Throne Room

There are no other chairs in this huge room but the huge throne. Banners of ancient Decepticon warriors hang from the side walls, and a large, ornate metallic Decepticon symbol is set into the black wall behind the throne. The symbol is the exact same metallic shade as Galvatron's cannon. There's a strong resemblance to the Hall of Warriors on Cybertron, and deliberately so since while in exile here, they didn't have access to their homeworld.

Obvious exits:

South <S> leads to Central Hallway.

Hook enters from the Central Hallway to the south.

Hook has arrived.

Fleet is kneeling on the floor near the throne, bottle of cleanser in one hand, rag in another. He appears to be… cleaning.

Hook strides into the throne room, each step leaving a perfect imprint of his boots marked in yellow foam. "Ah, there you are!" Hook beams expansively, gesturing at the Seeker with the strange looking nozzle in his hand. "Excellent, Excellent!" he proclaims as he approaches Fleet. Hook appears to be covered from head to foot in patches of frothy bubbles.

Fleet pauses, eyeing Hook warily. "Uh, yes. Here I are. Why?" He shifts his kneeling position slightly, pulling his legs beneath him in such a way that he could move away quickly if it came to that.

Hook flicks some of the foam from his frame, the strange substance hardening to a chewinggum consistancy as it hits the floor. "Now, I'm /sure/ you want this plague to be cured, so we can all go back to Cybertron, right?"

Fleet creeps back slightly in sort of a backwards duck walk. "That's a loaded question if ever I've heard one, and for your information, I'm assigned here. I won't be going anywhere even if it does get cured. And what *is* that stuff? I just cleaned that floor!"

Hook frowns. "So.. you /don't/ want to help the Empire then?" Hook replies. "Tsk tsk. I'll be putting that in my report." He ignores the question about the composition of the "stuff" for now.

Fleet narrows his eyes. "I didn't say 'yes' or 'no', but I've always been in favor of serving the Empire for as long as possible. Sort of… getting greater value out of the materials used to make me. Which brings me back to the question what that stuff is that I'm going to have to clean off the floor."

Hook grins. "Ah, excellent… you /will/ help then! Good good… now, if you'd just stand very still, please…" Hook adjusts some dials on his weapon, turning most of them up to "11". "Don't worry about the floor, I'm sure with the proper solvents it will wipe right off…"

Fleet immediately hops up and backs off. "Now wait just one minute! What are you about to do?"

Hook looks up at Fleet. "I assure you… uh… Seeker, that this won't hurt…" Hook mutters "probably" under his breath. "After all, while I may not be a chemical specialist, I /am/ the most intelligent of the Constructicons. And I said hold still!"

Fleet scampers back several feet, frowning. "Is that an order?"

Hook blinks, having naturally assumed that Fleet would do as he commands merely because he ONLY Hook! "Yes" he states, figuring that it's the easiest way to settle this. "What was your name again?" Hook asks, as his strange weapon begins vibrating noisily. "I'll need it for your… ah… the report."

Fleet positions himself so that the throne is between himself and Hook. "On who's authority? You're not part of the normal attachment here." He pauses. "Listen, tell me just *how* this is going to help the Empire, and I'll do it, no problem, but I've survived this long by *not* doing stupid things just because I'm told to.” Fleet peeks out from behind the throne. "And as for the report, you can shove it. I'm already a grunt, assigned to leaking Charr. It's not like I have a reputation to protect."

Hook hmms. "Well, let's see. One. As the Empire's foremost surgical engineer and cheif component of Devestator, I outrank you, the apparantly nameless seeker. Two..." Hook is interrupted by his weapon's noise growing louder. Frowning, he raises his voice to be heard over the racket. "TWO, this could be VITAL in capturing an infected individual and thus leading to a cure being found. Do you WANT me to tell Lord Galvatron that you stood in the way of that?"

"Hah!" replies Flee. "You can't even tell me what that stuff is! Why should I trust you when you apparently don't even know what you're doing yourself?"

Hook looks SHOCKED. "/Me?/ Hook? Not know what /I/ am doing? Hah! I just didn't want to tax your inferior processor with descriptions of polymers and molecule chains!”

Fleet peeks around from the other side. "Well, see, and there's your problem. You *sounded* like you were dodging the question. What you should have done is spout off some sort of technical response. By Cybertron, even if it had been complete nonsense, I probably would have accepted it, but instead, you dodged." After a moment, he makes a soft, sighing noise. "Look..." he said quietly, a volume little higher than a sigh. "Do you really, honestly, believe that stuff could help?”

Hook rolls his optics. "Fine, fine. It's a agitated polypropolene/neoprene solution mixed with long-string molecule substances B(13) and W(14). Oh, and Yellow Dye #6. And of COURSE it would help, you peon! Why should I waste my time otherwise?"

Fleet chuckles very quietly, creeping nervously out from behind the throne. "Because Arachnae's been looking to enlist anyone who's not gainfully employed as a test subject for her *own* needs? But... all right." He stands up... mostly straight, and looks away. "And the name is Fleet, although Nameless works just as well, I suppose."

Hook nods. "Very well, Flint," he replies, taking caaaaareful aim with his unusual weapon. "Ready?"

"Does it really matter, sir?" Fleet sighs. "I mean, if I'm ready or not?"

"Not in the slightest," Hook replies, pulling the trigger. A stream of yellow foam sprays from the weapon, hitting Fleet… and the throne… the walls… the ceiling… Hook… Yes, it seems that the ever-accurate engineer is having an off day… either that or this stuff is impossible to aim. As it hits a solid surface… like, say, Fleet, it hardens from foam to a consistancy like thin chewing gum, or very thick syrup.

Fleet attempts to shield his optics while the spray is in progress, waiting for Hook to… finish.

Hook hrms, as the weapon stutters to a halt, yellow foam now slowly congealing over the whole throne room. "So…" he says, wiping some of the foam from his frame. "Can you move? Are you totally incapaticitated?"

Fleet sludges slowly through the goo. "I can move. Slowly. Which'll make it pretty hard going to CLEAN THIS MESS UP."

Hook looks disapointed. "Oh? Really? So.. your joints aren't clogged with foam? You could still, say, undertake a hate filled murderous rampage?"

Fleet glares at Hook. "Would you like me to try?"

Hook shrugs. "Well, back to the drawing board," he sighs. "Do clean all this up, would you? It wouldn't do for Galvatron to see his throne room like this." With some difficulty, Hook turns and heads for the door.

Fleet exclaims, "Hang on! Where are the stronger solvents? You said earlier I'd need them to get this goo up."

Hook waves his hand vaguely. "Check the cleaning storage area. I'm /positive/ there's /something/ in there that will melt this nicely.

Fleet growls softly, trudging towards the door himself.