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| - Autobot Starfighter arrives from the Stratosphere above Western Hemisphere to the west. The skies of Cybertron glitter tonight not with stars, but with the scintillation of debris from Neocron's (Unicron's?) explosion. The gridwork striations of lights and buildings of Cybertronians that have lived to see another day lie below in cozy yellow and orange light reflecting off the indigo and steel smoothness of roadways. None of that warmth reaches this high in the skies, however. It is here that Fusillade is suspended, by virtue of antigravs and idling thrusters, arms crossed pensively. As opposed to Fusillade, Jetfire isn't suspended, he is actively hurtling. Gradually rising up in terms of altitude he's been circumnavigating Cybertron getting higher and higher with each pass. He knows full well the truce is probably over, but that doesn't stop him from hurtling over Nightsiege and Trypticon as he climbs. One might wonder what he's doing, in fact, considering he can shoot straight up out of the atmosphere... one thing is obvious though, he's moving -fast-... so fast that his armor is glowing red from the friction as he continues climbing through thinner and thinner atmosphere. Fusillade's seen that type of reckless abandon before, and some part of her recoils at the notion of such a powerfully equipped being unfettered. "Some kind of tribute? Perhaps some way of burning off his... frustrations? Or just testing something ELSE out..." she wonders aloud to herself, although she does begin moving laterally in the least likely direction of the incandescent Guardian's path. Indeed, burning off frustrations is precisely what he's doing. He blames himself in many ways... the Asteroid was CivilOps design, it failed... he blames himself for Rodimus being taken... and now despite his very best efforts he has had no luck in tracking the slipstream. He's forced to admit defeat... Rodimus is gone - dead or alive - he's gone. The rage that's boiling deep in Jetfire's core drives him ever harder, he's throwing just about everything he has into his flight as he draws ever closer to the terminus between space and atmosphere, fuzzy though it may be. His entire form is glowing, almost completely on fire, and yet despite this his new armor shows little sign of damage... truly the modifications have taken, but it seems to be the furthest thing from his mind. The self-immolation certainly draws Fusillade's attention away from whatever had been drawing her attention skywards earlier. How much longer could he stress himself before flying apart at the seams. As far as she could tell, she had not been detected yet. How easy would it be to remain silent, and allow him to do the job on himself that so many other Decepticons had failed to do? Finally shifting to bomber form, she makes a carefully oblique trajectory towards his own, as he's very nearly blown by already. Nothing was falling off, he had made these great changes to himself, he'd be fine after he blew off steam, right? A single syllable is uttered on local tightband, one that could not be defended by its speaker if challenged. And still, it is said. <> The flaming craft turns suddenly, abruptly, the stress threatening to rip his wings from his body despite the full rotation of his wings for maximum maneuverability, the shockwave from his passing suddenly and violently ripping through the area, throwing him into a flat spin suddenly which he recovers from after a few moments of uncontrolled flight. The turret on his underside swivels about aimlessly, violently, as if searching for something to fire before he barks in response over the same frequency. <> Jetfire is upset, yeah. Peeling away from the coruscating Autobot, the Lancer is chilled by the rampage. Fusillade hrns to herself, before replying shrewishly. <> She begins to nose downward to thicker skies. The Autobot circles slowly, considering how to respond, finally he replies... <> he trails off, the rage being swallowed by grief, he seems to have more to say, but cannot seem to say it. Instead he throttles up again, starting to climb towards the stars. Banking ever so slightly to cant canopy upwards to regard the fading orange of Jetfire's contrail, the Lancer murmurs, "That's a very good question. One that only breeds more." Fusillade RTBs. --End--
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)