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| - With nosecone levered up at the inky purple-black ceiling far far above, Fusillade sits in one of the rocket cradles. The dark grey and white bomber chatters back and forth with a few techs. With compressed air hoses underneath, and a bomb truck to the side, it looks like she is in the process of getting reloaded for a mission -- although it's clear that she won't be launching directly from this site. There's still a few cracks and chips in her space tile from the Goodyear Blimp debacle. Dredclaw enters with Sunder close behind, "The missive said that the shipment was delivered and stored in the spaceport." one Sweep says to the other. "There are three cases because I had extras sent to stock the medbay as well since we were using their stock." The pair heads for the staging area where incoming shipments are stored. "I sincerely hoped the shipment wasn't damaged," Sunder says, "You know how careless some of those couriers can be." He strokes his beard, scanning for the pallets. Towards the center of the Spaceport sits a disc-shaped spacecraft, the personal conveyance of Lord Cyclonus. It sits only recently freed from the oversight of various engineers, new hull-plating gleaming in the cold light and the cockpit windows polished to mirror sheen. Magnificent though it is, it would not draw a great deal of attention if it were not for the sudden, hissing cloud of steam that sharply emanates from it. The hatch on top of the vessel opens and a familiar figure begins to make a slow ascent from within, arms folded across his chest - it is Cyclonus. He stands for a moment, shining red optics piercing the brief cloud of steam that swiftly dissipates around him in the unrelenting chill. He makes no effort to raise his voice and be heard, though his command easily resonates throughout the cavern. "Decepticons. Listen." Swivelling nose canards, Fusillade watches as the pair of Sweeps meander from nook to cranny to cubby. "Hey why don't you guys just sniff it out?" the voice sing-songs out with no apparent source. When Cyclonus emerges, the techs pause, and Fusillade rumbles to herself in some surprise. Well, she wasn't going to get reloaded at this rate... An overly cheerful "Cyclonus!" rings out in greeting from her. Hinder is hanging out with Sunder and Dredclaw, probably being carried by the former while listening to their conversation. Why is she playing Sunder-pet? Because Soundwave hasn't told her not to. She looks at the newly arrived Cyclonus. New face. Dredclaw looks over and jawdrops for a moment. Cyclonus is back. He elbows Sunder and snapturns to face their Commander. He glances in Fusillade's direction and smirks. "Blot must have been through here, because it's not so easy to sniff out." he makes a face. Space-Going B-1R Lancer rocks slightly on her wings in the cradle, all the better to see her cockpit in the high-polished sheen of the saucer's hull. "Slick," Fusillade murmurs, before finally transforming and landing with a rustle of wingblades beside the Sweep not carrying the mustelid tape. "Ha ha, good one!" she says to Dredclaw, before asking of Cyclonus, "We are here and listening. Did you encounter something on your journey that requires our attention? The sleek bomber rears up, wings collapsing onto hips even as the rear fuselage splits to form arms. The horizontal stabilizer slides up, the forward fuselage folds up accordian style, and Fusillade hops up on thrustered feet. Sunder nods and smirks at his twin, before snapping to attention likewise. "Welcome back, Lord Cyclonus," he says, "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?" He holds Hinder so that she can scramble up onto his shoulder if she wants to. The greetings seems to fall on deaf sensors, Cyclonus watching the gathered Decepticons with an expectant and impassive stare. He waits for them to finish their duties, although something about the way he stands hints that he is prepared to waste little time. Indeed, his waiting may simply be to give the coming words further weight. His stillness is forbidding, and one could be forgiven for thinking him deactivated were it not for the glow of his optics. The questions go unanswered. "It is a well known fact amongst the greater caste," he begins suddenly, not waiting for conversations to conclude, "that a victory is not secured by firepower alone. It is quite clear that energon, too, moves the machinery of war. We ration this commodity and it is right to do so - it is a greatly desired resource and one many seem to take for granted." "Avalanche," Fusillade scoffs in reference to the wannabe-Horrorcon's multiple drinking binges. Hinder just sits alertly in Sunder's hand. Shoulders are easy to fall off of, and falling doesn't look so good in front of someone bossly. When Fusillade mentions Avalanche, her beady little red optics snap over to look at the femme. Observing. Listening. Recording. Dredclaw grits his fangs for a moment as Fusillade mentions Avalanche's drinking. Pot? Kettle? Well, true she's not gone on a whiz banger in a long while to his knowledge, while he himself had attempeted to drink Avalanche under the table. He cuts optics to Sunder and mouths "did he get Audited?" this could put the chipperest Commander in a foul mood and Cyclonus wasn't known for gregariousness to begin with. Sunder shrugs at Dredclaw. It's possible that Ratbat had a go at Cyclonus, but there was no way to know for sure unless Cyclonus himself said so. And the chances of that were...not very high. But it mattered little. For his part, Sunder was not one to waste energon. He pats Hinder's head idly as he waits for Cyclonus to say more, tilting his head slightly in a questioning gaze. "We do not hurt for energon," Cyclonus continues with a continued lack of regard to the murmurs in the assembled masses, "But we do ration it. For our supply is not infinite and must be replenished - the natural resources that go squandered by lesser beings must be acquired for the benefit of the Decepticon Empire." Stepping forward, Cyclonus leaps into the air and lands deftly upon the floor of the Spaceport. He walks past a small group of mechanics who have paused to listen without so much as glancing at them, continuing to where Sunder, Dreadclaw, Hinder and Fusillade stand. He does not close on them, still addressing the others present it would seem. "But we are not alone in this requirement," he says flatly, "the hated Autobots share it. They require energon to perpetuate their worthless existence and they have it. Should things continue as they do, this has the potential to be a war without end or gain." The glare of the floodlights washes out most of the color from the Spaceport occupants, throwing Cyclonus's figure in sharp relief. Fusillade pulls her goggles up and away from her face, the corners of her mouth drawn tight as she continues to struggle to make out his silhouette against the harsh lighting. The Empire's steward was all business right now, and prying anything out of him would be quite the exercise in patience -- one she had not practiced in quite a long time. Squaring her shoulders and fighting the urge to stomp herfoot, she draws air over her vents to calm herself. Despite the rhetorical nature of her questions, it's clear she's angling to get some direction from the commander. "The Nebulans poisoned their own fuel to ensure that we could not harvest it, even to the point of spiting their Autobot saviors. Do you wish us to squeeze the lifeforce from this planet? Choose the lower hanging fruit of Charr?" Fusillade's tenseness quivers across servos, almost palpable to those with enhanced senses -- or those that happen to know her well. Hinder turns her attention back to Cyclonus, silently wondering (but smart enough to not say so aloud) when he's going to finish pontificating. Her beady little optics are substandard in most instances, but in the over-bright floodlights they turn out to be an advantage as she can make out Cyclonus clearly. He must have a point to explaining this, and rather than pepper him with questions she just waits quietly for him to get to the point. Dredclaw notes the quivers of Fusillade's stellar form, a slightly...hungry look passes his faceplate, replaced quickly by smooth features. He waits for Cyclonus to declare how they are going to deprive the Autobots of thier shared source of lifeblood. He, Sunder, and Avalanche had attempted to sway the Autobot Fueler Fanfare, but without success. Cyclonus would no doubt have a more satisfying method of achieving this. Sunder really would like to know what Cyclonus is getting at. But he figures that the Decepticon Second would do so in due course and at his leisure. Fusillade's nervousness is not lost on him either. The same hungry look that passes over Dredclaw's face plate crosses his briefly as well. So he stands there patiently. "You yearn for an order," Cyclonus says, an undeniable trace of scorn entering his tone, "A lack of patience is a weakness, and weaknesses do not long go unexploited. Nevertheless, you shall get what you doubtlessly want." He raises his voice suddenly, not to a shout but the volume is decidedly louder, "We must monopolize these resources. As the pathetic Nebulans have poisoned the only bargaining chip they have, so should they be destroyed - they have no further use and their continued existence is unacceptable." Turning about to directly face the four nearest Decepticons, he lifts a hand to point at them, "You will play a part in this operation. We will find those worlds that have fuel we may put to use, focusing attention on taking from the Autobots that which they need to function. With their supply lines cut, we will starve them into submission and when they can no longer resist us they will be crushed." That could mean anything! Fusillade's brow furrows in consternation, chin jutting out slightly as she scowls. By the grace of the Original Thirteen, though, those thoughts don't tumble out of her mouth as words. Instead, with considerable effort, she suggests, "Recently, there has been some rumbling about the hyoomans and Autobots playing leapfrog across the nearby star systems, perhaps that could be followed up on to reap some gains." One hand slides down to pluck at the edges of one of her wingblades. Hinder cringes back slightly when Cyclonus raises his voice, but doesn't give any other outward reaction to his words. She does, however, think to herself that she'd better get all of the shiny bits she can off of the Nebulan homeworld before that place gets exploded into nothingness. She glances over at Fusillade again. Dredclaw gets the giddy look of a kid told that he can eat all the chocolate he wants AND pull the wings off of butterflies to his hearts content. Yay! Hmmm how to accomplish the goals? Orbital bombardment, planet core breach? The possibilites are endless. He can't wait to make those Transformer wanna be's pay. Sunder likewise very nearly drools at what Cyclonus is telling them. Oh yes, there are possibilities. And the near-steady flow of energon from the Yrral System was certainly a help, especially given that the Autobots had either not discovered the energon flow or had not seen fit to cut it off. "As you command, Lord Cyclonus. As you will it, so it shall be done," Sunder states, all-businesslike. "You will all be informed of your specific orders soon," Cyclonus concludes, taking a long look at Fusillade, "Until then, gear yourselves for battle. But keep in mind that this is to be a mission to subvert Autobot resources and revealing this secret will only increase the resistance we will find when we come for their energon supplies. Silence is the key - and the ability to strike swiftly and decisively. There is no room for inefficiency in this operation." "Unit Fusillade," he says, turning his attention entirely to her now, "We will speak later." The looks on the faces of the other Decepticon get, of all things, an appreciative nod from Cyclonus as he folds his arms over his chest once again, "Failure is unacceptable." Hinder has all kinds of things going through her mind now. Shiny things to collect, fun stuff to do, all of her imaginings in Buzzsaw-style cartoony mode. Best of all, no wondering if she's heard the instructions wrong. Fusillade's processors have already started churning. She considers the best way to campaign for control of the spacelanes around a few of the more desireable planets. Giving Cyclonus a sharp, deep nod that is almost a bow, she concurs, "We most certainly will." With a flourish of wingblades, she takes a step back, and takes her leave to resume bomb loading. Dredclaw likewise bows to Cyclonus. His declaration that Failure is unacceptable taken as dismissal, he turns to blatently watch Fusillade walk away. His head tilts to the side and the smirk slides to pursed lips and then back to a smirk. He looks to Sunder, "Shall I find our shipment and get to carrying them back to the Sanctum, Commander?" he asks, reaching up to scritch Hinder behind an ear. Sunder bows to Cyclonus as well. "Indeed," he says to Dredclaw, "And let us plan. We should start scouting the known human and Autobot installations in Deep Space, to find their weak points." Cyclonus remains still for a moment, watching as the Decepticons return to their duties and listening to the plans made among themselves. Satisfied for the time being, he turns about and strides out of the Spaceport.
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)