that just makes it worse. "I was not able to obtain clearance to use holographic technology" he says, pulling a datapad from a compartment at his hip and tapping in a code over a wireless frequency. "But this does the job just as well." With a grinding sound, an entire section of rock face begins sliding forward, small showers of dirt and pebbles cascading from its surface as hidden mechanisms push it out and upwards, much in the same manor as a human garage door. The pallid starcraft coruscates upon itself, with its tail settling on left shoulder, and its nosecone on right forearm. Wings and quadruple jetpacks bristle behind the domed crown of the replicant Air Guardian. Fusillade is more careful about choosing her words these days. The effort to correctly form them, or the reactions of those around her when she does speak, has curbed her enthusiasm to chatter. The spoken replies are short, and anything that she knows will be prolonged is switched over to radio. <> She frowns briefly at some of the fleeting memories, the stilted structure to some parts of her consciousness. But, as the debris clear, she steps closer, and asks, <> she trails off, expression briefly fierce but fading back into fatigue. She quells her frustrations, and passively waits for Fulcrum to share some more of his past. Fusillade's voice is sharp, even over the radio. <> Another moment, and she relents. <> She sits, taking great care to arrange her parts, before cupping her cheeks in her palms. <>
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)