Redshift is sitting on a medical table, while spidery mechanical limbs roam over his increasingly painted frame. Sprayers apply layer after layer of glossy red paint, along with black enamels and gold accents. There's little Redshift likes more than being preened, and it /has/ been a long time since his frame received proper maintenance. "So uh... how's d they beat you if they were made outta gas?" Fusillade gets distracted. "Ramjet's back to stirring the pot again, so there will be plenty for you to do, command or no," she smirks.