NCC Medical Ward

The Crystal City repair bay is far larger than previous versions in Imperial Headquarters or Trypticon himself. Clearly it was designed by a medic, for a medic. The entire room is rectangular in nature with medical beds arranged in a neat grid pattern. The beds themselves vary, with some being precious little more than metal slabs, and others having full scanners and tools attached, as well as everything in between. In total, there are about twenty beds. There is room for more in an emergency situation. The cabinets line the walls, spaced out between medical terminals. Everything has a place, and organization is key. With battle mode being initiated, the huge windows are covered up as the bay is encased in metal for its own protection. Access can still be gained with the right codes, however. Red warning lights flash on and off.

Contents:

Mixmaster

Arachnae

Scrapper's Art <SA> - Fourteen Pieces

MSE CO OFFICE (Earth)

Gumby Medic <NCC>

Obvious exits:

South <S> leads to NCC Central Command.

Southeast <SE> leads to NCC Central Hub.

East <E> leads to Mount R'Lyeh.

Catechism arrives from the NCC Central Hub to the southeast.

Catechism has arrived.

Mixmaster is standing over an unconcious Arachnae, technicians at his side, a can of green paint and a dented can of purple next to him, and a large pool of purple paint on the ground.

Mixy decides to use the purple the most, since there is more of it (Gotta keep that Constructicon green for those who need it!) and loads it into a spray applicator. "She's going to be the prettiest sweep ever!" He says, happily.

Arachnae's still unconcious but perfectly put back together. The technician that was overseeing the diagnostics looks at Mixmaster.. "Wha?" then looks at her paint. "I think.." rubbing his helm, "she just got a fresh topcoat and sealent. Actually." looking at Mixmaster, "Eh.. Clean?" Mixmaster is the XO.. "Yes sir." settig the injector that he was about to use aside to go get solvent and amop to clean the spill. "The reversal's on the table next to her sir, when you are finished touching her up."

"Will do," Mixmaster says absently a he begins to coat her wings in a very royal Constructicon purple (TM).

Catechism tries to stay somewhat behind Fleet, not wanting to disturb anything critical. She doesn't know anything about medicine, except that it's really useful once she's been damaged. Catechism looks around the medical ward, wondering just who Fleet's friend is.

Fleet walks in quietly - more quietly than a giant robot probably should, evidence that he still has his antigravs turned on, although set too low to entirely overcome his mass. He's looking for Arachnae, and spots her rather quickly - can't miss that green and purple Constructicon standing over her! He flinches noticeably when he realizes what Mixy is doing, but approaches softly anyway.

Arachnae would have been awake and returning to looking at reports at this point were it not for the timely interption of the constructicon. So much to do.. Lieing there, she's oblivious to the 'work' being done to her.

Catechism isn't half as quiet as Fleet. She's a clunky conehead, but she does make a conscious effort to stay out of the way and not knock things over. The sculptures in one area of the medical bay do catch her attention. More classic Decepticon art! Someone around this place has taste.

Mixmaster is finished applying the purple to Arachnae's helmet, wings, upper torso, calves and feet. Even her back, although he had no way to get there. How? Cartoon physics! He now loads up the Constructicon Lime Green (TM) into the sprayer, to apply onto her lower torso and upper legs..

This takes a fairly quick amount of time, the painting is one of Mixy's specialties. At least he's not 'expressing' his creativity on Arachnae, and is sticking to a set colour layout. Mixy lowers the applicator, eying his efforts. "Hmm..." He mutters. Not quite right...

Then mixy's optics light up. He gets a fine paintbrush, dipping it into the purple. He applies a fine line of purple around the femme sweep's lips, giving her a beautiful purple 'lipstick.' Just like all the other femmes! Be lucky mixy didn't have any pink on him, or else Nae would have rosy cheeks, too.

The technician that's mopping looks up.. blinks at the painting.. and works onc oming up with reasons not to be in the area when the CMO gets woken up. No. He has no interest in being inthe area. Backing up, he stows the mop and sidles out.

If he were human, Fleet would clear his throat to draw attention. Instead, he does the Transformer equivalent, his vocalizers emitting a brief, static-like noise. He is surprised (and, admittedly, impressed) at the speed by which Mixmaster has coated so much of Arachnae with paint, but he's simultaneously dreading her reaction when she finds out... hopefully she'll keep in mind that it's a problem easily corrected?

Mixmaster looks at his work. Magnifique! The Constructicon is happy, and is also unaware of the two Seekers who have just entered. Either way, Mixy helps himself to the injector to reverse the anasthetic process. The sooner that Nae is awake, the sooner she can thank him for the wonderful paint job!

Mixmaster injects the device into an access panel in Arachnae's neck, reversing the anaesthetic process and returning her to life.

Fleet sighs, lowering his face into his left palm as he supports that elbow with his right hand. This is probably not going to be pretty... in fact, it's already not pretty, but is probably about to get a lot less so. In fact, his instincts for self-preservation are currently telling him he should be moving away very, very quickly, but he really would *did* want to be around when Arachnae woke up, or not long after. Flee may be the master of uncommon sense, but sometimes even he's known to override it.

The conehead, however, has no idea that the one on the table isn't supposed to be purple and lime green. She looks over at Fleet, a puzzled expression on her face. Now, what's was that sigh for? Sure, he spooks fairly easily, but this is just a medical ward. What are they going to do, throw scalpels at him?

Arachnae's systems were nominally under powered due to the sedative administered. While diagnostics are not usually uncomfortable, having life support hardwires removed is. The reversal agent serves to shift systems back over the line and she starts to wake, nominally in a disagreable mood to begin with. Medics.. sometimes make poor patients. "I need a drink.." mumbled as she slowly sits up, wings creaking out behind her in jerky movements. Sheputs a handto her helm, "Hate sedatives..." and now notes that the technician that was helping isnt standing there. Mixmaser is given a narrow optic'd look, "Hello. Did he have problems with the disconnecting?" She.. hasn't noticed...

At the drink request Fleet looks up. "Sure! I'll go get you one!" He scurries off for a mug of energon, hoping that maybe, just *maybe*, the medic will look favorably upon his helpfulness - or *hurt* him the least, anyway - once she finds out what's been done to her.

Mixmaster throws scalpels at Fleet!

...wait, no, that's not right. But the medical ward IS a scary place. They don't so much have a 'bedside manner' in these places as they have a 'desire to conduct experiments on the patients.' "No.. I just felt it was best to oversee," Mixy explains, "and then your mechanic decided to evaporate for some reason. Remind me to dock his energon ration this week." He doesn't bother explaining to her about the paint job. Oh no, that will be a pleasant surprise!

Arachnae slides off of the table, giving Fleet a faint smile, "That would be appreciated. The aftertaste is foul. Should be a mug on my desk and a flask int he second drawer." Wings continue to slowly work stiffness out as she turns and now looks down at herself, to recheck that the disconnections went smoothly.. "..." Blink... Optics narrow.. "..." lips downturn into a thin scowl.. and she slowly.. looks over.. at her XO...

Shellshock has connected.

Catechism knows that the medical ward is scary place. However, any place that contains Deceptions is a scary place by default, so she doesn't see what's so particularly upsetting up the medical ward.

Shellshock walks in with a small box, one that looks almost like a small armored case.

Fleet follows Arachnae's directions, even though that means approaching her desk, which is by far one of the scarier parts of the very scary medical ward! He pulls out flask and grabs mug, filling it up and rushing back quickly... all things considered, he would NOT want to keep Arachnae waiting at the moment!

The fact that this place is also where mad scientist-like experimentations as well as where people are repaired is scary for most. But also, the fact that these are carried out on patients who are there for repair work, against their consent, makes a repair job a scary task. Either way, Mixmaster is beaming with pride, having given Arachnae the best paint job EVAR. When he finally notices Nae glaring at him, he sincerely doesn't know what is going on? "..what?"

Arachnae turns her head, fanning a wing out to study the violet panels.. Another look directed at Mixmaster. Very deliberatly, she fans the other wing out.. and takes a look at it. The self inspection continues. Feet, check. Hands.. Check. Arms.. check.. At each part that is looked at, she gives Mixmaster a look that's begining to devolve into a snarl. "What?" voice soft, calm sounding, even timbre, delivery tone. A shake of her head and she accepts the mug from Fleet, useing the moment of taking a sip as something to work on overiding ber base urge to rip her XO several new exhaustports.

"Any particular reason you felt that I needed a new colour scheme, Mixmaster?" she pauses and takes another sip as her wings start to mantle. "Because this.. had best be a slagging good reason." Another sip. Whatever is in that flask must be mood control medication. She's looking less startled. "I'm waiting.."

Catechism has more courage than she does intelligence, which ought to explain a few things about her. She also has a dyed in optimistic streak that lets her think of things like horrific experiments as valuable scientific and engineering contributions to the cause. So entirely unaware of the disaster waiting to happen, she continues to stands where she's been standing, her wings twitching slightly.

Mixmaster has four words. They are his entire defense. He knows that this is a good reason, but it NEVER works somehow. He simply looks at Arachnae, trying to make himself look smaller (he already is smaller than the sweep-sized Nae, but for more effect.) He shrugs his shoulders loosely, and says quietly, "We were outta blue...."

"Actually, I'm quite shocked myself..." Fleet says quietly, talking quickly in an attempt to diffuse things a bit. "I mean, he must have a considerable amount of respect for you and your abilities as a scientist and medic, to be so willing to share the sacred Constructicon color scheme with you..."

Shellshock says, "Mixmaster, you of all cons should know how to MIX blue, or are you so out of it that you've forgotten how to mix anything but energon moonshine?"

Arachnae headtilts slightly, giving Mixmaster a /look/. "Out of blue?" casually noted as she sips from her mug, "Interesting.. As I finished checking prolymer inventory before the diagnostic.. and there was no note on that." Another sip before she snap-stares at Fleet. Optics slit... "Hmm." Ponder, pause, then she shrugs, "I suppose either this is you getting me back for the spider incident or acceptence back into your peculiar little familial group. Either or.. And I'm hoping this is more the latter and not the former." Wry smirk as she seems to settle more. "Good thing I'm not as obsessed with looks and paint schemes, now isn't it?"

Shellshock looks down at his datapad and then up at Nae, "Excuse me Commander, do you have a moment to look over something. As it is kinda related to the current subject?

Catechism tilts her head to one side, puzzled by the whole exchange. Sheesh, a girl takes a nap for a few eons, and boom, the cultural dynamic is all different. She looks over at Fleet and queries, "So she's not supposed ta' be purple?"

Fleet leans a bit closer to Catechism and whispers, "Not really, no. She's kind of a dusky blue." He's not being *particularly* secretive, but someone would probably have to be paying attention to make him out. Well, besides Catechism, that is.

Arachnae shakes her head, smirking at Mixmaster a moment before turnign attention to Shellshock, "What?" blinkblink. sip.

Mixmaster phews! What the slag brought that on? "You.. you're not?" Mixy recalls when the predacons painted him in their colours. There is something /wrong/ about a constructicon that is coloured orange or yellow. He decides to get a chemical breakdown of whatever is in her mug later on. "Uh.. well good. I'll be sure to get you a proper mix of your shade of blue whenever we get some more prepared. We decided that your systems receiving the appropriate insulation from rust and heat that the paint was better than maintaining a certain colour pattern."

"Ah," the conehead says simply. That would explain things. She points at Mixmaster and asks, "Does he do that often?" Paint isn't, in the big scheme of things, terribly important, as far as Catechism is concerned, so long as it isn't a bright cheery red - ack, only Autobots would wear something so disgusting - but she'd like to be forewarned.

Shellshock walks over to Nae and offers her a datapad, "ran across something the humans had and improved on it a little. You think it's doable? Its a patteren/color changing paint. small electrical current at a spacific current and it'll change colors."

Fleet shrugs left shoulder and wing, answering Catechism, "I'm afraid I wouldn't know for certain... I've only even been in the same room as he is three times now. Although, come to think of it, of those three, this is the second time paint colors have received in-depth discussion, so I'd be prepared for the possibility."

Arachnae eyes her mug for amoment, then smiles at Mixmaster. "No. color is just color. Easily changed really." Sip. Mellow nae. The world is a safer place, really. "As far as color goes, this isn't bad, all things considered. Flattering really, if you think about how closely you and the constructicons guard your stores." Wing fans out, "And the reversal of such an esteemed paint scheme, taking into account my own green optics as a counterbalance is simply the machinations of a genius, Mixmaster." Wouldn't you like to know what was in that flask, hmmm? She slips attention to Shellshock, optics slitting as mug pauses midway to lips, "Hard to maintain on the molecular level. And minor personal electrical field variences tend to interact with transformation and subspace generators with sometimes interesting and oftentimes odd reactions." Sip. "And no, Shellshock, that box is still in my desk."

Shellshock nods, "alright, though i would run it past you and see what you thought. I had looked into a small polymer stabalizer, as long as the presets are not more then two or three patterens, it's looks like at may be viable.

Catechism frown slightly at Fleet's answer, looking a tad put out and paws at the floor with her foot. They had better not paint her bright Autobot red... or like Ramjet... or maybe she had better stop thinking like this, lest she invoke Murphytron's law.

Mixmaster peers at the paint. "Well, I'm sure I could make something like that up...." He says, ever the helpful Constructicon,

"...only I need to mix some more energon moonshine, don't I? Congratulations, Shellshock, I'll be making a note to be the person who services you next when I'm doing MSE's schedule."

Arachnae eyes her mug before she pads to her desk and retrieves that particular flask, pouring herself another. "Hmm. Need to ask Dredclaw to pick more of this up." quiet pause before she turns around, looks at Catechism, looks at Fleet.. and doubletakes, peering at Catechism, "New or returning?" directed at the latest seeker addition.

Fleet just listens quietly, as he has little to contribute to the current conversation. He's *used* to his paint scheme, and would probably go back to it if someone else changed it, but he's not particularly attached to it. Sure, he's been told that his pale yellow and white color scheme is 'pretty', but he's always been of the opinion that 'pretty' could be considered a design flaw in what is meant to be a war machine. On the other hand, he did sometimes suspect it helped in his occasional successes with the femmes.

Shellshock shrugs, "just remember, my weapons fail because of you then who's going to be there to take the hits when the autobots start shooting up your pretty green hide. I've soaked up more then my fair share of damage covering for you and your brothers. I think i've earned the right to take the occasional verbal shot at you.

Catechism perks up at the question, glances over at Arachnae, and answers, "Returning. I was put in stasis back during the fuel shortages on Cybertron. I'm Catechism, an air warrior." She rocks back on her heels a bit, the prospect of a dire new paintjob already forgotten.

Arachnae mantles wings behind her, sipping from the refilled mug with an expression of enjoyable satisfaction. Rather like the cat that got into the canary's cage. "Cryo. Interesting experience and one I care not to repeat." Crooked smirk. "Pleased to meet you, Catechism. I'm Arachnae, Medical's head technician and commanding officer. I think you know or know of Mixmaster." A nod to her XO. "Rules of medical haven't changed since then so not much for me to update you on in that reguard." Another sip and a look at Shellshock. She shakes her head.. and leaves this for Mixmaster to handle. "Are the two of you." a nod to Fleet to draw him into this, "Currently under orders?"

Shellshock has disconnected.

Fleet pauses to consider Arachnae's question, tilting his head slightly to the left and focusing his gaze on a spot a bit above and to the left of Arachnae's head… "Aside from Galvatron's generalized 'step up raiding' ones? No, not really."

Mixmaster would point out that Shellshock hasn't covered the Constructs all THAT much, that Devastator would easily be the one who would cover him, and that being fixed by the Constructicons and MSE would cancel that debt, that Mixmaster IS a superior officer, and that regardless of WHO you are, if your name doesn't rhyme with Valvatron, you do not earn verbal shots and that people will still resent you. He COULD. But he doesn't. He instead makes a note to be the one who drains Shellshock's oil next, and to find some more strawberry jam. "MORE of you? How many do we have in storage?" Oh well, at least there is plenty of parts available for a Seeker, none of this custom-crap people like Soundwave need.

"Nice to meet you, too." Catechism seems to mean it, too. She's inclined to like other Decepticons unless given a reason not to. She continues, "There are standing orders for raids. I was thinking about scouting out some potential sites. I'll be going, then."

Catechism has disconnected.

Arachnae smiles an odd smile, sipping from her mug, optics slit. "have a small.. project." A wave of a hand, "Nominally I would send a techician or three to handle it. But." Smile remains, "I believe that the both of you would have the needed.. attentivness to the particular details that I am after."

One tends to wonder why the local medics and technicians are so keen on using the unconscious or injured for their experiments, given the number of perfectly conscious *willing* (or at least, conscious and aware) 'assistants' they seem to have. For example, the yellow seeker. He shrugs slightly and even keeps the sigh from escaping from his vocalizer. "I... suppose I could help," he ventures cautiously, although the portion of his processors devoted to uncommon sense is warning him that this may be a bad idea.

Arachnae smiles, sipping from that mug. This ones actually undecorated. "Nothing difficult. I just need some extra hands to go to cybertron, go through cold storage and pick out those frames in good condition. Just need four."

Fleet narrows his optics as he tries to work out what, exactly, is being asked of him. "Frames? Erm... pardon my ignorance, but frames of what?"

Arachnae smiles, "Seeker frames. As one, you have an intrinsic knowledge of what doesn't look like it's going to be easily repaired."

Fleet ahs very softly. "Ah, yes. Okay." Whew! Not playing test subject quite yet, anyway! Although there was still Arachnae's earlier request/threat/promise/whatever-you'd-call-it to examine his head, from the inside, to contend with, and he was inclined to wonder what 'Nae needed the frames for, but he decided he was probably better off not knowing. "Sure, I can help with that." Although he *did* intend to stay alert, just in case what he didn't know decided to try to hurt him.

Arachnae sips from her mug and smiles, "Good. Nice to see you don't have.. what's the term, cold feet? in handling corpses."

Mixmaster has disconnected.

Fleet narrows his optics and looks at his feet, studying them for a moment and trying to determine why they'd be cold. Walking among all those dead, unheated bodies, perhaps? But he is able to gather the meaning when he thinks about it. He shrugs left shoulder and wing as he looks back up. "Well... I have to admit, it's not the way I'd personally choose to spend my free time, but... I suppose my ‘selfishness’ circuits just make me pleased enough that it's not me that I can deal with it."

Arachnae nods, "It's simply a fact of existence. Eventually, we die. However, when Cybertron was under such tight restrictions due to energy problems, everything that could be scavenged was. Which.." A shake of her head, a frown, "Does mean that we have an interesting supply of dead seekers still in storage." Dead Seeker Storage.

A place that Flee will never end up, if he has any say in the matter. A coward dies a thousand deaths... but if he can keep avoiding that one permanent-type the brave mech dies, he'll live (emphasis on the word LIVE) with the consequences. "All right. Where, exactly, is it, anyway?"

Arachnae taps a talon on her chin, "The last main storage area is on Cybertron. It isn't something that is immediatly needed."

Well... he kind of figured it was on Cybertron... but you know, what with it being a whole planet and such... he just nods. "All right. When we have more hands available, you can update me on its exact location."

Arachnae nods in an absent sort of way. Man, that must be some interesting stuff she's got in that mug. Another sip and she smiles, lopsidedly. "There's a mausoleum in old Polyex and there's cryo in Nightsiege. Believe our best bet would be cryo in nightsiege."

Shellshock has connected.

Fleet hops onto the nearest empty med table and swings his legs. He should be scouting. He really should. But he doesn't *want* to be scouting. Besides, his friend (- pause - he just used that *word* again to describe her. How very odd...) just recovered from some rather severe injuries... it only makes sense that he'd want to at least chat with her a little before heading back out. Even if she *was* very obviously becoming increasingly drunk, apparently by the minute. "Sounds like the easiest access, at least. All right, Nightsiege it is."

Arachnae peers at her mug, blinks.. and pads over to her desk. Some rummaging about in anotehr drawer and she come sout with.. Another flask.. A slightly different stripe down the side.. and another mug. "Care to join me?" directed to fleet as she hops up to sit on her desk, kicking her own feet. Who said that the CO had to be a right bitch all the time."

Shellshock leans against the door, watching quietly

Uncommon... sense... tingling... warning... of... impending... danger...

And once more, Fleet pushes it aside. Besides, if something bad does happen, he's already in the right place! He flashes a brief but pleasant grin and glides lightly to the desk. "Sure. Why not?" Well, aside from the whole instincts screaming at him not to, thing.

Arachnae hands over the mug, this one actually has a descriptive thing on the side. It has Hook and Scrapper on it, facing of with a blurred Scavenger in the backgroung. The caption reads: Chaos theory at work.Then pops the top off of the new flask and pours, "Dredclaw likes to bring me little things back from all over where he roams. This should be rather nice." Wry, lopsided smirk.

Fleet opens both his eyes a little wider. So. He will be playing test subject tonight, after all. Ah, well. The design on the mug also strikes him as a bit odd, but he ignores it, instead asking, "Dreadclaw?" He raises the mug and opens his mouth, taking in air before he drinks so as to get a smell it first. Being that his nose is nothing but nostril-less decoration, he's instead forced to pick out particles out of the air with his mouth.

Arachnae chuckles, sipping from her mung, wings mantling behind her, feet kicking as she remains sitting on her desk, "Wingsib." pause, frown, sip.. "One of the Sweeps."

Fleet is about to take a sip, although he hisses silently at Arachnae's explanation when he hears it. "Ah, yes. Actually, kind of guessed, but assumptions... can be dangerous, so I figured I'd ask." He takes an exploratory sip, keeping the liquid in his mouth for a moment to see what his sensors have to say about the substance before swallowing. "I..." he begins hesitantly, pauses, reconsiders, and then starts again, "You haven't, erm, ment-" pauses, reconsiders, gives up. "Never mind." He smirks a bit wryly at himself.

Shellshock has disconnected.

Arachnae headtilts, smiling wryly as she savors the contents of her own mug. Wings shuffle behind her, regaining slowly some of that absent grace from prior to the aft kicking she recieved. "I don't mind the questions so much these cycles, Fleet. Not on that. There are lines, but I think you're smart enough to know where those are." Another savored sip. "Nevermind what?" inquisitive tone, curiosity lending her features a lack of harshness.

Fleet makes a sighing noise as he leans against the table. He takes another sip before he answers - hey, this is rather good stuff! - "Well, I was just wondering... hoping, really, that, given the results of my encounter with that other one... that maybe you *hadn't* mentioned me, or any fondness relating to the aforementioned seeker to this one?"

Arachnae headtilts.. puzzling that trickily phrased question out. "Oh. have I mentioned to Dredclaw that I enjoy your company?" she shakes her head, "He more than likely either already knows from Geist or will know when he returns from his travels. They do not keep secrets from one another usually. Interesting behavioral and social patterns." She drains the rest of her mug, and pours herself another from the new flask.

Fleet deflates a bit as he takes another sip. "So in other words, the whole lot of them may soon decide that I 'bear watching'?" He tilts back a bit and studies the ceiling for a moment (such an INTERESTING ceiling they have here!) before returning to an upright position to take yet another, longer drink. Finally he shrugs both shoulders, brightening a bit. "Ah, well. Could be worse, I imagine. It's better than them deciding that I bear hurting... or acting on that decision if it has been made." Ultimately, any solution to any problem that involved Fleet's continued functioning was, to his mind, a good solution.

Arachnae waves a taloned hand, "They may watch you, but unless Scourge determines that you're a risk to the continued development of Galvatrons empire. They won't do anything. Or shouldn't. Thats one reason we parted ways, they and I. Not that I mind the.. additional. *hic*.." pause.. blink.. stare at her mug, "Hmm.. Interesting..."

Catechism has connected.

Fleet has a bit of trouble fitting together Arachnae's points, and suspects he still hasn't put that little jigsaw together correctly, but the important point is made, anyway, as far as he's concerned. The likelihood of Scourge determining that one mild-natured yellow seeker was a threat to the empire was minimal. Granted, seekers have been determined threats to the empire before - particularly a red and silver one - but they generally have to be a *lot* more ambitious than Fleet to get to that point. He finishes off his current drink and chuckles slightly. "There seems to be a slight glitch in your vocalizer, Arachnae."

Catechism returns. Immediately, she starts babbling about what she saw, "So there's this sector called Alberta, and it's got this stuff called 'tar sand' and..." Then she stops to get a look at what is actually going on.

Arachnae hiccups again.. She's sitting on her desk, kicking her feet with a mug in hand. There's a flask next to her. Two actually. Different stripes on them. "Hmm. Indeed. Meh.. What was I saying.." sips frm her mug again.. smirks, "Oh.. yes.. Not that I mind having large scary mechs defending my. me. There's a point where having a pack of overprotective 'brothers' so to speak, gets.. Eh.. *hic*.. Oooh.. Maybe I shouldn't have mixed those two..."

Blackmail arrives from the NCC Central Hub to the southeast.

Blackmail has arrived.

Fleet puts down the now empty mug and turns to face Arachnae, leaning forward -just- slightly in concern. "Erm... are you okay, Arachnae?" It doesn't occur to him to wonder when he stopped addressing her as 'C- Arachnae'. "Maybe it's a little soon after your recovery for this."

Arachnae snorts, waves a taloned hand. "I'm fine." Crooked smirk. "Just didn't contemplate the mixing of those two." Real mellow smile.

Catechism leans back against a medical ward wall and takes in the fact that Fleet and Arachnae seem to be getting themselves nicely overcharged. She tilts her head, bird-like, and makes a sound a like gust of air, just a little wind-mimetic Seeker-sound to get attention. "If I'm interrupting anything, I can go back to scouting."

Blackmail wanders in from the hub, her black armour is shiny and not mud covered now, however she does make a point of not making herself noticed as she leans against a far wall in silence, a smirk on her lips as she spots a certain canary coloured Seeker.

Fleet looks up at Catechism, who's worked to draw his attention, missing the still quiet Blackmail. He shakes his head. "No, not really," he replies, sounding genuinely confused as to what, exactly, the conehead would be interrupting. Then he considers the situation, their relative positions... could perhaps be misinterpreted. Maybe. He doesn't bother reaffirming that she's not interrupting anything because, well, that would make things more suspicious. What he does do is consider asking Catechism to join them, before he remembers that it isn't his energon to give away. Still... he looks down at his empty mug, then back at Arachnae, "Would you mind if I had another drink?" He'd already done plenty of scouting this week, thanks! His next round could wait awhile.

Blackmail looks down and ponders to herself, 'follow the overcharged Canary, take a holocamera...' she keeps her optic glow as low as she can, despite her perminant left optic flicker that looks like a crazed eye twich.

Arachnae perks, peering over at the door then at Catechism. Her head tips to the side, wingpanels rustling behind her. Then she smirks, "Interrupting?" Wry smirk, "Interrupting what, exactly?" Brief pause as she leans over her desk, comes up with another mug and sets it aside. "We're just having a friendly drink (or several).. *hic*.." Optics narrow. "Damnit." A snort-whiff of air out of her vocoder. "Care to join in?" a nod of her head to Fleet, "Help yourself. He brings back much more than I can drink on my own. Unless I want to turn into a lush."

Blackmail smirks and stealthily turns her audio/visual logger on, without a holocamera this was the next best thing... hrmm there isn't much chance Arachnae would be embarrassed enough to blackmail but the Canary, yes.. that one was a highly strung one alright, play this back to him later and he was wrapped around her little finger. She gives off a feline-esque smirk again.

Catechism "Well, I wasn't sure if was a private party or not." Catechism shrugs. She glances over, noticing that a black Decepticon has entered the medical ward. The Seeker doesn't make any move to bother her, though, as spook-types generally like to be left alone unless they note otherwise, Catechism has found. She considers the invitation to join in on the drinks. It's never a bad idea to top up one's tanks, and it'd be good to get to know this Arachnae better, for a number of reasons. Catechism wanders a bit closer to the drinking Decepticons. "If you don't mind..."

Through the application of a startling amount of willpower, Flee refrains from saying anything concerning Arachnae's 'lush' comment. It's hard, though... oh, so hard... Instead he picks up the flask of what he knows to be both safe and excellent energon and pours both himself and Catechism a mug. "No, we don't mind." He gestures to the mug he isn't using. "Please."

Arachnae shrugs shoulders, wings rustling. "Not at all." Crooked smirk as optics narrow. She slides off of the desk, padding about to the proper side of the desk. She pops a talon, picks her own desk drawer and opens it. "Ahhh yes.. The stash." Wicked smirk as she looks up, wings flexing out about her. Optics flicker, visor gets pushed up over her head like a headband.. and she peers over. "Empty mug." and pulls out a few more flasks. Some have simular bands on them, others have alternating sequences. She hops back up on her desk and begins sorting them out, putting some away. "And you.. lurking over there. Don't pretend that I a: can't sense you and b: arn't aware enough of what goes on in *my* medical facility." Feral smirk, very feral as she settles on her desk. "I can smell you." matter of fact tone. And takes another sip from her mug.

Blackmail chuckles, her arms folded over her chest as she calls out from her corner and steps out into the light right behind Fleet. "Ahh, I can't get anything past you can I Arachnae." she purrs practically. "Well, since my cover is blown may I join you?" She asks cheerfully enough. "been a while since I've had a good charge up."

While he is nowhere near as drunk as Arachnae is at the moment, Fleet still has enough energon in him to be too mellow to jump as Blackmail approaches, particularly right after Arachnae called her out, anyway. He just casts the black seeker a somewhat annoyed glance and takes a good, long sip before shrugging. "Well, I don't mind, but it's not mine to give away."

Catechism takes the mug with less suspicion than she really should. Drink in a medical bay? And she trusts what's in the mug? The girl obviously has no idea of the technical going-ons of laboratories. "Thanks." She sips at the drink, not wanting to get too addled and make a fool of herself in front of strangers, although she already has two advantages 1) this is her first drink and 2) she's a little bulkier than normal Seekers due to her coneheaded design. Now that the black-armoured one has been called out, Catechism gives a friendly wave to acknowledge her.

Arachnae muses, "All I've got left for mug choices.." rummage.. coming up with what looks like a.. voodoo doll that was in her desk? Remarkable likeness to Motormaster..Save the stick pins sticking out of him. "Hmm. Forgot I had this.." Putting that back, "Oh.. yes. This one and this one." One has an image of Brawl on it, staring up at the sky with the caption: "Ain't never been t' cybertron 'ave ya? Scuse me while I look at th' sun. The other has MSE officers award of the vorn on it. "Come on and have a drink." Crooked smirk returns, "Not like my wingsibs are going t.. show up and wanna go hunting with me or something. Bah.." She peers at Catechism for a moment, "Nae bartha."

Fleet gives the pinstuck Motormaster a rather curious look. He didn't really get the significance, being rather unfamiliar with human customs, he didn't really understand what it was for... but based on his own encounter with the Stunticon, he could understand wanting to stick pins in the likeness. He takes another long sip of his drink, trying to figure out what 'Nae bartha' means.

The black Seeker picks up the Brawl mug and takes a seat on a medical bay bed. Lighter framed then the other two Seekers in this room, and a lot more of a first production issue look about her she leans back on one arm. "Well, since you've twisted my wing..." she grins lightly and glances to Cate "Either I'm more senile then I let on, or I've never seen you before..." she comments casually and pours herself some energon.

Catechism grins, still sipping at her drink. "I'm Catechism, an air warrior. If you haven't seen me, it's because I spent the last few eons in stasis. Before that, I didn't do much of note. I even knew him." She jerks a thumb back at Fleet. There's no malice in her tone whatsoever. She's merely acknowledging that Fleet tends towards low profile assignments.

Fleet DOES tend towards low profile assignments. In fact, up until recently, he had been rather proud of his track record of NOT getting mentioned in official reports, but all that was sadly lost. He just gives Catechism an amused glance and nods, taking another long drink.

Arachnae smiles a merry little smile, peering at the trio of old school cons. Whatever was in that first flask has the purple and green femme in a very mellow state of being. Well into her finishing her first hand of drinks, she flicks wings and just watches.

Blackmail knocks back her drink "Wow, I spent the last several eons on a scrap pile on cybertron..." she comments and looks to Fleet and then Cate "You know him?" she asks and shrugs "Well, never mind."

"A little, yeah. Eh?" Catechism looks over at Fleet, looking a little confused. Is it suddenly a bad thing to know him? She takes another sip and decides that she doesn't care. So what if it's a bad thing? Doesn't matter right now. Doesn't matter at all.

Grinning at the confused expression, Blackmail doesn't explain that her sense of humour was blacker then her armour, she mearly pours herself another mug and smiles, going into a relaxed state as she looks around at her seeker brethren, and sistren?

"Occasionally worked together." The yellow seeker studies his drink a moment, takes another sip, and continues. "We had lost contact even before she was put into stasis, though." He didn't go in depth on what he thought of Catechism - a bit overly enthusiastic at times, yes. But cheerful, and therefore, “More tolerable than folks who actively follow me around actively insulting me the whole time, anyway." He seems completely unaware that he said the last bit out loud. Hmm. And his new mug is almost empty...

Arachnae surrepticiously.. hell, she's not being very sneaky right now. Too mellow. "Can I fill that up for you, Fleet?" Lopsided grin. One wingset skews slightly.

Fleet looks up. His optics flicker slightly as he processes, then he grins. "Sure," he replies, holding his mug out for the refill.

Blackmail chuckles into her mug, "Mmm, this is good energon." she comments and lays back looking at the ceiling, the mug resting on her chest "Arachnae, I need a cup holder installing..." she calls out and giggles a little.

And Catechism doesn't go into what she thought of Fleet. He always seems to retreat a bit too quickly and could possibly serve the cause a better by being a bit more aggressive. Still, he's very thinky, and thinky Seekers have their uses, too. Despite her conservative sips, the amount of energon her mug is slowly but surely getting lower, and she's starting to show it. She's doesn't quite wobble, but she's not standing still, either. Absently, she comments, "Yeah, tasty stuff."

Arachnae chuckles softly, "Alright.." She peers over at Blackmail, lifting a brow, "Need a refill?" and laughs again at the cupholder comment. "Empty conduit spools work in a pinch. I think there's some high tension bonding agent in the cabinet. One on each wing?" humor to her tone. "I'll tell my wingsib that this was rather enjoyable. See if he can get a case next round."

Blackmail raises her mug "Mmm yeah fill 'er up!" she states and grins, she wasn't known for holding her energon that well really. "Conduit spools? High tension bonding? heh, that sounds like that earth recording I intercepted... " she quips.

Fleet shudders slightly at the reference to earth culture. He takes a long sip of his current drink - he holds his a bit better than Blackmail, but he's also well ahead of the other two at this point - and shakes his head. "So long as you don't get the urge to repeat the recording too us, that's fine."

Blackmail's quip goes right over Catechism's pointy head. The cloudy Seeker hasn't been around on Earth long enough to know such things, and she really doesn't care much about xeno culture. It's all so pathetic compared tot he gloriousness that is Decepticonicity. Catechism looks over at Blackmail's wings and tries to picture cupholders on there. "Won't tha' mess up her airflow?" After some thought, she adds, "Better make 'em retractable, nah?"

The black seeker snorts and sits up "Definatly not, I was looking for some good material to blackmail some well connected humans... you'd be amazed at some of the ways they reproduce them selves, it's really quite disgusting."

"I bet," the yellow seeker snarls. The others have absolutely no idea how close they came to a genuine Fleet rant there, narrowly avoiding what was rather a sore topic for him. Instead, he just continues to drain his mug.

Arachnae blinks, mug midway to mouth and peers at Blackmail. It starts with a flick of her wings before she all over body shudders. "Ew.. ew ew ew ew.. ew ew.. ew ew ew.. ew.. EEEEEW!!!" OPtics bright emerald in hue, "Never bring that up you." pointing at Blackmail, "That was the single most disgusting file on reproductive methodology that I think I have ever been subjected to in my entire *career* as a researcher! I don't know /who/ loaded it into the medical files but when I find them, they, and all of their collected materials are getting a swift boot to the aft and a wall welding for that travesty of.. Gah.. Meh.. Ewwww,, Ew ew ew... Eeeeew..... "

Arachnae rants.. wow.

Better than a Fleet rant. Although his would have involved a lot less 'Eww'.

Catechism looks concerned at mention of xeno reproduction and stares into her mug, as if she is thinking deep, philosophical thoughts, which she most certainly isn't. Still looking a bit put out, she chatters, "What, the xenos dun use factories or, umph, workshops?"

Blackmail laughs, "I didn't, but I kinda wish I did at that reaction." She grins happily to Arachnae "What about that part where... ok...ok I'll shut up..." she snickers and pets her mug down. "This was fun, but I could do with a recharge." she states as she heads out

Blackmail has disconnected.

Fleet's optics flicker in confusion (and a bit of drunkenness) as he watches the black seeker leave. Do with a recharge? "Wha- she didn't get enough energy here?" he wonders to himself. Actually, he wonders that out loud, but he's losing track of what he's saying and what he's just thinking.

Arachnae looks up and over at Catechism, "No.. no they don't. There's a text file on methodology in the archives. I had the.. pictoral displays removed." She frowns a moment, puzzling something out.. "Ooohh.. I think I know who put those there.." Shake of her head and a snort-scowl. "What?" looking at Fleet.. "You know how a good drink puts some lightweights t' sleep." crooked smirk again.

Fleet grins lopsidedly himself as he finishes off his third mug. He's getting dangereously lit himself, and will probably be looking either to dance or for a game of storm tag soon, at this rate. "Yeah, but really, that's more *dis*charge than *re*charge, when you think about it. One kind of wonders where it picked up that odd mis-name." Is mis-name even a proper term? It is now, dammit!

Catechism finishes her mug and scratches the back of her helmet. She then goes on to postulate some nonsense of her own, "Maybe if ya get too much energy, you, err, reset, yeah, and have to fuel up again." When she hears Arachnae's answer about xenos and factories, Catechism again looks a little ill and shudders. "If the xenos are going to go about it the wrong way like that, I dun want to hear it. Actually..." She pauses, staring in her mug again, as if hoping that it will magically refill. "...I dun want to hear much about xenos at all. Except whose bright idea it was ta arm them."

Fleet leans back against the table. No. Misses. Stumbles back, recovers, and THEN leans back against the table. He is once more facing away from the desk, rather than towards. "Who do you think?" he growls. "It certainly wasn't *our* side!"

Arachnae sniggers, picking a flask out of the assortment, popping the top.. and offering to refill Catechisms' mug, "Why wonder?" she muses out loud, "Wondering t' much can gat you into aaaallll sorts of trouble." She gives a head shake, wings rustling behind her only to settle slightly in disarray. "I don't want to talk much about the natives." Snort-whiff of air, "They armed themselves."

Fleet clearly has his doubts on that account, but he keeps them mostly to himself. Surprisingly, he manages to keep this little train of thought silent, at least.

Catechism scowls momentarily but her smile returns when she sees that she can get her mug refilled. She holds it out, fairly steadily, as she's not that sloshed yet. "Thanks. Mmm... and here I was hoping to have 'nother excuse to sock those leakin' Autobots one."

Fleet barks out a sudden laugh. "Since when have you ever needed an excuse, Cat-chism?" He seems to have forgotten that little 'e' in there.

Arachnae laughs softly, optics brilliant emerald, "Who needs reason?"

Fleet grins again. "Well, we do have one reason. The only important one: they get in our way." He raises his mug and jabs it outward to emphasize his point. Upon lowering takes a sip. Well, tries to. Seems he's drained that one, too. He studies the empty mug for a bit, trying to decide if he wants another.

Catechism agrees genially, "I dun need an excuse. But they're handy ta have, especially when they get all righteous all over ya." Catechism sits down and puts and arm behind herself for support. Ah the benefits of hip-mounted wings - they don't get in the way when she wants her arms behind her back. "I just dun see how they can take themselves seriously. They're all so ludicrous." She's not sipping at her drink slowly anymore. Instead, Catechism's taking rather larger amounts now.

Arachnae helps Fleet decide by holding a flask up with a smile. She's a bit quieter at the moment, but then again... Who knows what she does in her office. "Sooo..." curiousity lending her a mischivious air, "What *do* seekers do when they get tanked?"

"Depends. I've got some fond memories of gettin' my head stuck in a wall." Catechism's optics brighten, as if those memories actually are fond.

Fleet studies the flask, the mug, the flask... then holds out the mug. Last one. Really! "Well... I'm seriously considering going for a d- a fly, or something like that. It would feel nice to feel the wind against my wings, and I will make one thing - terran weather patterns can certainly make for some interesting d- flying at times." He smiles as the mug is refilled and takes another drink - these can no longer be called sips - having already forgotten he slipped up twice in the last ten seconds.

Arachnae refills the held out mug with that lopsided grin of hers. "A flight? Hmmmm..." Wings flick, panels rustle out. "One thing I do like about this place.. Planet.. Filthy mudball from the pit that it is.." Sip.. eye the surprising empty bottom of the mug. blink.. and refill. "Is the athmos.. at.. air." Nod. "Real decent to fly in."

Catechism laughs, although it's not entirely clear at what, and continues making her mug not half-empty but all-empty. She sits up a little straighter when she hears that the atmosphere is good for flying. Like nigh-all her kind, Catechism was built for the sky, and friendly atmospheres make life easier. Hazily, she inquires, "None of that killer acid rain?"

Fleet shakes his head. Odds are, the head-stuck-in-wall comment hasn't registered on him... or if it has, he shrugged it off as one of those weird conehead things. "Naw. Their rain is often mildly acidic, but nothing like home. Natural weather patterns can be a bit more extreme, and their storms can be pretty damned impressive." He works on emptying his mug as well. After all, sooner it's empty, sooner he can dance. Or get more. Whatever seems good at the moment.

Arachnae gives shake of her head, "Nothing killer. Serious turbulence though. Killer storms." A slightly glazed look as she mentally muses thunderstorms. Panels on wings glitter in an odd fashion. "Real nice."

Catechism finishes her drink, "stretches", and stands, peering at the desk and Arachnae in search of more. She comments off-handly, "Really good storms, eh? Could play storm tag..." She glares at the mug. Better not if she's going to fly, but... it's tasty and oh-so-good to be reminded of how good it is to be alive after that seeming-eternity in stasis, and this stuff reminds her really well.

No, not empty yet, but Fleet could make his mug so rather quickly. Storm tag... almost as good as dancing, that... a slow grin spreads across his face. "Storm tag..." he murmurs, then he does make his mug empty. "You know, that sounds like fun." Uncommon sense has obviously given up and turned in for the night.

Arachnae perks, looking awfully curious. She's heard about this.. event. Quizzical smile, wing panels rustling behind her, "Storm tag?" thoughtful tone.. Smile shifts to a frown.. reports.. must.. Head all fuzzy. Meh.. Which mug is this? She eyes her mug.. sips.. "Could I.. watch?" One kid asking another group of kids to share playtoys.

Some Seekers do tend to be biased against non-Seekers, but Catechism's usually friendly unless given reason otherwise, and the drinks have her rather mellowed out, anyway. She exclaims, "You could play! Right, Fleet? She's got wings 'n all... 'Sides, a game of storm tag with only two's... does that even work?" The conehead frowns, thinking and finding reasoned thought tricky. She makes little shadow-puppet jets with her hands and does a mock game, still wrestling with the numerical problem.

Fleet nods enthusiastically in agreement, momentarily upsetting his stabalizers. Rattle rattle rattle. He stands up, stumbles, regains his balance. And he intends to fly like this. Should be interesting. "Sure! I've got no problem with it, anyway!" He looks at Arachnae. "You know the rules, right?" Fleet has finally put the mug down. Now is not the time for drinking! Now is the time for gaming!

Arachnae sets her mug on her desk and sliiides off, wings bobbling out behind her in skewed half furl. "I can play?" excitement to her tone. Rank? What's that? Decorum? Who needs that, this is something new! "Eh.." some excitement fades, "I dont know the rules. Heard about it but. Eh.. Until.. recently, I wasn't really qualified for high speed manuvers."

"Oh, they're simple!" the yellow seeker grins, waving an arm wildly as though that would help demonstrate how simple they are. "No 'special' abilities, no weapons. You're out if you touch the ground. So, erm... it's best not to do it over the water." He sways again, stumbles, catches himself on Arachnae's desk, then tries to right himself again. Wait - wait - it's coming - wait for it... no. He knocks *something* off 'Nae's desk (leaving it to her player to decide which... hope it wasn't important!) and frowns, trying to think. Okay. There's gotta be a way to do this...

Catechism giggles and inquires, "What's in that stuff? If it'll get Fleet flying out in a storm sloshed like that maybe it'll get him ta stick around longer in battle." If she had more of her wits about her, she probably wouldn't have mentioned it, but her wits are cheerily on vacation at the moment.

Arachnae's wings remain skewed behind her in lopsided arrangement. Optics brilliant emerald, especially since she pushed her visor up. "Goonna go flyin'.." singsong tone as she steps away from the desk.. and turns, blinking to watch something fall off. "Oooh.." blinking.. "Whoah.. Party foul?" It's just a mug.. and empty. She sniggers again before snapping around in a whirl, looking off at the wall. "Whaaa?" puzzled frown. "Clear skies or a storm.. Can find a good storm with th.. th.." puzzled frown. She has a moment of clarity in which she compares this to her last overcharge.. "Console." complete the thought lass, there you go. She shakes her head, a crackle of static charge racing down wingpanels as systems work to rid her form of the additional energy in flickering faerie fire displays. She's glowing. Literaly. "Well. First flask was.. soporific. Second straight.. Th' ones with th' gold stripe had somethin' Dreds called.. eh.. Splar.. Sp.. Hrmph.. Sparklie. Space spark.!

. No.." Ticking talon on her chin, other hand on hip in an angled out leg stance for balance. "Oh yeah." narrowing of the optics, "Novastorm.. Heh.. Very sparklie."

Fleet gives up on standing. He lowers himself to the floor, leaning against Arachnae's desk. He fails to process Catechism's remark as an insult, but some part of him does process the remark. "Point," he says, pointing at Catechism. "You have a point." He doesn't even seem to realize this could be taken to reference the top of her head. "Flying... prolly no' a good idea jus' now. And maybe no' a possbilly." His last drink is starting to work it's way into his system, just now beginning to take full effect. He looks up, although his optics are on the slow road to shutdown. "I can dance tomorrow," he says happily.

"We gotta get Fleet some sparklies, then," Catechism muses. Vague concern sluggishly processes through her mind. Can those two actually stand up straight, let alone fly? That thought is promptly derailed by Fleet's instance that she has a point. She pats the top of her head and agrees, "Yeah. Dunno why. Was just made that way."

Crawling under ones desk as systems give impending warning of immediate shutdown sequences isn't the best idea. But its appealing. Arachnae's still glowing in her own odd way, ticking talontip to her chin a few momre moments. "Sparklies?" peering over, train of thought derailing. "Hey. Floor." Peering down. It's.. a long way down. A lot longer than she remembers in that disjointed sense of the world deciding to pick up the spin about her. "Think before we go racing about.... Should.. sit down.." There's a brilliant idea.. She drops down into a wobbly crouch then settles on the floor next to her desk, wings folding about her in skewed arrangements. "Hmmmm... Miss.." dissolves into mumbles for a moment, picking at the floor with a talon. "Think.. maybe not up to flying now.." Nod of her head.. "Should.. Got o my office.. Get int here.. crash.. Er.. rest.. Yes.. proper and proer and all that slag."

Fleet laughs far louder and longer than he should. "No, na tha one... 'bout the sloshed flying thing. Na.. maybe na the best idea righ now." Uncommon sense! Welcome home! He processes Arachnae's comments. Slowly... slowly. Takes awhile. One piece into place, then another, then... ah! "Catch-kism? s'maybee... if you're up, erm, able for it... maybe help 'Rachnae inna her office?" For himself, he's perfectly content to collapse right there on the floor.

Catechism just now notices that Arachnae's glowing and has been for a whole. Heh, weird. Catechism gestures vaguely, "Was nice. All the... stuff. I'm'a gonna go get a bucket." What, exactly, Catechism wants with a bucket is unclear and probably shouldn't be questioned too closely given her earlier comment about walls. She stares at Fleet for a long moment after he asks her to help Arachnae to her office. After a tick, the conehead answers brightly, "Yeah, sure! 'Least I can do." She then wander over to Arachnae and offers a hand.

Arachnae studies the floor for a moment longer, feeling slo-o-ow. Blinking, she reaches up for the hand, misses, tries again. "Should go have a liedown. All glowy sparklie." Optics dimming and slitting. "Too bright in here." Crooked smirk. "Have t' do this again." Settling herself.. with wings cocked out at jaunty angles. "Bucket's in th' mop closet." Vague wave to a wall. "Gonna go lie down now." Wobble-weave towards her office. A pause as she tries to unlock the door.. Then *zots* it.. and meanders in with the alarm going off. A few moments later the alarm stops. And the door closes.

Having walked Arachnae to her office, Catechism stands there for a moment, wondering where the broom closet is. Then she remembers that Fleet's still there on the floor. He's a bit hard to miss really. The two trains of thought combine to form Railracer with no legs! Actually, she just asks, "Flee', d'ya know where the broom closet is?"

The yellow seeker doesn’t answer, seeming to have gone into recharge. Or discharge. Or whatever you wanna call it.

"Hmm? I'll just haveta find it myself, then," Catechism decides, when Fleet doesn't answer. The conehead wanders off in search of the broom closet and a bucket, for whatever inscrutable purposes she may have.

Catechism moves southeast to the NCC Central Hub.

Catechism has left.

Geist arrives from the NCC Central Hub to the southeast.

Geist has arrived.

Geist slips into the area sliently and fades into the shadows.

Geist steps into the Medbay. He scans the room looking for someone. His optics fall on the yellow seeker from a few cycles ago and narrow.

Fleet is leaning against Arachnae's desk, nearly unconscious, a slight, happy smile on his face. There are three empty mugs and several emtpy flasks on top of the desk, and one empty mug on the floor not far from him. If one were to look carefully at Arachnae's office door, the lock's been 'zot'ted open (using Arachnae's specific 'zot'ting abilities, to be exact).

Geist quickly engages his cloak as he notices that the seeker is oblivious to his presence. Moving as silently as a 20 foot tall terminator can (which is pretty quiet), the sweep closes on the seeker. Reaching the desk, the sweep looks at everything and guesses that his wingsib instigated a drinking match. And, since she isn’t here and the seeker is, he lost. Getting the evil desire the mess with a seeker’s mind, the sweep reaches out and kicks the seeker in the arm slightly.

Fleet rouses as he tries to clear his over-charged mind. If he were any less drunk, he's probably pretty disturbed right now, but as it was, he's more just annoyed. "Wha- wassit?" he frowns, bringing his optics back online and looking around himself blearily, trying to determine what just hit him.

Geist reaches down and grabs the seekers wing and shakes him somewhat roughly. He continues to remain cloaked and silent.

One can practically hear Fleet's head rattle as he's roughly shaken. "Wha- whossat- stoppit- ow!" He flails his hand around somewhat randomly as he tries to recover his wits. "Who's there?" he grumbles, more annoyed at haven been roused than anything else.

Geist quickly and easily avoids being batted by the seeker’s flailing arm. Moving around in front of the sitting seeker, the sweep remains cloaked but says, "Hey!" moves a little more, "Yeah, you!" and moves again until he’s standing right in front of Fleet. He doesn’t de-cloak, but says again, "I’m talking to you, seeker!"

Fleet does jump at the initial "Hey!" He continues to look around for a bit longer before some of his higher-level processors come online and point out that such action is probably futile. On giving up he just leans back and looks up in the general direction of the ceiling... interesting ceiling, that. "Allrigh' den," he murmurs, "tawk."

Geist steps up very VERY close to the seeker and drops the cloak. He asks in a rather gruff tone, "What are you doing here?"

Fleet jerks backwards hard when Geist uncloaks, banging the back of his head soundly on Arachnae's desk. "Aiieee...." he starts, then starts mumbling a brief string of curses that are too slurred to really make out. "Well... I *was* recovin' fram an o'ercharge, if you gotta know..." he grumbles. Was. Although the surprise and pain are doing a good job of shaking off some of his mental fuzziness in their own way.

Geist folds his arms across his chest and taps a pink talon on a powerful bicep. The scowl on his face should be warning enough for the seeker. Glaring down at Fleet, the sweep asks, "When is your next duty cycle?"

"Morning, actually. 'Nuff time to recover," replies the yellow seeker as he slowly gathers his wits, his self-preservation sub-routines kicking in. 'Especially if you keep this up,' he thinks grumpily.

Geist's scowl grows deeper and darker, "And if the Autobots were foolish enough to launch an attack against us, you would be in no shape to be anything more useful than a shield." The sweep shakes his head and mutters, "Arachnae has an odd way of picking her pets."

Fleet waves a light gray hand somewhat haphazardly, "Whelp, glad to hear I'd be of at least *some* sort of service, then!" he replies almost cheerfully. He might even be serious. It's hard to tell with him.

Geist has just about had enough. As he stands there drilling the seeker, a razor sharp blade begins to emerge from his right forearm. "It would be /advisable/ for you to go to the training room and run program BW05. The object is rather obvious." The sweep gets a malicious grin and says, "Try not to get killed." While the sweeps are outside the rank structure, they have their own way of "suggesting" things that would be less hazardous to one’s health than refusing.

Fleet growls quietly, liquid consuming earlier providing some level of courage that he doesn't normally possess. He pulls himself into a wobbly crouch, pausing as he waits for himself to stabilize. "Not getting killed happens to be a specialty of mine," he grumbles. Pause. He straightens and then stabilizes. "How old are you, sweep?" he asks as he slowly works his way up.

If its possible, the sweeps attitude gets visibly more sinister and a battlerage begins to tinge the corners of his optics towards black. Knowing the argument that is coming as he has heard it too many times from too many corpses to remember, "I was created by Unicron in the earth year 2005. If you wish to pursue your question, I can tell you that your age is irrelevant to me. I was created by a dark God with everything I require to fulfill my function. I exist to serve Lord Galvatron and to destroy whatever is in my path. On many occasions, that has included beligerant Decepticons that torqued off the wrong person." The sweep pauses as thin wisps of smoke begin to waft off the corners of his optics as the murderous rage all too common in some sweeps firmly takes hold. A thin smile comes to the sweeps lips as he says, "Why do you ask?"

Fleet has, by this point, pulled himself to a standing position, although he's still forced to hold the desk for support. He visibly cringes, but manages to remain standing. "I'm not questioning /your/ abilities," he grumbles, his head lowered, as much because the overcharge is resulting in a headache by this point as for any other reason. A pastel yellow seeker does not make an imposing figure in the best of circumstances, and these are not the best of circumstances. And Fleet knows it, so instead he tries reason. "But look... my point is that, somehow or another, I've been figuring out a way to survive for... a pretty respectable length of time now. Occasionally, that included 'while overcharged'." Through his haze, headache, and fear, he concentrates on keeping his voice calm... others might consider it soothing, but with this one, he's just aiming for 'non-hostile'. "You questioned my abilities at survival... but I've been doing a long time doing just that. Against the Autobots. Against out own kind. I've spent just that long being considered useful enough not to scrap… apparently /someone/ considers me worth keeping around. And it's been that way for a good, long time." He looks straight up, his expression strangely calm, almost accepting of whatever's going to happen next. "But... whatever," he sighs sadly. "I imagine this is falling on deaf audios. You were predisposed to hate me for simply being a seeker... and the moment Arachnae mentioned liking me, I was doomed, wasn't I?"

<OOC> Geist says, "I never knew that hiding like a scared little girl could be made to sound so noble. ;)"

<OOC> Fleet grins. "It's a special talent available only to pastel colored seekers."

Geist actually, visibly, calms down a little. The thin smile that was about to mark Fleet’s last conscious memory actually warms a bit. The sweep shakes his head, "If you choose to willingly decrease your combat efficiency, then so be it. I don’t have to like it. As for Arachnae, she has her own reasoning for liking you. I don’t have to like that either." Geist backs up a bit and leans on the edge of a med table, "I find you barely tolerable. However, I have learned to trust Arachnae's intuition when it comes to /older/ models. I will be watching you.”

Fleet nods very slowly. A fast nod would rattle his circuit-chips too much at this point, and probably make that staby-pain-thingie worse. "So I've heard," he replies quietly.

Geist unfolds his arms and begins walking towards the exit. As the doors slide open he stops and says over his shoulder, "Oh, and just so you know, If you so much as think about allowing Arachnae to come to harm, I will personally rip your core out of your body and feed it to a sharkticon." With that said, the sweep cloaks and leaves. The doors slide shut adding a final point on what can only be considered a promise from a sweep.

Upon the sweep's departure, the yellow seeker slowly lowers himself back to the floor at which point he returns to his prior position. He puzzles a bit over Geist's final remark. Doesn't he pay attention to the report messages? Fleet was the only one who even bothered to show up when Cyclonus lead the rescue party for Arachnae just a couple of weeks ago! But he has enough sense not to pursue the matter... and really, right now, his overworked processors are screaming for shutdown, so he complies.