IHQ Time: Thu Oct 10 03:09:38 2024

You move east to the IHQ Central Chamber.

IHQ Central Chamber

At the center of the main level is a massive octagonal central chamber. The large column that houses the turbolift is at the center of this chamber, ringed by eight symmetrical walls. On five of the eight walls are large double doors, and above each door hang banners of the Empire. Images of High Command adorn the remaining three solid walls. On the central wall opposite the entrance hall is the image of Lord Galvatron, standing triumphantly over Cybertron. On the wall between the Med Bay and the Assembly Room is the image of Shockwave and Soundwave, both standing at attention as though waiting for orders. On the opposite wall, between the doors to the Troop Hall and the Officers Hall is the image of Scourge and Cyclonus, standing ready to do as Lord Galvatron commands.

Obvious exits:

North <N> leads to IHQ Officers Hall.

Northeast <NE> leads to IHQ Assembly Room.

South <S> leads to IHQ Main Entrance Hall.

East <E> leads to IHQ Med Bay.

West <W> leads to IHQ Troop Hall.

Elevator Doors <ED>

Catechism arrives from the IHQ Med Bay to the east.

Catechism has arrived.

Fleet is looking as good as new - well, as good as he normally looks, anyway. No one here's ever seen him new. His injuries have been taken care of, and he's been given a fresh coat of paint. Pastel yellow may not be a color that's kept much in stores, but then, few have call for it, either, meaning what little the Empire has is all Fleet's! However, he's still on the light limited duty list for another day, and his 'mentor' has ordered him to take a break, meaning that he actually has a moment of free time. He's heading from the Troop Hall in the direction of the Entrance Hall, a slight smile on his face.

Catechism seems to have a bit of the bounce taken out of her step, so to speak. She may be upbeat, but she doesn't have the energy that she usually has. Clearly, Catechism isn't running at 100, and her shiny new wings, unscratched cockpit glass, and the fresh panelling slapped over her back explain why - she got shot up pretty badly the other day.

Fleet spots his frequent wingmate. He stops and looks her over for a moment. Yes, she did get beaten up badly, while Fleet managed to escape relatively unhurt. The Autobots must prefer picking on females, or some such. She's been tended to, sure, but no doubt she'll be on the light limited list a good bit longer than he himself. Still, no good mentioning it. She'd see it as a challenge to her competency, or some such silliness. Instead he just inclines his head to the other and says, "Catechism."

Catechism wishes, not for the first time, that perhaps she was built a bit more durably. The pride of Seekers may be their grace and speed, but as far as Catechism can tell, she sure doesn't have much to show for it. Her relative clunky-ness on the ground certainly doesn't help, but that's no excuse for her performance in the air. At her comrade's hail, she waves briefly and says, her voice lacking its usual enthusiastic verve, "Hey, Fleet."

Well, that was nice exchange! Now back to Fleet's original plan of going to spend his free time away from base! Huzzah! The possibility of inviting the clunky conehead doesn't even occur to him as he continues to head towards the entrance hall. Boy, even the nice Decepticons can be real jerks at times!

Catechism watches Fleet walks briskly past, her optics dull. She says idly, as he goes, probably not expecting a response, "All that training has you busy, eh?" The cloudy's Seeker is happy to see her fellows working on improving their skills - it's good for the cause and good for them, although she's almost jealous of him, given that she's too busy just getting by with her duties to worry about improving herself.

Fleet pauses and glances back. "Actually, right now I'm on the light limited list, and my trainer's requested I take time off." Of course, request. Because a Sweep can't, technically, give a Seeker orders, after all, even in such odd circumstances as this. "So while it does normally, at the moment I have a bit of free time."

Catechism flicks her wings back and snorts, her optics brightening fractionally. Ah, nothing like the failure of another to cheer a Decepticon. Her thoughts are muddled and contradictory, but as pleased as she is to hear her comrades training to improve themselves, at the moment, she is just as pleased that this one, Fleet, can't. Makes her feel marginally better about herself. Her wings tilt up ever so slightly, making the cloudy Seeker look a bit bigger, a bit better off than she is. She remarks, clearly in a better mood, "You got a trainer? Heh. Makes you sound like you're one of those fancy pit gladiators."

Fleet's expression goes slack as he tries to wrap his processors around any sort of thought pattern that would compare him with a pit gladiator. Ever. "Uhm," he says. "Uhm." Congratulations, Catechism! You broke Fleet's central processing unit! Finally he shakes his head and managed to pull himself out of his slight daze. "Well, ehm, it's really something that I didn't plan for or seek out, Catechism. He offered, and it may cause me problems yet, but I'm at a point where backing down may be more dangerous than moving on."

Catechism looks a bit baffled by Fleet's momentary daze. Not having any real grasp of the situation, she says vaguely, "Er...so it goes, I guess."

Fleet forces back a sigh. Why did he always seem so out of place among his fellows in Military Ops? Oh, yes, that would be because most of them aren't running on all parallel ports, or something like that. He rubs the back of his head vaguely, then looks over to Catechism and shrugs. "Anyway, I should be off. There's a competition today, and while I can't partake, I'd like to watch."

Catechism tilts her head to one side. Genuinely curious, she asks, "What kind of competition?" The cloudy Seeker doesn't care if she's delaying Fleet, although she certainly won't be surprised if he just up and leaves.

"Dance," answers Fleet as he does up and leave. Well, at least he starts heading once more for the door. If Catechism wants to come, she can. In fact, he even tells her, "If you want to tag along, I suppose you can." Of course, some of the bigger elitists might frown at the clunky conehead wandering around, but what difference does it make? She's only going to be watching, and as long as the entry fee is paid (and with Catechism's extra ration, she should even be able to pay her own way) they really couldn't say anything.

Catechism shrugs and comments, "Don't have anything better to do, and I haven't seen anything fancy in a while." She does, however, pick up on a hint of...something from Fleet. The vague impression that her tagging is along is like slapping wheels on a pyramid jet - ugly and unnecessary. Eh. He said it, and it's got to beat idling around base.

* Spinny! *

Razor Hills

Jagged hills loom overhead, so badly damaged that they're nothing but ripped, rusty metal with still-sharp edges. The ground is covered with sharp fragments, deeply imbedded and impossible to drive over without shredding tires. On all sides are closely-spaced piles of fragmented metal, spires jutting like spears from every angle imaginable, an insane conglomeration of razor blades awaiting the unwary traveler. Fierce winds sweep down from the desert to the northeast, making odd sounds as they howl through the jumble of razor-edged metal. Sometimes it sounds like beautiful but eerie music, at others it sounds like a city of Transformers screaming in their death agonies.

Contents:

Cybertronian Barge

Obvious exits:

Fly <Up> leads to Sky above Razor Hills.

North <N> leads to Energon Spring.

South <S> leads to Radio Basin.

Catechism descends from the Sky above Razor Hills above.

Catechism has arrived.

After their own fashion, the Hills are practically ideal. It's both painful and difficult for the ground-bound to approach, it's out of the way, and the landscape even provides its own creepy music. Fleet navigates through the desolate landscape, heading towards a more tucked away portion where temporary floors and seats have been set up for spectators. He's glad to be flying, even so close to the newly regained Autobot territory, and he does a few rolls as he soars. "Have you spent any time in the hills, Catechism?" he asks. Might as well try to avoid getting his wingmate damaged even while she was recovering.

Catechism transmits a short, admissive burst of static over the radio. She follows that up with, "Fleet, I've played storm-tag out here." That ought to more than answer Fleet's question, if perhaps bring her sanity under further scrutiny.

Well, Fleet has danced out here, which might be considered stupid, although not often. And at least with dancing, there are three winners rather than just one, and you can pull out early if need be. Granted, you might be mocked, but better mocked than dead. He transforms as he approaches the impromptu arena, radioing back, "I hope you have some of the extra ration you were just granted with you, because I'm not paying your way."

The yellow Cybertronian jet unfolds, revealing the robotic form of the seeker Fleet.

Catechism does, although she's not about to say just how much. However, it's pretty logical - as a grunt, she doesn't really have any safe places to keep her things. The F-35 radios back curtly, "Don't worry about it." Seeing that Fleet has transformed, she does so too, albeit more slowly and with much less grace.

Fleet radios a quick code ahead, letting the relevant folks know he's arriving and comes in for a landing, touching down with his usual grace, a grace that looks somewhat less out of place among the others that are already there. In fact, there are a few who far overshadow Fleet so far as that goes. His greatest strength in battle, and here he is little better than ordinary.

Most of those present are seekers, and most of the seekers are of traditional make, but all in all, there aren't that many here at all. Fleet is met a blue-ish seeker, a jet whose color would make him the Joe-smoe of Seekerdom were it not for the more lavender tints. When the light hits him a certain way, it becomes apparent that he also has decorative designs on his wings that would not be readily apparent indoors, but glow a faint silver in the vague "natural" lighting of Cyberton. "Fleet," he says by way of greeting, his tone carefully neutral. "I thought you were too busy for competitions these days."

Catechism lands heavily, a few spans behind Fleet. One might be inclined to chalk it up to her unhealed damage, but there's her chunkier build and innate clumsiness on the ground to take into account. Despite the large amount of Seekers, she feels rather badly out of place here, and wonders if she didn't make a mistake in coming.

Fleet frowns at the other, then puts the expression away and puts on something a bit more pleasant. "For competition, yes. I'm here for observation." He hands the other a few energon chips. Ah, so this is the one you're supposed to pay! Then the pastel yellow seeker nods towards the conehead. "She's with me as well. Like I said, to watch."

Catechism also forks over a few energon chips, staying unusually quiet. Mostly, she stays back, and looks almost...twitchy. Art may be a fine Decepticon pastime, but that doesn't mean she's seen much of it, and killing people is also a fine Decepticon pastime. In an unusual display of sense, Catechism decides to lay low until she has a better grasp of what's going on here.

The blue seeker eyes Catechism for a long moment, amusement dancing in his optics. Oh, a conehead. Well, energon was energon. And Fleet /was/ moving up in the military, so he could hardly be blamed for the company he's forced to keep - although it was unusual for him to bring them along. Still, he's polite as he addresses Catechism, if aloof. "Ah, welcome. And your name?"

Catechism shakes off that bad feeling. Well... okay, she probably can't outrun these guys if things turn sour. But why worry? What will happen will happen. She says quietly, "Thanks. I'm Catechism."

The blue seeker smiles a pleasant, if false smile and nods. "I'm Pirouette. Always nice to encounter new future patrons." The smile quirks a little higher. Of course, if Catechism makes something of herself, she'll be a patron! Because otherwise, well, she wouldn't even be worth bothering with, and since Pirouette is bothering with her, he must be right. A wonderful case of circular logic! Just then another new arrival catches the seeker's attention. "Ah, if you'll excuse me, I must go take care of this."

Fleet shakes his head as the other Seeker leaves, wondering silently if he really should have brought Catechism. He shrugs it off and gestures with his hand. "Come on. What we gave him doesn't earn us an actual seat, but the observation area's more this way."

Catechism doesn't get paid nearly enough to be a patron. Indeed, she's what many artists would consider supplies, although heathen as she is, she doesn't know that. Catechism follows Fleet and says cheerily, "Seats are more trouble than they're worth, anyway." Given the crowd, the seating is probably set up for up-winged Seekers, not her kind.

Luckily for Catechism, dancers don't have much call for coneheaded-type-supplies. Fleet looks out and down. The platform is set up on something of a hill, and below them is a shallow, ragged valley. Placed around the valley are several smaller platforms, just large enough for one robot to stand on. Not all the platforms are occupied, but there are six - no, seven out there. All are standard style seekers. Either it's just a matter of percentages and practitioners, or the group are on more or less Purist turf here.

"It'll be a little bit longer, but not much," says Fleet, his tone hushed as he observes the field below him.

The time comes, and Fleet strokes his chin as he watches the seven seekers take off. "Seven," he murmurs, not really to Catechism, but no doubt she can hear. "That's not a bad turn out, really." The seekers weave in and out for awhile in choreographed patterns, the moves no doubt reminding Catechism of some of the moves she's seen Fleet perform in battle. The difference? They aren't firing at each other. Yet. Then, almost as one, they transform. One, a pale orange and gold one, is a fraction of a second behind the others - it's barely noticeable, but it's there. In response, another one, this one almost entirely white aside from bright pink wingtips, fires on it, and in response the orange one tilts in its flight path, ever so slightly, but just enough to avoid the shot. Fleet makes a noise of appreciation. "Nice save," he murmurs.

Catechism watches, fascinated. Now this is flying! It's nothing like that mockery of flight that seems so common in Autobots nowadays. She blinks a little at the shot and... yes, that one was a bit of line, wasn't he? So that's how it works...

And so it goes. Another transformation, this one going smoothly, and the group are returned to robot mode. They return to the acrobatics maneuvers of earlier, until suddenly, another one, this one mostly blues so dusky they are almost grays to be broken only by lines of a rich-red-orange Terrans might associate with sunset on its wings, is fired upon by the pale orange and gold that originally goofed. Fleet frowns thoughtfully a moment, and then ahs to himself, as if it takes him a moment to catch just what the screw-up was, but Catechism man never know. This attack lands, and in response, the white-and-pink also fires. Again, hit, as the dusky one is still trying to recover from the first attack, and from there it gets bad for that one.

Catechism knows aerobatics, even if her form and demeanour might convince one otherwise. She may often miss both the subtle and the obvious, cloaked in her armour of blissful ignorance, but concentrating on the show as she is, Catechism sees more than she might be expected to, as an unwashed Philistine. Granted, she sees it in military terms, and the more ornamental moves are lost on her, but she picks up pretty quickly that if a move is off, there are consequences. What a metaphor for life...

Dusky blue withdraws before the others can get much further, touching down as a robot on one of the platforms and immediately collapsing to his knees, then falling entirely. Still, he'll recover, and he didn't crash. He didn't win, either, and there may be some shame in being the first one out, but in truth, the dance is meant only to divide participants into two groups: the winners, and the losers.

Similar goes on for quite awhile. The next to go down does crash, ruining himself further on the razored ground. After that one falls into the stands themselves, and puts a nice hole in the floor but doesn't hit any of the attendants. This leaves only four. All have drawn fire at one point or another, and all have recovered, but the next seeker who goes down will determine the winners.

Catechism still watches intently. Pretty jets doing insane manoeuvres and shooting those who fail to live up to competition standard? Now this is entertainment. She glances sidelong at Fleet. He does this? *He* does *this*? Man, she'd better get her act together, or she's going to get left to die on a battlefield someday.

Fleet does *this*! However, like the first one, he's more inclined to withdraw when things begin going wrong rather than crash. Because crashes hurt, and Fleet isn't gonna get himself killed over some dance. The last four go at it for quite sometime, and there is a noticeable increase in intensity towards the end. Fleet looks down for a bit. This... this is the level that's beyond him. Oh, sometimes he does well enough, and he's even been known to win some of the lower level competitions, but the pale yellow seeker knows that there's no way he can compete here. He stifles a sigh and raises his optics back up to the dance just as shots once more lance out. The target is that orange-gold one that was the first to slip. Strange that he then made it this far, but perhaps he's a bit tougher than the others, too...