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| - Summary: After his return from Alkor-Zephyr, Fleet is ordered to report for medical check-up. Meanwhile, Catechism is questioned by Cyclonus. Dirge is here, getting his head attached properly. Fleet has been ordered to report for a check-up. Not surprising, really. He's been gone for some time. The yellow and blue Seeker steps lightly into medical and moves immediately out of the way of the entrance. He scans the room swiftly to determine who might be here and on-duty. Scrapper is under one of the medical bay consoles. The maintenance panel is off, and the engineer is only half-visible, apparently performing repairs to the systems that run behind the repair bay's walls. Tools and scanners litter the area on the floor around where Scrapper is working, and the occasional spark can be seen from where he's apparently welding something together. Catechism has arrived. Ramjet has arrived. Fleet is not one to interrupt an engineer in the middle of their task. He inclines his head briefly towards Dirge, if Dirge looks towards him, then quietly moves to what waiting section there might be. He then settles in to watch the room, expression unreadable. Scrapper talks to himself while he works, "Almost... almost... annnnd got it!" There's one final shot of sparks before Scrapper slides back out from underneath the console. Standing upright, he looks at the monitor and moves the mouse around, making sure everything is working properly on the screen. An image of a wireframe spaceship of unknown design can be seen on the screen, and Scrapper seems satisfied. "Trypticon," he tells the base while he kneels to pick up the tools and reattach the maintenance panel, "You really have suffered from a lot of neglect." Cyclonus enters from the Main Hallway to the west. Cyclonus has arrived. Fleet stiffens briefly and scowls. Talk about suffering from a lot of neglect! The scowl fades, however. After all, he had spent the whole of his career as a Decepticon trying hard to be not worth bothering about. Is it any wonder no one bothered about him when he was missing? "Scrapper, sir," his voice is soft, but it carries well through the room, "when you have a moment, I am here, reporting for check-in as ordered." Cyclonus stalks into the medbay, arms behind his back as he casually stares over the work going on, his gaze fixing on Fleet for the moment. He is here for a purpose however, as he starts to tap at some panels Scrapper closes the toolbox, having put everything where it's meant to go. Standing upright again, the Constructicon glances over at the newcomer in surprise. "Fleet?" he says. "My word! I had heard you were back, but almost didn't believe it." Scrapper doesn't always read Ramjet's reports, after all. "Welcome back to the land of the living! Yes, of course, lets take care of your maintenance issues. You know you aren't supposed to go more than twenty-eight thousand breems or five billion astroseconds, whichever comes first, without an oil change, you know." Looking past Fleet, Scrapper spies Cyclonus. Then he glances over at Dirge, who's having his head put back on. Scrapper tosses Cyclonus a salute just to play it safe. Dirge is just finishing up getting his head turned around straight. He pulls away from the medic, frowning. Catechism said that she would speak with Fleet after medical checked him out, and she will. Truth be told, she's not even sure that he's really Fleet, right now. The blue designs are wrong, and paintjobs are important to Seekers. Heck, she even gets mistaken for both Ramjet and Dirge frequently. That, and his voice was... off. Still, she can snag him once his check-up is over. She bows formally to Cyclonus and salutes Scrapper before moving over to the de-icer cabinet. She could use a top-up. "Dirge!" Cyclonus snaps sharply at the seeker. "I trust you are having no more... medical issues with your vocal units." He finishes downloading the information he came for and is about to leave until he spies Catechism. And of course, he always needs a talk to Scrapper. "Catechism!" he barks, looming behind the seeker. "I await the debriefing regarding last night's mission" Dirge glowers at Fleet. "The errant Seeker returns," he hisses softly, then turns to look at Cyclonus. Since the Commander doesn't seem to want a response, he turns to gloom back over at Fleet. Fleet gives a faint, odd little smile when Scrapper welcomes him back 'to the land of the living.' Wasn't he the one who once condemed the Seeker to the land of the undead? He pushes himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against and approaches the engineer, saying in his still-quiet voice, "It really wasn't by choice, Scrapper." A brief tilt of his head is all the indication he gives of his interest in Cyclonus's command to Catechism, but it certainly is enough. To Dirge, he says nothing. What reply need he make to such a statement of the obvious? Catechism is almost getting used to Cyclonus looming over her, but really, this is not something any mere mortal can ever get used to. Forgetting the de-icer, she turns and looks up at Cyclonus. A show of strength and confidence is always better than cringing and cowering, she feels, and so she stands steady. She reports, "Ah, yes, sir. That. As you know, sir, we have been experiencing strange radio signals that emanate from within the Medusa Cascade." Cyclonus glances down to his report pad, tapping his finger against it expectantly. "Yes Catechism, and I am a Decepticon, I /know/, I gave the order to investigate them. Now tell me what I do NOT know. If I wanted mindless facts I would have Scrapper wipe the lasercores of all Decepticons and replace them with Vehicon Drones..." Scrapper offers a slight wave back to Catechism. He isn't much on having other Decepticons salute him. "Well in any event," Scrapper replies to Fleet, "Lets get you sorted out to make sure you aren't going to malfunction on us. It'd be pretty embarassing if you were found again live and well, only to die because your systems weren't properly looked after." The Constructicon leads Fleet not to a standard medical bed, but rather to an area of the bay that looks more appropriate for aircraft maintenance. There is an obvious reason for this. Scrapper motions for Fleet to transform. As he overhears Cyclonus's latest comment, Scrapper's fuel pump jumps. Hooray, Cyclonus must be considering that Vehicon idea after all! "I think, Scrapper, I'd have other concerns besides embarassment," Fleet answers as he follows Scrapper to the area of medical indicated. He transforms and settles into pyramid-jet mode. He is still pale yellow, but now sports those same ice-blue curved designs he does in robot mode, and close examination indicates that he's been repaired using non-standard technology in the last couple of years. "I voted for 'Decepticlones,'" mutters Ramjet as he strides into the Medical Bay. His cone slides from left to right, expressing his disapproval of Project: Vehicon's name. He spares Dirge a glance, mostly to make sure his head is still attached. It is. There was no rejoicing. Catechism rubs the bridge of her nose. 'Don't keep secrets, Catechism'. 'Don't tell me stuff I already know, Catechism'. It's enough to make a girl take up drinking. Of course, delivering anything less than perfection to Cyclonus is just asking for it, anyway. She explains, "Sir, Lord Galvatron, Air Commander Ramjet, Commander Soundwave, Blueshift, and I took CONE-1 out to investigate a garbled distress call." Why? Maybe to shoot survivors. Darned if she knows. "It took us into the Medusa Cascade. The Autobots and humans also took less-conical," she sounds rather scornful, "ships of their own." She shoots Ramjet a salute as he enters. "Well I don't," Scrapper counters. If the Constructicon notices the subtle differences to Fleet's paint scheme, he doesn't mention it. Instead he walks around the now-larger jet plane. Scrapper flips open a hatch on the jet's side, just above the wing section. There he pulls out a dipstick and looks it over. "Low on braking fluid," he says out loud as if anyone else actually needed to know this. He wanders off to get some Seeker Brand Braking Fluid. Seeker Brand: Now With 20% Less Suck. So how much Suck is left? 80%. "Ah!" Cyclonus emits. "Then if Lord Galvatron was present, you were blessed indeed Catechism. I take it the mission ended with nothing more than COMPLETE success, or I may be asked to reshuffle the divisions again. And last time, the Deluxe Insecticons were kept busy for too long cleaning up the MESS" Dirge stalks over toward Ramjet. Still not-dead. Damn. He gives the Air Commander a cold stare. Fleet is probably the only one on the CONE-1 last night who'd call the mission anything close to a success, and that's because he was there for the return trip. When Scrapper remarks on how he's low on braking fluid, his wings shudder in a shrug. It's not like he had the opportunity to just make a run to the local mini-mart! Catechism steeples her fingers as her mind races to explain off that confusing mess as a success. Finally, it dawns on her that she can indeed spin it that way. She smiles and replies, "Of course it was a success, Lord Cyclonus. We destroyed a hideously techno-organic space worm that had the audacity to attack the CONE-1, we recovered Fleet, and, best of all, we even rescued the one who emitted the distress call." She pauses for added drama. "Me." Catechism boldly adds a conclusion, "Clearly, time is not functioning properly in all areas of the Medusa Cascade, which we may be able to use against the Autobots." Ramjet's arms fold over his canopy-chest once more. He turns his cone slightly in the direction of Dirge, brow lifted for some silent exchange. His attention is then caught by Catechism. "Wait, /what/? -You- sent out the distress call?!" Ramjet narrows his optical ridge at her. Dirge turns at the revelation, giving Catechism a dubious look. Cyclonus considers this for a bit. Then he speaks up. "Catechism!" he utters. "You are FORBIDDEN to break the laws of physics. Do so again and I will take you aside into a small, windowless room and swiftly readministrate those laws, am I clear?" His optics glint as he says this, his emotionless voice discerning no agenda. "You did of course take back samples of this... 'space worm' for MSE to study." Catechism looks over at Ramjet, and she asks, "Were you even paying attention, sir? The distress call was, 'This is *crzk*, and we are *zkt*. I repeat, *zkrz*. Require immediate assistance at-' When I was suffering from, er... distress, I unthinkingly called out with, 'This is Catechism, and we have encountered severe weather conditions. I repeat, severe weather conditions. Require immediate assistance at-'" Aww, no abusing the laws of physics to defeat the Autobots? Phoo. She will simply need to discover a NEW KIND OF SCIENCE. Sighing, she replies, "Yes, sir. No moe breaking the laws of physics and violating causality, sir." Behind her back, she crosses her fingers. She shakes her cone. "No, sir. I believe Lord Gavatron considered the beast to be below our notice. However, I woudl be happy to return to that blasted to recover a sample for you. In fact, I was going to ask if I might be allowed to try to recover the flight logs of Fleet's ship, sir. Before our enemies get any ideas." Change the subject, change the subject, reference someone else, show initiative... Scrapper returns with a jerrycan of braking fluid. Using a funnel, he tops Fleet up, checking the dipstick once more before finishing. He moves towards the front pointy end of the tetrajet and opens up a panel there, checking various systems. "Low on oil, your coolant valve is completely shot, and your air filter looks like it's about to fall out." Keeping the panel open, Scrapper moves around towards the tiny little 'cockpit' area of the tetrajet, leaning on Fleet slightly the way people lean on the door of a car. "I recommend going for the full engine and radiator flush. Now it costs a little bit more but it'll make sure you don't have any seize-ups on long-distance trips." Silently, Ramjet looks back to Dirge. His brow almost quivers and his right optic just flickers a little. That RAMache has begun to seep in and it is throbbing. Dirge narrows his optics back at Ramjet. "Erm, I've not yet been back long enough to have any rations reserved with which to pay, well, anything, much less 'extra,'" Fleet answers as Scrapper crawls around him, checking liquid levels and such. "Otherwise, I will certainly tend to your recommendations as I can." Cyclonus taps a few points into his datapad. "Approved Catechism. However such a journey would consume a large amount of fuel, I will require a larger prize than simply a flight log." He lifts his head slightly to look directly at Catechism. "Also given recent successes I will approve your request to search for Vector Sigma, but I WANT to see some results. Understand?" Ramjet leans in to mutter something to Dirge. Ramjet mutters to Dirge, "... get the... nail... only... hammer..." "Well I'll just put it on your tab," Scrapper replies, jotting down some notes on a datapad. "Now in your case given your unique coolant situation you should probably consider the deluxe model of coolant valve that we came out with while you were... er... not here. It's a moderate price hike but you'll find it'll last a lot longer." Catechism holds out her hands and bows, "I understand perfectly, sir." Her head is on a chopping block if she fails. Her head is also on a chopping block if she succeeds but she succeeds in such a way that she displeases Cyclonus, such as succeeding but also unleashing a horrific evil upon the world. She glances over at Scrapper and Fleet, and she commands, "Put it on my expense account. I need Fleet *healthy* in order to serve as a guide." That's right. Back to Hell, boy. Dirge mutters to Ramjet, "... -not-." Ramjet mutters to Dirge, "... you..." Dirge glares at Ramjet and mutters flatly. "As you recommend, Scrapper," Fleet answers, tone both weary and patient at the same time. Then Catechism offers to pay. Hoorah! But that's because he has to go back. Boo! Fleet snorts. "Why all the interest in that pit of a planet?" Dirge mutters to Ramjet, "... unbridled... Empire..." "Mmm." Cyclonus taps a few things into his pad. "Now, is there anything else of note you found on that planet Catechism? Because if down the line, I am sitting in my office and find that I am surprised by new facts coming to light, you will discover that I do not LIKE surprises." "Done and done," Scrapper replies to Catechism, adding this to the datapad. "Ok so we have a radiator and engine flush along with the deluxe coolant valve. Since Catechism is paying the bills here I think you should also go for the wax and wash job as well. Might as well look your best in order to strike fear into the fuel pumps of the Autobots, right?" Because Catechism is going to talk to an outcast renegade of a mad scientist about obtaining plans for a dimensional breacher, and she would very much like to detonate it on 'that pit of a planet'. She claps her hands together and replies, "Oh, yes! We met a native. Old and doddering, quite mad, but... he spoke Cybertronian. She glances over at Fleet and inquires, "Did you teach the natives?" "I'm... really more interested in the fact that a clean jet flies better, sir," Fleet answers Scrapper, "but there are good aerodynamic reasons for that, anyway." Reasons that people who turn into, say, flying payloaders don't typically have to concern themselves with. Oh, and then Catechism asks him a question. "I did not," the Seeker answers. "They were babbling their doomsdays prophesies in our language from the moment I woke up on that hell-hole." "Maybe after we've sorted out this mess." Ramjet glares at Dirge. The corner of Dirge's mouth twitches. "Perhaps." "Sure, sure, aerodynamic," Scrapper replies. "I'll mark you down for a 'yes'. Can I interest you in our anti-Cosmic Rust treatment?" Cyclonus looms closer to Catechism. "Perhaps, Catechism, this would be the sort of thing you would consider of informing me /immediately/. How did he speak Cybertronian, what did he reveal, who was he, the questions are endless." He turns to look at Ramjet. "Investigation of this world has taken higher priority Ramjet. It will be done by next week or your cone will serve as my ink pot." Ramjet points at the nearby bulletin terminal. "I've already begun calling for volunteers for the expedition, ahead of my overzealous Executrix, Cyclonus." Full-Tilt has arrived. Catechism has no sense of priorities, apparently. Or perhaps she was (badly) trying to keep that low-key. Still, it is better to assume stupidity than malice, is it not? She was struck from the same mould as Thrust, after all. She replies, "I will keep that in mind in the future, my Lord." And ah, but she has *objectives*. Ramjet just wants to explore. "He said, 'So you have returned, as we feared! I was right, I am always right... he is coming back....' 'Here on Alkor Zephyr the gateway to the Fifth was opened' and also 'And your master... I am glad I will not live to see the day...'" "Ah!" Cyclonus responds. "So. We have a name for this world. Not Blueshiftia. I want you to liaise with Soundwave and get an /accurate/ record together with context of the statements, and report on it." He slowly strokes his chin, his face betraying not even a subtle twitch as he thinks. Catechism suddenly has a bad thought. She thought Fleet was dead. What if he *is*? The guy used to be a zombie, after all, and if the gateway to the Fifth was opened there... She briefly grimaces as the idea hits her. Note to self: carry a sharp stake of ironwood around when in the company of Fleet. Also garlic-flavoured energon that has been blessed by a Xalite priest - is Ramjet ordained? She rubs the back of her head and mumbles, "I guess the planet is named Alkor Zephyr, sir." More loudly and definitely more cheerily, she says, "Work with Soundwave? Certainly, sir! His super-hearing must have gotten everything!" Who's that handsome robot over there? No, not that one. /That/ one. The purple one with the visor. "Could've been a warrior," Full-Tilt grumbles, stalking around with a tray of drinks. "Could've done something with my life, but nooo, you'll be an emissary! You're going to be SO important, Full-Tilt! Ass.." Cyclonus reaches out for a drink idly from the tray as Full-Tilt passes. "Humour me, Catechism. /Humour me/" he simply responds. "Two heads are better than one, after all." Or, of course, he just doesn't trust Soundwave at all. Fleet was apparently spacing out, because he completely missed that Scrapper asked him something. He mentally rewinds. "Wait, what? I thought that treatment was standard? Or have things changed?" Catechism asks Ramjet, with a slight nervous twinge in her voice, "Hey Ramjet, Air Commander, sir? Are you, by any chance... an ordained Xalite priest? I'm just taking a survey. I mean, you seem really into that whole religion thing, and that's cool. I support diversity in our troops." She's atheist, for the record. Catechism agrees, "Of course, sir, but the last stand-up around here..." Full-Tilt begins to balance the tray on his head, completely oblivious to any importance the current conversation has. What does he care? He wasn't there. Scrapper glances over as Full-Tilt makes an appearance. "Ah, there he is. Our most recent Constructicon-built mech." Pause. "I think..." He shakes his head. He never really did find out if he played any part in that or not. He refocuses back on Fleet. "Well sure, it's standard if you get the full treatment package. That includes the deluxe coolant valve, which you're already getting, the wash and wax, the engine and radiator flush, the advanced anti-Cosmic Rust treatment, /and/ a full engine tune-up. Shall I just go ahead and sign you up for that?" he asks. "Ehm. Sure," Fleet answers. After all, Catechism's footing the bill. Besides, he hasn't had a proper tune-up in over two years. He's a bit overdue. Dirge's optics flicker as he looks at Catechism. "Those gods are dead, Seeker. What use is the priest of a dead god?" Catechism never uses her generous expense account, anyway. Some people buy thrones. Some buy spaceships. She is after something that cannot be bought. In the meantime, making sure that her guide is healthy is a reasonable use of her funds. She asks Dirge, "Well, are *you* a priest, by any chance?" "Catechism!" Cyclonus barks as he holds his drink firmly in his hand. "Cease this pointless questioning and begin work on providing me with my report. Galvatron grows impatient!" Dirge inclines his head slightly. "I minister to the souls of the damned. I do not save them." Catechism sighs at Dirge's reply. Then, she bows to Cyclonus and replies, "At once, my Lord." That said, she marches out. Talking to Fleet will wait for later. Catechism has left. Scrapper marks Fleet down for the full treatment package, "Excellent choice, Fleet," he compliments. Setting the datapad aside, Scrapper heads back over to the front end of the tetrajet, where the front panel is still open. Looking in, Scrapper replaces the shot coolant valve with a brand new deluxe model, tossing the old one to a trash bin on the far side of the maintenance bay like a basketball player. Full-Tilt holds his tray high above his head, "Cyclonus, sir, care for another refreshment? You must get thirsty from being so /great/ all the time." Ramjet has disconnected. "Yes, yes I think I will..." Cyclonus mutters, seemingly distracted by something. "Full-Tilt, I will require an update on the scouting for Trypticon. And please arrange Fleet to meet with me. Privately. To discuss his little... adventures." Cyclonus finishes the drink in his hand, slowly sipping. "He is coming back..." he mutters. "I wonder..." "Hn, well, what can I say? There's a lot of space for Trypticon to stomp around and blow stuff up. Oh! Oh! Wait!" Full-Tilt pulls his clipboard out from..somewhere and waves it around. "I have put together an official shit list for Trypticon!" The clipboard has only two names on it: Blurr, and Impulse. Despite Fleet's outward appearances as a standard Seeker, a number of his internal systems, most notably his coolant system but also several others, have been repaired or modified with technology that's somewhat alien in nature, though still compatable with the tetrajet's Cybertronian systems. These changes would probably stand out to Scrapper as he does his work. For his own part, Fleet holds still, letting the Engineer do his work, although he still listens to the conversation going on elsewhere in medical. So he has to meet with Catechism *and* Cyclonus. However, Cyclonus didn't address Fleet directly, so Fleet does not answer. Scrapper doesn't seem to have any difficulty with Fleet's extensively modified systems. After nodding his own approval for the terrific basketball shot he made, he returns to topping up Fleet's oil and hooking him up to the radiator & engine flush machine. The machine is about the size of a Transformer-appropriate briefcase and once it's turned on, it makes a loud humming noise. The machine is connected to Fleet via a series of tubing that hooks up to something behind the Seeker's front panel. "Who's on that?" Scrapper asks, unable to see the s--- list from here. Dirge's dim gaze passes across all those present, then he heads for the door. Now that he's no longer required to be in the medbay for medical purposes, he's out. Cyclonus stalks out of the room, ignoring Full-Tilt for the moment like the menial admin assistant he is. He has Things to do! Full-Tilt shoves his tray at a random gumby and walks over to stand behind Scrapper like an annoying, unqualified nurse. "Well, let me tell you" he says, waving his clipboard around in the air, "TWO of the most ANNOYING Autobots to ever make the mistake of messing with ME! Blurr and, uh." He squints. "Impulse." Scrapper turns around to fetch something and almost runs right into Full-Tilt. "Ahem, if you could just move an astrometre or two to the right..." he says, stepping around the Trypticon emissary in order to get what he needs. "Blurr and Impulse? Come on, Full-Tilt! Set the bar a little higher. This is /Trypticon/ we're talking about!" Dirge leaves to the Main Hallway to the west. Dirge has left. Fleet is just kind of quietly getting repaired. He really has nothing to contribute, at the moment, being a bit out of date as far as the happenings of the Empire goes. "Well, it's still in progress!" Full-Tilt whines, stepping to the side just a bit. "These are just the appetizers, you know? Give him something to get his appetite going." He doesn't say anything about how he got the crap beat out of him by either one of them. "It'll get longer, I swear!" "I'm sure," Scrapper replies. He doesn't ask how Full-Tilt got the crap kicked out of him by either of them. He knows how crap gets kicked out of people already. Returning to Fleet, Scrapper checks the progress on the radiator and engine flush even as he tunes Fleet's engine. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. As he works, he asks Full-Tilt, "So, any problems with your recent construction? All systems nominal?" Fleet gets his engine tuned. Hawt! "Huh?" Full-Tilt looks up from his clipboard which he's been drawing all over. There's a doodle of Cyclonus holding hands with Galvatron, and one of Ramjet with an arrow through his cone. "Oh, uh, yeah, everythings fine." "Good good," Scrapper unhooks the radiator & engine flushing machine and pushes it aside. He closes Fleet's front panel and picks up a washer/waxer 2-in-1 sprayer, going over Fleet's entire form as he walks around him. Full-Tilt plays back seat driver for now. "You missed a spot." Scrapper goes over that spot a few more times, hiding his annoyance at Full-Tilt. This is how Soundwave probably feels, Scrapper thinks. Fleet gets increasingly clean and shiny as time passes! However, he still doesn't seem interested in starting up conversation. That spot feels nice, though. Full-Tilt crosses his arms, "Now it's too shiny.." Scrapper's optical visor squints. Urge to kill... rising! He shoots Full-Tilt a look even as he goes back around Fleet, "It's just fine," he says in a stern voice. "The shiny-factor is right where it should be." "Fine, don't blame me when he gets all shot up because the Autobots can see his SHINE coming a mile away," Full-Tilt says, shrugging. "Oh, I can probably find some way to hide it, I'm sure," Fleet answers. "Besides, that stuff never lasts long." "It is well worth the price for how long it lasts," Scrapper assures everyone. "And it comes with an anti-glint assurance. If you get killed because of an Autobot spotting the shine, you get a full refund." Turning off the sprayer, Scrapper gives another walkaround Fleet, making sure that the newly renovated and cleaned up Seeker looks perfect. Wait... something is missing. Scrapper plucks something out of a toolbox and walks back to the Decepticon. Opening up Fleet's 'cockpit', he hangs a little Decepticon insignia shaped air freshener along with a sticker that will remind Fleet when he next needs to come in for maintenance. "Perfect!" Scrapper exclaims. Full-Tilt stares at the air freshener with a look of pure envy, "Hey, I want one of those." "I'm sure Catechism will be thrilled to hear about the refund guarentee," Fleet says dryly. "If we're done, may I transform, sir?" Scrapper idly wipes his hands off with a rag, "Yep, you're all done, Fleet. You're as good as new." Tsking at Full-Tilt's words, Scrapper shrugs, "Well you're not due for maintenance for quite some time, so you're just going to have to wait." Full-Tilt snorts, automatically assuming Scrapper is holding out on him because he's purple. Racist. Er, colorist? Jerk. "Yeah, whatever.." Fleet transforms and stands. He turns towards Scrapper and inclines his head in a nod low enough that it almost borders on a bow. "Thank you, sir. Your work is exemplary, as usual." Then he turns to look at Full-tilt, and tilts his own head slightly to the right. "I do not believe I've met you yet. I am Fleet, standard Seeker." Full-Tilt has already gone back to drawing unflattering charicatures of his superiors. "Huh? Oh!" He tucks his clipboard and purple sharpie away, "I'm Full-Tilt, most important Decepticon. Ever." "No problem," Scrapper replies to Fleet. He tosses the rag on a nearby workbench and begins putting his tools away. He snorts at Full-Tilt's description of himself but doesn't bother arguing against it. "Ah," answers Fleet politely, deciding to interpret Full-Tilt's statement to mean, 'I'm not going to live for very long.' "That's interesting," he adds, smiling faintly and pleasantly. "It IS interesting!" Full-Tilt quips, pointing at himself with a thumb. "I'M interesting! I'm, like, Trypticon's second in command or something. I think." Yeah, he's not going to live very long at all. "You're the guy we use to talk to Trypticon in such a way that the big guy will understand and, hopefully, actually do what is required of him," Scrapper corrects. "I wouldn't go so far as to call that Trypticon's second in command." Fleet looks quietly at Full-Tilt. Then he looks at Scrapper. Then he looks at Full-Tilt. Then he gives a single, sharp nod of his head. "Ah, got it," he says. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Scrapper would roll his optics if his optical visor was capable of doing so. But he doesn't so instead he concentrates on his work. Scrapper has left.
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