| abstract
| - Catechism has an office here. It isn't large, and in fact, it is a bit rubbish. She keeps few things in her office - no sentimental tokens. The chairs are set up for those of the coneheaded variety, as if to spite everyone else for all the times she had had to make do with an ill-fitting chair. She leans back in her chair, idly working on a report. Someone has recently moved a floor-length mirror into this room - furniture has clearly been moved around to accomodate it, to judge by the dust patterns on the floor. Curiously, the mirror is much better positioned to be used by a visitor than by Catechism herself. It still has the price tag. Fleet approaches, footsteps as light as remembrance, but more confident. He is very shiny, still wearing that fresh wax job from yesterday, which only serves to emphasize the ice-blue curve designs and the somewhat alien cast to his shoulder-mounted weapons. He pauses at the door, scans the room first, then steps in. "Catechism? You wished me to report to you?" Catechism gestures to one of the inconvenient chairs - quite near that mirror, to tell to the truth, but she does not look up from her report. She orders, "I did. Sit down, Fleet." Catechism taps away that the report, finishing up a last few things before she looks up at Fleet. Hmm. Weird ice blue decos. Different guns. Voice sounds a bit off. She reaches down and rolls open one of her drawers. Fleet gives a single nod, then steps to the chair indicated and sits down carefully at the front edge of it. He watches Catechism open her drawer carefully and without comment, then begins to study the room itself, not bothering to look into the mirror. Oh, and he has a reflection, by the way. Ramjet arrives from the IHQ Command Center to the south. Ramjet has arrived. Catechism was checking to make sure that Fleet had a reflection, yes. It is unclear if she is pleased by this development or not. She pulls out a tray of small decanters of various microbrewed varieties of high grade energon. She's really not all that interested in it, herself, but she keeps it around as it makes a good bribe and conversation starter. Catechism pulls out a pair of glasses from the drawer and places them on the tray before closing the drawer. She holds the tray out to Fleet and encourages, "Do try some." Fleet accepts the glass nearest to him and dips his head in polite acknowledgement. "Thank you." He takes a long sip of his drink and shutters his optics for a moment. "Real energon. It's been too long." Then he looks intently at Catechism. "I... wish to apologize for my reaction to you back on Zephyr. I was... still half expecting it all to prove to be some sort of trick at the time." Ramjet appears in the doorway, with one hand against the sill. He looks around, his cone turning slightly as his optics glance from one sight to the other. His brow furrows at what he sees. "This office is a bit rubbish," he says, making the obvious observation. Ramjet then fixates on that tray of decanters. Catechism might not be for that type of stuff, but the Air Commander sure is. Most Decepticons will tell you that Ramjet became Air Commander to further the cause. For glory and for Empire. However, Dirge will just tell you he did it to get his hands on the most expensive drinks in the universe. And drive vintage rocket-ships all over the cosmos. Mission accomplished. Catechism chuckles lightly and takes a glass for herself, pouring in some peachy-coloured energon, rather than the dark strawberry and maroon mixes. She assures, "Real energon." She seems impassive at his apology, however. She looks up at Ramjet and rises to salute him before sitting back down and sipping her drink. She replies, "Sir, I spend my credits on the important things in life," she gestures to the energon and then to her arm guns. "Care to join us for a sip, sir?" Ramjet will have no problem with the chairs. Fleet looks up when Ramjet arrives, but it's not until Catechism stands to salute him that Fleet does the same. After all, he didn't hold such a position when Fleet had left. He'll need to relearn bits of the command structure. If the pastel Seeker is bothered by Catechism's impassiveness, he shows no indication. Instead, he sits back down on his inconvienent chair and waits once more to be spoken to. Ramjet waves his hand as Catechism and Fleet rise up to salute him. "Don't let /me/ interrupt you," he mutters as he steps toward Catechism's desk. He reaches for one of the decanters, affixing his fingers around the sides from above. Ramjet raises the glass to his lips and takes an immediate, loud sip. "Soo..." He says with a lift of his optical ridges at Fleet's direction. "How.. uh.. are you? Pass your check-up and debriefing yet?" "I've already had my check-up," Fleet reports. "It went... mundanely. Though I do now have a new pine air freshener." He gestures towards Catechism and continues, "This *is* my debriefing, though I also need to speak with Cyclonus still." Catechism reaches into her drawer to fish out a glass for Ramjet, but he seems to be managing on his own. She then takes another sip of her drink, considering. Finally, she leans over her desk, her elbows on the edge of the desk and her hands clasped beneath her chin. She inclines her head down, darkening her face. In a matter of fact voice with a slight edge to it, she begins, "Fleet, I need you to tell me something that only you and I would know." She pauses and glances over at Ramjet. "Preferably nothing embarassing, Fleet." They have had entirely too many zombie clone holograms, and she will have none of these shenanigans on her planet. "Nothing embarrassing, of course." Fleet takes another long, quiet sip of his drink, considering. "So, erm, nothing about tacking personal bucket requests onto official requisition reports or, say, going through catelogues of terran aerial combat craft to admire their... ceiling altitudes?" the Seeker asks for clarification. A faint, amused smile plays on the right corner of his lips. "Nothing alont those lines, I take it?" "New leather scent," Ramjet indicates his own preference with flare of his nose. He takes another sip before deciding to listen in on this debriefing. He lifts his brow at Catechism's line of questioning, but shrugs those weapon-capped shoulders regardless. Ramjet takes a lean against Catechism's desk, shifting his hip to rest against the edge. Fleet's reply, the thing that only he and Catechism would know, obviously goes over his cone. Ramjet pretends to look understanding, anyway. Catechism frowns slightly and ahems loudly, straightening her posture for a moment before again slouching over the desk. She wags a finger and replies curtly, "Indeed, Fleet. Nothing like that." She consuls a datapad and continues, "You were last heard from after you the took the shuttle Dark Comet S-10 on an interstellar scouting mission, and you were presumed lost in the vicinity of the Medusa Cascade. What happened, then?" The faint smile stengthens for a moment, then fades away entirely. Fleet shrugs his right shoulder. "About what was presumed. I picked up a transmission - strange numbers - and went to investigate. That system... eight stars and a planet, abnormal radiation and gravity forces. By the time I realized the transmission was rubbish, it was too late; I couldn't pilot my way out. I crashed on Alkor Zephyr..." He frowns and shakes his head. "You must understand, I was badly damaged, and between gravity, radiation, and magnetics, my memory of that period... it's not always reliable. I came to myself repaired near an isolated dwelling, one of the locals' elders. The mad ones. I've always presumed it was he who repaired me. I have no long range radio, and the Comet's was damaged, so since then..." The Seeker shrugs. "I just learned how to survive there." Ramjet looks down to his drink. He gives it a little shake, swishing the liquid inside. "So you went native," he says with another lift of his optical ridge at Fleet's account. Another swish of the liquid before he takes another sip. "Learn any interesting.. rain dances, during your time there?" Catechism drums her fingers on her desk, seemingly not too pleased. She squints and asks, "Couldn't you have just... asked him?" She supposes that the answer will be 'but he's mad', but it doesn't hurt to ask. She snorts at Ramjet's question. She could so go for a game of storm tag, but she never has the time. Fleet narrows his optics and frowns up at Ramjet. "Actually, for the most part I didn't interact much with the locals. They're suspicious of outsiders. Always expecting doom to fall on them from above." He smirks and takes a sip. "Not that I can blame them, since doom regularly falls from the skies." He looks back at Catechism and shrugs. "I did, and got jibberish in response. He never seemed aware of what he did one day to the next. Eventually I gave up and gutted him for his fuel." Catechism lightly taps her fingers on the side of her glass and takes another sip. "Is that how you commonly obtained your fuel? Gutting the natives? Or did you have some other method? You mentioned that you haven't had real energon in a long time." See? She can pay attention. Sometimes. Ramjet begins considering his expedition to Alkor-Zephyr. Gutting the natives for energon is grisly, but maybe a rewarding task he could set the Terrorcons on. Fleet dips his head in a nod. "It was. I found it compatable with my systems, though not so pleasant as proper energon." He takes another sip to demonstrate. His glass is now approaching empty. "I tended to prey on the outcasts. The mad rogues and seers. Less organized, more isolated." There are more decanters on the tray if Fleet (or Ramjet) is still thirsty. Catechism inquires, "You said that you did not interact with the natives often. When did you interact with them, then? Aside from eating them." It's a repugnant thought, to be sure, but it let him survive to deliver this report, so all is well in the end. Ramjet gives his glass another swish. If fitness is proven by survival, Fleet's now proven a good deal. He shrugs. "I was really more of an observer. In some of their isolated communities they'd tell their tales to each other at night. I'd creep near and listen, try to figure out what I could about the world. Occasionally I'd capture one and question him." He shrugs and shakes his head. "They generally didn't know much useful. Sometimes I'd get gibberish along the lines of what you heard from that one. Like I told you then, it's always doom with those ones." He picks up the decanter and pours himself another glass. "Hnh.." Ramjet sighs, disappointed. "So. Their chief export is doom, then?" "And their chief import," Fleet adds. Fleet has not been here when Cyclonus recited from the Grey Book. He has not been here for ramblings of Goldpaver or the riddles of the Autobot cassette. Not here to heear Sorvad. In fact, if the monitor logs are correct, he has not even been to New Crystal City to read the Books. That puts him in an interesting position, because what he dismissed as nonsense has an awful clarity to Catechism. She asks, "How did the natives obtain their fuel?" Give her something she can raid for and justify a mission back! "I believe they processed organic materials, as well as made use of the energies unleased by their environments," Fleet answers. "They don't produce a great deal of excess, but that doesn't seem to be because the resources are unavailable. It's simply too unwieldly to try to set up large scale siphons on that planet." Ramjet hums, "I don't suppose you've done any geological surveys in all that spare time you've had." Catechism steeples her fingers and leans back, thinking. Thenm she prompts, "Tell me about the areas of the planet you have visited. Climate, typical dangers, useful resources, tourist spots-" she cuts herself off as Ramjet asks something along the same lines. "I know the general lay of the planet's surface, if that's what you're asking," Fleet answers. Woah! That 'surveying' skill came in handy! "The kingdom is where most of the planet's life manages, although it's only loosely a 'kingdom.' Mostly a bunch of small communities. There's a special valley nearer the ocean, called Refuge Valley, but it's... deceptive. The plants and creatures that grow there are large, strong, and agressive. Especially the plants. North of the Kingdom are the dust plains - not much to remark on there. And north of that, in the constant day region, are the magma barrens. South of the Kingdom is the constant night region, ice plains as barren as the dust plains, but often tunneled through with odd caves and caverns. Some are volcanic caverns, some... well, I've only spotted the creature that tunnels some of those once, and I made sure to go the other way but quickly. There's also the lake of Sorrow, black and frozen and as bleak as the rest of that world, and then the oceans." Catechism decides to go for the blunt hit. It's what she's good at. She asks, "Have you been to Nameless Town?" "Hnh.." Ramjet muses aloud. "Well. I suppose processing the natives and tapping the molten caverns will do wonders for powering the fleet." He then wrinkles his brow at Catechism's brow. "/Nameless/ Town? Why isn't it just called the /Town/?" Fleet barks out a brief laugh. "Catechism, many of their towns down't have names. I've been to a few that would qualify. Pit, there's one or two not far from where the Comet crashed down." He shrugs and shakes his head. "You'll have to get more specific." Catechism looks over at Ramjet and protests, "I didn't name the place! Or unname the place, as the case may be." She rubs her chin and muses, "If the natives hate outsides, I wonder why one would repair Fleet..." Oh well. Crazy elders. She specifies, "I mean, the Nameless Town that the crucified priest was on about the other day." "Quite possibly." Fleet frowns and considers, going over locations in his mind. "I've been to the town nearest where he was." Catechism snaps her fingers and points at Fleet, ordering, "Fantastic. Keep that in mind." She scribbles down a note to herself. She glances over at Ramjet and inquires, "Do you have any questions for Fleet, sir?" "Just two," says Ramjet. He gives his glass a final swish. "Can you hold a gun and do you remember where to point it?" Catechism covers her face with her hands and mutters quietly, "But his guns are attached to his shoulders." Like the guns of everyone in this office. Fleet smirks. "I can, but I'm a Seeker, so I usually don't. And I point them at the guys who wear red frowning faces." He takes a long sip of his drink, grinning as he does, though his grin fades quick enough. Ramjet makes a face, "You know where I'm getting at." Ramjet rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Good enough for me. Welcome back, et cetera, et cetera." "Thank you, erm... sir?" The yellow and blue Seeker sounds a bit uncertain. He's assuming that Ramjet must be in charge of him. He seems to be in charge of Catechism! Catechism steeples her fingers and deadpans, "Yes. Welcome back, Fleet." She seems a bit less enthusiastic than she might otherwise. She sighs and pulls up a roster on the datapad. "I suppose that I need to get you spun up on the current situation. Air Commander Ramjet is our boss. " She gestures to him. "Air Commander? Ah, yes sir." He turns and inclines his head towards Ramjet. "My apologies if I gave offense, sir." Ramjet finishes off the last of his drink. "None necessary. I'm sure this mess of Catechism faking distress signals to recover you will end up being worthwhile for me in the long run." Catechism stands up, bangs her hands against her desk, and hisses, "I did not FAKE that distress call, sir. I'm telling you, the laws of temporal causality are not functioning properly in the Medusa Cascade!" Fleet mutters, "I'd believe it," as he finishes off his drink. "Oh whatever," Ramjet grunts. "You know what I'm getting at." Catechism eyes Fleet suspiciously. She explains, "We are currently at war with the Autobots and with whoever else gets in our way. The EDC of Earth and the Junkions pose a minor annoyance. You are lucky to have missed the Protectorate debacle." She shudders. "Now, as required reading, I am assigning you to read the White Book of Primus, the Black Book of Primus, and the Grey Book of Primus, which you will find in NCC. They will shed a fair amount of... light on your situation, I believe. We have lost our island base due to Autobot perfidy, and NCC has been forced underwater." "'Whoever else' resulting in every other race in the known galaxy," coughs Ramjet. "So it's situation normal, all fragged up," Fleet answers, placing his cup on the tray with an audible 'click.' "Got it." He looks at Catechism thoughtfully for a moment, optics narrowed, then shrugs. "Righto. I haven't had nearly enough of mystic hooplah in the last two years, anyway." Catechism snorts and explains, "Standing orders are to raid for energy, to benchmark Autobot reaction times on Cybertron, and to retrieve the lasercores of Nightbeat, Impulse, and Blaster. Jazz's has already been obtained by the Sweeps, and in order to obtain Galvatron's favour, Aerospace must obtain the other three first." She pauses. "Ah, yes. We are Aerospace, not Military Operations. You should respect Shockwave and Onslaught, but you may consider them as you would Soundwave or Scrapper." She then glares at Fleet and chides, "Mystic hooplah, Fleet? Are you not taking your *duty* as a *soldier* seriously?" Fleet dips his head low in deference and, head still lowered, says sincerely, "Forgive me, Catechism. I will read the books, and give them their due consideration. The standing orders will be attended to as opportunity permits." Ramjet makes a face at the mention of Onslaught's name. Catechism drums her fingers on her desk, and she looks away for a moment, a distant look on her face. Then, she snaps out of it and looks back at Fleet, explaining, "You said that priest was mad, but I am afraid that what he said made quite perfect sense to me. There are forces at work here that I do not quite understand, but rest assured, Fleet, that if they stand in our way, we will crush them without mercy." She isn't going to go into more detail until she is certain of where Fleet, who could not take her hand, stands. Ramjet beams in an evil way. Which is a lot less beaming and more sadistic glee or something. "She's fun when she's determined to hurt someone, isn't she?" "Oh, indeed," replies Fleet, his own smile fainter but with no less a cruel edge. "And of course," he nods towards Catechism. He stands up. "If that is all, I shall... see if Cyclonus is available to receive my report, and then... tend to my studies, I suppose." Catechism raises a finger to pause Fleet. "One last thing before you go, Fleet." She pauses. "What's up with the paintjob and armguns?" It's only been bothering her since she saw the new look, after all. Fleet shrugs. "I've had to make due with what was available. Scavenged local technologies, and it's not like pale yellow is an easy color to manufacture. Easier to get smaller amounts of different colors." Also, these are his new toy's colors. Catechism mutters, "But you just take yellow and add white.." She shakes her head and waves her hand at Fleet, ushering, "Dismissed." She leans back in her chair and looks over at Ramjet, considering. When he is dismissed, Fleet offers a quick, somewhat truncated bow to Ramjet, then to Catechism. Then he turns and, pace still light, walks from the room.
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