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| - The entire arena is filled with heaving, turgid cloudbanks. The salmon colored miasma is distinctly chilly, with bolts of lightning flickering between the dense columns of clouds. Fusillade is there, her frame and armor looking completely intact after the scuffle with the Aerialbots. The scenery scrolls past rapidly, the bomber appearing to be on the aerial equivalent of a treadmill. Embarrassed after being so thoroughly housed by Air Raid and Skydive, Artifice has decided to come to the training area and spar with Killpuncher. Seeing the clouds, the lightning, and, of course, the Lancer, he stares gape-mouthed. "Am...am I interrupting?" A tremendous wall of air, too large in scale to be called a gust, slams into the Lancer and can even be felt at the edges of the holographic simulator. The cyan plumes of her thrust-vectoring engines fan out wide. The uncontrolled tumble becomes a flat spin, before she slides back into her starting position. "Ah, you're awake," Fusillade answers, her thirty-six foot wide tailfins still pointed in Artifice's direction. "You're not going to be able to pound on that ridiculous drone, if that's what you came here to do." A brilliant flash reflects off her gloss white underbelly, leaving afterimages on optics. Seconds later, a sharp crack of thunder reverbs throughout the room. Artifice doubles over, hands clapped over his audials. After that thunderclap, his entire cranium feels like it's vibrating. He can hear nothing but a high ringing tone for several astroseconds. He shouts. "Should I leave?" "NAW!" Fusillade bellows over the racket. She flips over her pitch axis, catching a tailwind and suddenly surging toward the exit -- and Artifice! At the last moment, she transforms, and lands with a clatter and skid beside him. She frowns a bit as she looks over his paint job, and shakes her head. "No wonder you got beat up. You don't think anything about yourself. Seriously, settling for mud brown? Tch, how'd THAT happen?!" Did this just turn into an inquisition by the fashion police? She jabs a few commands, ending the gas giant simulation away. 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. Artifice shakes his head as the ringing finally dissipates. He steps aside, flinching as Fusillade seems to be headed right at him. "Whatta you mean? I LIKE brown." He looks himself over. Then he looks at Fusillade with an incredulous expression. "You really think it looks bad, huh?" "WELL, if you like it, at least make it a passionate shade of the color," Fusillade sneers. "I know that white and grey aren't much to write home about, but..." She holds up an arm right under his nose, practically shoving her limb in his face, "What you see is a high-gloss multi-dimensional tone called HEMATITE. If you want brown, make it rich and deep, not something that looks dusty and kinda sad. I mean you're SLOUCHING for crying out loud. I like the brass though. I think that a darker, more intense brown would look nice with it. I would have preferred like, brick red but I understand if you don't wanna look like Thrust." Artifice just stares, one brow ridge cocked, his hands on his hips, not understanding. Why is he sticking around? He doesn't need to stand here and be degraded because of his choice of paint. Then again, Fusi might have a point. "Hmm," he says, "You know, I DO like your paint job, for what it's worth. Mine? Well, I don't really like to be noticed. Not that...you DO. I mean. If you don't. But, uh..." He finds himself stammering. "I wouldn't mind wearing some of that hematite." "You coming onto me? Braver than you look." Artifice says, "Uh...I..no. Sorry." A rich laugh escapes Fusillade, not very pleasant. "Well don't just copy. Hmm. Let's see..." She peers at him, before finger snapping. "SEPIA! And replace some of those silvery and brass fittings with.... COPPER! YEAHHHHHHHH! That'll pop nicely, give you a little bit of confidence without making you look totally ridiculous." She begins walking in small circles, holding out arms like she was pretending to fly. "SO. About this ambush a few days ago..." Sepia? Arti isn't quite sure he even knows what that is. He never gave much thought to his color scheme, to tell the truth. He simply stepped into a paint booth and selected the first color scheme option. He's very uncomfortable being scrutizined; he tries hard not to stare back lest Fusillade get the wrong idea and wallop him. He stands perfectly still as she circles. "Yeah? The ambush? What about it?" Air aspirates quite loudly from Fusillade's exasperation. "LOOK. Just do it, sepia primary, copper secondary, for your color scheme. So, what are some of the things that you are good at? What are some of the things you've done in battle that you've LIKED? I really don't have a feel for who you are or what you do, so... is AIR WARRIOR really the best fit for you? I'm guessing /NO/ after your little adventure down on the Nile delta." Artifice matches Fusillade's huff with one of his own. "My function is analyst," he clarifies, "not warrior." He frowns mightily, white stress lines appearing on the malleable metal of his faceplate. "What I'm good at is...is managment. Delegating. I'm not a number cruncher or a...a tactician, so to speak. I'm a manager. You know...a team leader. That's what I like to do." "BWAHAHAHAHHA!" Fusillade breaks out into raucous laughter at Artifice's assertation that he likes leading and delegating. "AHEM. Yes. Well, that... definitely isn't the main fuction of most in Aerospace's ranks." She continues pacing, looking thoughtful, before an idea strikes her, and she breaks out into a leering grin. "ACTUALLY, it reminds me a lot of a couple of other guys I've known in the past. Scouting, advanced recon. You mark the targets, and others come in and more effectively shoot things, while you get to sip on a drink with a little umbrella in it. Which means that you will need to be taught how to do such things. It actually won't be too much different than what happened to you in Egypt, except that you don't get DESTROYED before the reinforcements show up, yannow?" Artifice glares as Fusillade. Why do the all the femmes laugh at him? Is it the brown? He looks down at the floor and crosses his arms. "It's not THAT funny. I'm just not a warhorse, ya know? Like you said, I mark targets and feed others information. That's why I got rolled...I was by myself against two aerialbots." Fusillade rolls shoulders diffidently, and mmphs to herself. "Okay, so how do you actually DO that then?" You say, "Your scouting work?" Artifice allows himself a smirk at this jest. "Well it's not exactly a unique ability. Half of the time, I get into a battle alongside Decepticons who can do the same thing - only BETTER. The other half of the time I get in scuffles one on one and get trounced. I'm..." he sighs, embarrassed, "not so good one on one." Oh, sweet screaming oblivion. He has to fight to keep from slapping himself in the face after that one. He tries to save himself. "Fighting I mean. Ya know." Fusillade's left hand whips out, snapping fingers in front of Artifice's face. "Yer not listening to me. I didn't ask how GOOD you were at it, I asked HOW do you actually go about doing it? The scouting and analyzing? Do you make good use of your terrain? Do you evade? Do you know when to flee?! Didn't ANYONE talk to you about ANY of this?" Artifice starts. "Well that's why I'm in this training program," he dares to raise his voice, "right?" His expression turns sulky. He wants nothing more now than to melt into the floor. "I watch the way my opponents move, how they tend to cover themselves when block. I have a database of armor types and chassis classes that is a little bit of help in determining where opponents' weak spots are. Hey, I'm not saying my methods are great or anything." "WELL GOOD!!!" Fusillade yells, pinwheeling arms in the air as she gets into the second shouting match of the past decacycle. "You know about them, but do you know about YOU? What you need to do while out there to keep Autogoons from using you as a punching bag?" Artifice shrinks. It certainly wasn't his intention to start a shouting match...especially not with Fusillade! Before he can retort, the shapely femme is flouncing away to be serviced. Artifice stands in the training room alone, having been given a lot to mull over. He briefly considers beginning a training simluation, but decides against it. He's too distracted right now...there IS, however a sumlation of a kind in his future. He heads back to the barracks, hunching and dragging his feet.
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