Log - Bombshell and Blast Off
In which Blast Off seeks medical attention in the Nemesis medbay...
Blast Off: *hobbles around in the hallways angrily, fully prepared to shoot any triplechangers spotted on sight. His knee is starting to really hurt now, even with most of the sensors surrounding it turned off. Growling, he starts to head for the first medbay he can think of*
Bombshell: *is himself on the move, scuttling in his weevil form and hissing curses aimed at Hook's competence, ego, and authority. He's quickly back in the area of the Nemesis medbay, though, grumbling about MIGHTY Megatron having half his processors offline*
Blast Off: *would be stomping if he had the full use of both his legs, moving into the Nemesis medbay, glaring at anything that moves - not that he has seen that many mechs on his way here. Spotting a bug puttering around, he limps closer, looming over the - probably - medic.*
Bombshell: *continues his angry chittering as he transforms, focusing on his worktable as he unlocks a cabinet and starts pulling out eggs the color of red amber. It's only when he notices the faint shadow from the light fixtures overhead that he whirls around, hissing*
Bombshell: WHAT DO YOU WANT.
Blast Off: *engine makes a low growling sound at that tone. Frag, but he hated medics.* I need a medic. *sour tone, glaring at the little bug*
Bombshell: Oh, do you? *leers at the shuttle for a moment, before glancing down over him and at that knee with a few clicking sounds from his jaw* Mmm. You do.
Blast Off: *still glaring, though not as angrily anymore* Something's snapped in my left shoulder as well.
Bombshell: Sit down on a table, then. *tucks the eggs back away quickly, relocking the cabinet* Were you involved in that ruckus from before, or did you find some inventive NEW way to injure yourself?
Blast Off: *sits down on the table in question with a grunt* I do not hurt myself. *narrows optics*
Bombshell: Yes, well, I've come to grasp that just about every bit of damage sustained around here was caused by SOMETHING particularly idiotic.
Blast Off: *lifts an optic ridge* Or someone. *glares at something not there, obviously going through memories in his mind*
Bombshell: I'm sure. How about you lie back and let the good doctor see what's wrong? *collects some rather invasive-looking instruments, setting them down on the workbench next to the table*
Blast Off: *eyes the instruments with a glare, frag, he didn't even care anymore, he just wants to go back to space.* Fine.*lies down, albeit a tad reluctantly*
Bombshell: *takes a prying bar in hand and reaches over to Blast Off's knee for a moment, about to start peeling when he suddenly straightens up again*
Bombshell: ...this is ridiculous.
Blast Off: *blank stare*
Bombshell: I am so NOT INTO THIS.
Blast Off: So?
Blast Off: Just fix it.
Bombshell: SO!?
Bombshell: This is exactly the problem I'm TALKING about with you half-grade simpletons.
Blast Off: *grunts* Just fix it, will you?
Bombshell: You have no appreciation for my craft, you have no patience even to learn what's wrong!
Bombshell: You just saunter on in here and demand MY valuable time when something needs to be fixed! No, you don't even come HERE anymore, you demand me to go under that moron HOOK!
Blast Off: *rolls his optics, getting annoyed now* You're a medic, aren't you?
Blast Off: That is what medics do.
Bombshell: A medic. Mmm.
Bombshell: Excuse me, one moment.
Bombshell: *walks over to storage, pulls out a small little handheld device, and heads back over with a blank expression*
Blast Off: *watches the cretin get something, eyeing whatever it is he's holding in his hand*
Bombshell: *leans up over Blast Off''s face, staring down with a clinical calmness* Do you have any history of adverse reactions to neuro-circuitry based painkillers?
Blast Off: *optics narrow* No.
Bombshell: Excellent. *moves quick as lightning, slamming the pointed tip of the instrument down right between Blast Off's optics to administer a brutal, paralyzing shock*
Blast Off: *has no chance of avoiding it, yelling as his entire body go slack, it soon turning into a roar of rage*
Blast Off: What the FRAG did you just DO?!
Bombshell: Shorted out all the connectors in your motor processing complex. It's very reparable.
Bombshell: Very difficult for a medic, but not so much for an ELECTRICAL ENGINEER.
Blast Off: *snarls* Then REPAIR it!
Bombshell: *falls into a hideous, shrieking voice, his optics flashing violently*
Bombshell: WHEN I'M GOOD AND READY, YOU PATHETIC TWO-BIT BARBARIAN!
Blast Off: *growls furiously, engine roaring with fury*
Bombshell: I am a skilled and disciplined professional! There is NO Cybertronian alive capable of what I am, and I should KNOW, because the last competitor I killed and ATE!
Bombshell: You idiots should be GROVELING for my services, and instead you stomp into my medbay and MUSCLE me around!
Blast Off: Maybe if you weren't such a pathetic little CREEP they wouldn't HAVE to!
Bombshell: *twitch*
Blast Off: *ferocious glare*
Blast Off: Now fix me.
Bombshell: *calms himself for a moment*
Bombshell: On most days, I love all my fellow Decepticons so dearly.
Blast Off: *opticroll*
Bombshell: But today, well, let me explain your situation.
Blast Off: *is more or less seething in anger, but keeps his mouth shut for once*
Bombshell: I am NOT going to fix you. I am not going to repair your KNEE, or your SHOULDER, or any other pathetically unoptimized part of your system...
Bombshell: ...instead, I am going to open up your head, disassemble ever processor in your skull related to motor functions and give them an ACID BATH in front of your optics...
Bombshell: ...before I pull THOSE out as well, so I have somewhere to store my WEEVILSPAWN while they GESTATE, until they can devour you piece by piece until you're no longer capable of SCREAMING!
Bombshell: UNLESS.
Bombshell: I HEAR.
Bombshell: A LITTLE APPRECIATION!
Blast Off: *still growling, but he doesn't make any comments*
Bombshell: *lowers himself to snarl directly in Blast Off's audio receptor* NOW.
Blast Off: *grinds the words out* Could you please repair my knee?
Bombshell: Oh, of course, my pleasure. *zips back down to the knee, chittering pleasantly as he slips the prying bar in and starts loosening plate connections to give himself some access*
Blast Off: *motor is making a quite unhappy sound, but he doesn't voice any complains he might've had*
Bombshell: *slips a little-rod like instrument with a camera tip into the joint once he has space, one of his optics going offline as he takes in the feed from it* Now that we're being courteous, would you care to explain how you obtained this injury?
Blast Off: *muttering* I got ambushed. *still sounds angry*
Bombshell: Yes, I'm well-acquainted with the type of ambush that damages interior cabling through applied stress. *is dripping with even more sarcasm than usual*
Blast Off: *exasperated opticroll, he has no interest in listening to this crazy mech's experiences* I am sure you do.
Blast Off: *That was pretty sarcastic too, yes.*
Bombshell: *looks up from the knee, then crawls up onto the table, hissing dangerously* You know, you should be very careful making insinuating statements with a badly damaged optic.
Blast Off: *merely glares back*
Bombshell: *SLAMS the non-camera end of his peering instrument into Blast Off's right optic, hard enough to fracture the lens*
Blast Off: *yells in pain and anger, wishing he could wringe that cretins neck hard enough to snap his head straight off*
Bombshell: -I- AM THE COMPASSIONATE MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL HERE!
Bombshell: I want my questions ANSWERED, and not grudgingly.
Blast Off: *one opticked glare*
Bombshell: All I want to know is how you injured yourself.
Bombshell: Is that too complicated? Should I speak in simpler words?
Bombshell: HOW. YOU. HURT.
Blast Off: *snarls the words out* I was tortured.
Bombshell: ...I am sorry to hear it.
Blast Off: *sneers*
Blast Off: I'm sure you are.
Bombshell: That sounds like the tone of a blind mech.
Bombshell: Surely I'm mistaken.
Blast Off: *Is all but glaring daggers at the insecticon now, the first optic flooded his system with enough pain to barr any want for more*
Bombshell: Oh good, perhaps I heard wrong. *gives his shoulder coverings the same treatment as the knee joint, spreading and then poking in to investigate*
Blast Off: *Is keeping quiet, albeit it's forced at times.*
Bombshell: ...torture, again? This is a rather inelegant form of it, it just looks like the joint was strained until some of the mechanisms fractured.
Blast Off: Yes. *manages to avoid the answer being snappy*
Bombshell: *sits back on Blast Off's chest with a drawn out sigh, toying with the prying rod between his fingers as he stares off into the distance* Blast Off, right? What do you want in life?
Blast Off: ...go back to space.
Bombshell: Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what do you DO there that's worthwhile?
Blast Off: What I do?
Bombshell: *turns with a rather pointed look, his beetle legs clacking against each other for a moment* Yes, what you DO. Keep in mind that I'm perfectly capable of delving into your processors and TAKING the information I want, so a hasty reply is a good motivation for me not to.
Blast Off: I watch Earth.
Blast Off: Hack this internet the humans have, wreaking general havoc...
Blast Off: It's space, what do you think I do?
Bombshell: ...I was hoping there would be a constructive accomplishment somewhere on that list.
Blast Off: *pointed silence*
Bombshell: You've obviously let yourself be victimized in this pathetic arrangement, and for what?
Blast Off: *stares at the medic, lifting an optic ridge as if to say "for what indeed"*
Bombshell: I find myself in a very similar position.
Blast Off: Really. *flatly*
Bombshell: Yes. Really. I can't even have the satisfaction of seeing how much pain input I can flood along your nerve circuitry before your processors start to malfunction, because someone else has already apparently DONE that.
Blast Off: What a shame.
Bombshell: Indeed. *has lost all traces of sarcasm from his voice by this point*
Bombshell: Sure, there's my technical work - what little of it I can squeeze in around demanding warmongers like yourself.
Blast Off: *snorts*
Bombshell: There's Kickback and Shrapnel, but I'm even starting to spend less time with them, in lieu of that... AUTOBOT.
Bombshell: *shudders*
Blast Off: *notices that reaction* What Autobot?
Bombshell: AN Autobot. Does it honestly matter to you?
Blast Off: What if it does?
Blast Off: I spend most of my time observing what goes on planetside, I may have some information.
Bombshell: *narrows his optics to a very, very fine line* ...what "information" could you possibly be peddling that would interest me?
Blast Off: I can track said Autobot and send you whatever I find.
Bombshell: . . .
Blast Off: Well?
Bombshell: Is it standard practice for you to offer to spy for infatuated Decepticons, or is this being offered because we've come so CLOSE? *theeere's that sarcasm again*
Blast Off: I'm just showing you my appreciation.
Bombshell: Then how can I properly show you my thanks, Blast Off? Because, after all, fixing you is just the basic expectation inherent in my job description.
Blast Off: *eyeing the medic intently, a plan slowly forming in his mind* You could owe me a favor.
Bombshell: I don't do favors without the details UPFRONT. *shifts forward, leaning in low to press his face right up against the shuttle's still-functioning optic*
Blast Off: *stares levellely with his one good optic into the creep's face*
Bombshell: In the mood to elucidate?
Blast Off: What if I'm not?
Bombshell: *slams a fist on Blast Off's injured shoulder* Then this repair job could take a long, long time.
Blast Off: *face remains stoic, even if that made his shoulder hurt like a fragging glitch*
Blast Off: I have time.
Blast Off: Do you have enough information?
Blast Off: *calm, oh-so calm voice*
Bombshell: *tilts back at that, letting out a low, ANGRY hiss*
Bombshell: ...maybe not.
Blast Off: ...well? *getting impatient*
Bombshell: ...I need insurance.
Blast Off: What kind of insurance?
Bombshell: *reaches into his chest compartment, FAR back, and pulls out a circular chip so small it rests delicately on his fingertip*
Blast Off: *eyes it warily*
Bombshell: How about it then?
Blast Off: What is it? *about the chip*
Bombshell: Unknown insurance, for your unknown favor.
Blast Off: Hn.
Bombshell: Of course, if you care to shed some light, it won't be necessary...
Blast Off: The details may change.
Bombshell: Then I must insist. *cradles the chip between his index finger and thumb, chittering faintly*
Blast Off: ...
Blast Off: *eyes both the chip and the bug*
Blast Off: And when the favor is called in?
Bombshell: Then you won't even know it was in there.
Blast Off: ...very well.
Bombshell: *nods once, then begins his work with a delicacy so elaborate it's almost farcical. He slowly disengages the fractured right optical lens, murmuring as he sees Blast Off's inner optical components*
Blast Off: *watches the other's movements closely with his optic, wondering if he's just made a bad deal or not*
Bombshell: *suddenly twitches for a moment, then again with a muffled noise, and then finally he can't restrain it - a little giggle of delight as he caaaaarefully manuevers the cerebro-shell down through the mess of components to the circuitry below*
Blast Off: *Well, there's no way out now. Frowns as the medic places the chip inside his skull, not enjoying the feeling very much*
Bombshell: *lets out a soft vent of air as he CLICKS the chip into place at a connection junction between a major processor and a memory cluster, then whips himself upright, standing up on Blast Off's chest with a shout of joy*
Bombshell: o/` OH OH OH, woke up today! Feeling the way - that I aaaaaaalways dooooo! o/`
Bombshell: o/` OH OH OH, hungry for something that Iii can't eat - then I HEAR THAT BEAT! o/`
Bombshell: o/` That electric sound, keeps calling me down - it's like a message from hiiiiiigh aboooooove! o/`
Blast Off: *No, he did not like the feeling at all. He glares at the creep as it starts singing* Shut up, will you.
Bombshell: *just gets louder to shout over him* o/` Oh oh oh, pulling me out to the NEURO-CIRCUI-TRY that I LOVE! o/`
Blast Off: *engine growls, carrying the vibrations through his chassis, making him rattle softly against the table*
Bombshell: o/` Goodbye to sooooooocial mores! Every day's like an OOOOOPEN DOOOOOR! Every night is a fantasy! Every scream like a symphony! o/`
Blast Off: *yells, he's had enough already* SHUT UP!
Bombshell: Fine, fine. I'll just DANCE. *does so with a gusto, wiggling his derriere towards Blast Off's face*
Blast Off: *groans, but starts yelling obscenities as the bug squirms towards his face*
Bombshell: You're the GREATEST, Blast Off! You remind me why I put UP with all of this!
Bombshell: *transforms to weevil mode, wrapping his legs around Blast Off in a hug and SQUEALING his glee*
Blast Off: *roars with this undignity, entire frame shaking with the fury his motor is making*
Bombshell: *transforms again with a little coo* Settle down, settle down, I need to fix all this now.
Blast Off: You better.
Bombshell: *stays perched comfortably on Blast Off's chest, but gets to business, pressing his tools into the shoulder joint with a hum of contentment; his touch when he's as trying is as deft as he was bragging about. Despite little flurries of heat and pressure, it isn't nearly as painful as the sharp-pronged tools he works in make it look like it will be*
Blast Off: *doesn't wince or make any sounds, except for engine noises throughout the procedure. It was a lot more painful breaking it than fixing it.*
Bombshell: *goes into a tone of actual professionalism with surprising ease* The metal itself was strained enough that I can't guarantee its perfection. I've used low-level heat-based molding techniques to repair the damage, but if you have any problems, come to me and I'll replace the entire joint assembly.
Blast Off: Fine.
Bombshell: Mmm, that's the kind of tone I prefer to hear from the people I'm helping.
Blast Off: *just grumbles in reply*
Bombshell: *slips down over to the knee joint, giving it the same gentle treatment as he restores the damaged wiring to its original condition... although the way that one beetle leg is rubbing up against one of the fuel arteries leading to the thrusters is a little more than "gentle"*
Blast Off: *idles as the cretin fixes him up, and doesn't react till he feels something rubbing against one of his major fuel lines, sending little flares into his processor. He twitches, only he doesn't, and so he resorts to yelling instead* Stop that!
Bombshell: Hmm? Stop what? You should be quiet, this is sensitive work. *puts a little bit of emphasis on the word "sensitive," the claw at the line wrapping itself around the line as it keeps stroking up and down*
Blast Off: Stop that...stroking! *voice has a certain distressed quality to it as the "caress" goes on*
Bombshell: Well, how am I supposed to FIX you if I stop WORKING? *chitters with exasperation, forcing down a chuckle as he twitches the beetle leg against the tubing, the very tip of the claw pressing gingerly against it*
Blast Off: That isn't fixing! *Oh, what he wouldn't give to be able to give that fragger what he deserved...*
Bombshell: On the contrary, I'm restoring the plugs to their proper shape so that they can lock into their ports securely again. *gives a little electrical tingle from the utensil he's using to do just that, but the beetle leg is keeping up its slithery caress, wrapping even tighter*
Blast Off: *despite how much this is creeping him out, his sensor are rather enjoying it, streaming data to his systems. Blast Off, on the other hand, roars with renewed rage, swearing all deals are off and that creep is a walking dead*
Bombshell: Shhhh. Do you expect me to work in these conditions? *sounds rather bored as he continues work on both fronts, resocketing the newly fixed wires and abruptly clutching the beetly leg into a tender squeeze*
Blast Off: *does not shhh, but rather the opposite*
Bombshell: *suddenly gives one of the newly connected wires a gentle little pull, fondling it between his fingers. Doesn't stop the beetle leg from it's accelerating rubbing, though. He waits for a few moments* ...there's a wing assembly here, and this cable wasn't stressed by direct contact.
Blast Off: *some coherency is scraped up* You stay away from my wings.
Bombshell: It looks like one of them was warped, or at least very roughly treated... I need to inspect it, or else air resistance might cause the same damage again. Open your wing. *is slipping his massaging claw further and further along the fuel line's length, brushing up against the shuttle's heat insulation*
Blast Off: No. *almost hisses the answer, hating every single byte of information that flows into his processor*
Bombshell: Do you really want to have to come back to me soon...? If you insist on making me prove the necessity, I can jack directly into some of your data ports... *gives an anticipatory hiss as he says it, claw coiling tight around the object of its affection*
Blast Off: NO!
Bombshell: Then perhaps you should show me your wing, Blast Off. *looks at him directly, a coy expression on his face* Here, I'll restore some of your function so you can. *for a moment, it looks like he's getting up and is about to take his claw away from the fuel line it's molesting...*
Bombshell: *...until he just whistles, shrilly, and a chitter comes FROM THE CEILING. In seconds, a sort of miniature Bombshell in weevil mode has squirmed its way from behind a ceiling light fixture and buzzed down onto Blast Off's head*
Blast Off: *Does NOT want Bombshell anywhere near either of his wings, damaged or not. Relief wash over him as Bombshell retreats, only to yell - almost screaming - as the THING comes out of the ceiling and LANDS on him*
Bombshell: *little Bombshell makes a very high-pitched chitter, which Bombshell disturbingly echoes. The thing then transforms, a near-perfect replica except for its stubbier beetle legs. It immediately sinks its hands into Blast Off's exposed eye socket, fishing, and meanwhile, the real Bombshell's claw is still teasing that fuel line*
Blast Off: *keeps screaming, intakes whining as his temperatures rises, fighting with all he's got to get his body moving, anything - to no avail. As the thing starts digging into his skull - his SKULL for frag's sake! - it turns into a shriek, voicebox straining with the effort of maintaining the loud decibel level*
Bombshell: Stop complaining. Arkansas is just restoring some of the functions that the shock paralyzed. *"Arkansas" lets out a cheerful little giggle of pleasure as its little fingers get at Blast Off's processors, fiddling around in a way that feels disturbingly cavalier*
Blast Off: *doesn't show any signs of comprehending what Bombshell just said, still shrieking until his vocalizer finally gives in, flaring crackling static instead, almost as loud as the previous yell, still struggling to regain his lost motorfunctions*
Bombshell: *Arkansas lets out a happy chit-chit as it finds what it was looking for, disconnecting a cable from its connecting circuit and plugging it back in to restore motor function to Blast Off's lower body. It keeps its hands right where they are, though*
Blast Off: *finally, something is moving. He lashes out with his legs, ignoring any and all sensation coming from them, be it pain or pleasure. He wants that damn weevil off, and he wants him off now*
Bombshell: *yelps as he's knocked about, tugging HARD on the fuel line for a moment before a boot to the chest knocks him back off the table. In a moment, he's up and snarling:* Alabama, Connecticut, Colarado, California, Idaho! *and five more of the things come soaring out from behind the light fixture, flying around with an ominous buzzing*
Blast Off: *the agony shooting up his leg only fuels him on, the screech of static never silencing as he trashes about, the only coherent thought in his mind being get away*
Bombshell: *lets out a whistle, and suddenly all six of the gathered mini-Bombshells are in robot mode, three darting to each leg of Blast Off's and pinning. Their strength isn't exceptional, but they know just where to target on the legs to get the flailing under control*
Blast Off: *isn't giving in without a fair fight, jerking and kicking to get the little hellspawn off, every byte of processing power intent on that one task*
Bombshell: *covers his face with one hand, grumbling bitterly as Idaho and Alabama are sent flying off with squeals* Blast Off, you are ANNOYING me. Alaska, Hawaii, Arizona, Indiana, NORTH AND SOUTH DAKOTA! *and yet six more are flying out to join their brethren, until the buzzing sound is filling the whole room and their collective pinning strength becomes formidable*
Blast Off: *That sound is driving him straight to the edge of sanity, vocalizer crackling furiously before going offline, but he's still open mouthed, silently screaming. He twitches his legs, frantically trying to get them loose*
Bombshell: *stalks closer once he's confident that his drones have him pinned, leaning in over to get right up to Blast Off's face again* Let me make this simple for you. My babies are hungry. Show me your wing. Or I'll let them have a snack.
Blast Off: *snarls at the so-called medic, the word bitter and sour in his mind. He won't give up the fight for his legs, not quite getting what the insecticon is talking about*
Bombshell: *rolls his optics and lets out a deep, deep sigh* If you insist. Alabama. *the mentioned drone digs its face into the opening Bombshell had created before, sinking sharp little teeth into the fuel line that he had been stroking. The thing tears past the cable exterior with a gleeful squee, and starts sucking a flow Energon clean out of the shuttle's system*
Blast Off: *that sends his systems into a near-panic, giving him far more strength than he usually possesses, diagnostic warnings clogging up his processor. That thing is drinking his energon directly from the fuel line, and he can not. Get. Away*
Bombshell: *slams his own hands down onto Blast Off's leg to keep it flat, a cacophonous chitter coming from the entire group as they all turn their glowing optics as once towards Blast Off - Bombshell included* WING, Blast Off. Show me it, and this can all be over.
Blast Off: *putting all of his strength into it, he tries one last time to heave the hellspawn off, but is unable to get enough leverage to make it actually work. He calms down - or at least his legs do, his mind is still panicky and obeys the command, his dented wing sliding out of his leg with a loud whirr*
Bombshell: *all of the drones let out a collective giggle as the shuttle obeys; Arksansas scampers up over Blast Off's body to the optic socket again, zipping in to disable all those motor functions again by crudely ripping the connection out again* Was that so hard...?
Blast Off: *would have been shaking violently had he had the ability to. As it is, he stares up at the ceiling, optic wide while his mouth is still tensely open in a scream.*
Bombshell: *puts his hands soothingly on the now-exposed wing, clucking as he surveys the damage* See? This is exactly the sort of thing I'm here to help you w-ALABAMA STOP DRINKING HIM. *swats at the drone who was still nomming on the fuel line with one of his beetle legs, sending the whole load of them buzzing off the table and around the room*
Blast Off: *Doesn't respond, still staring at that ceiling like it's the only thing keeping him sane. Thoughts of his beloved space swirls in his processor, only wincing when he hears the buzz from the hellspawn.*
Bombshell: Idaho, YOU get to repair the line. The rest may go. *puts his tools to good, efficient use on the battered wing, softening and reshaping the metal into its appropriate shape while a drone prods a caulking-gun looking thing up against the torn tubing to patch it up. The others transform to weevil mode and fly back up to the ceiling, scuttling back behind the light fixture so fast it's almost hard to believe they were there at all*
Blast Off: *sharply tears his optic away as the mini-weevils appear in his field of vision, now staring glassily at the wall, engine rumbling its discontent as this whole situation.*
Bombshell: Simplicity itself. Your wing shouldn't give you or your system any trouble, now. *and the last one flies back to its hiding place as well when its work is done, but not before delivering its tool back to the workbench... and scampering up to Blast Off's face to give his cheek a little smooch*
Blast Off: *His vocalizer flickers on just long enough to give another screech of static before offlining, the kiss startling him out of his shell-shocked state. He glances wildly about, it turning to a glare as cold as space when his optic settles on the insecticon*
Bombshell: *takes the spread plates of his knee and eases them back into position, oh-so-careful and PROFESSIONAL as he restores Blast Off to perfect condition there. He moves up to the shoulder to do the same, but this time he doesn't even need to watch his hands as they work, choosing instead to flash Blast Off a warm smile*
Blast Off: *doesn't take his optic off of the creature, neither does it get warmer. He will remember this, painfully so, till he's gotten his revenge for this humiliation.*
Bombshell: *practically skips over to a supply box marked "glassware," hunting through it with a series of clanks and clinks before he returns with an optic lens, setting it back into the socket surprisingly quickly* Don't you feel so much better now that you've been restored?
Blast Off: *The new lens quickly flashes a deep red as his vision become stereo again, doubling the force of Blast Off's glare. No, he did not feel any better, even if he was restored.*
Bombshell: ...oh, yes, you still can't MOVE. Well. *throws all his beetle legs forward, each of them clacking against the sides of Blast Off's helmet* Let's not forget the arrangement. I will do you a favor. It can be a very flexible favor! It can be an INVOLVED favor, even.
Bombshell: But I want to know everything that you can possibly find to know about Moonracer. Whom she speaks to. Where she goes. The things that seem to delight her, or relax her, or annoy her. Every moment she's out in the open. VIDEO FOOTAGE.
Blast Off: *understanding flare across his optics for a moment, he has not gone through this hell for nothing. If only on pure principle - and the uncertainty of what that damn chip implanted in him was - he would carry out his end of the bargain. He would get that chip removed.*
Bombshell: I hope we understand each other. *picks Blast Off up off the table, straining a bit thanks to his rather unimpressive physical strength, but managing to hold his upper body upright as he drags him towards the medbay door*
Blast Off: *Self-repair systems working furiously on fixing his voicebox, glaring daggers, broadswords and heavy laserfire at Bombshell, clearly unhappy about the indignity of being dragged out of the medbay like some piece of unwanted scrap metal*
Bombshell: *meets the look with a fierce glare of his own as he hauls Blast Off outside, propping him against the far wall* And if she finds out - if you for even a moment UNSETTLE her or in any way make her aware of this monitoring - you will find out exactly how close to Wyoming I've gotten.
Blast Off: *unable to answer - damn that vocalizer of his, shorting out at a time like this - he narrows his optics. In a sudden flash of inspiration he opens a comm link (swearing that he didn't come up with the idea earlier, his main processor has to have a glitch, this has happened way too often these past days), speaking in tones of restrained fury* :: As long as you keep up your end of the bargain, I'll keep mine. ::
Bombshell: Excellent. *gives Blast Off's head a condescending little pat, and steps back into medbay, turning around as a claw reaches for the door* I also highly recommend you don't speak to other medics about getting that chip removed. The consequences would not be pretty.
Blast Off: *optics are mere slits now, burning their way through Bombshell's chassis.* :: Fine. As long as you don't blabber about what happened in there I won't either. ::
Bombshell: Of course not! Now go be WELL! *smiles brightly and SLAMS the medbay door closed. The moment the door is shut, a faint, almost ticklish sensation starts to come... from the INSIDE of Blast Off's head. A few more tingles and there comes the audible click of his motor functions being restored, and then stillness*
Blast Off: *glares death at the door, the first thing his body does is shudder violently, trying to shake off the sensations that linger in his wiring. He gets to his legs, gingerly touching his new optic lens. It didn't feel any different, but the knowledge that it came from that weevil's lair created a certain psychosomatic impression that it did. As he hurries away from the hellhole, he has to very grudgingly give the creep some credit - his knee and shoulder worked flawlessly, just a hint of soreness remaining. Albeit he strongly suspected that was more because of the now-repaired fuel arterie than anything else.*
Blast Off: *hobbles around in the hallways angrily, fully prepared to shoot any triplechangers spotted on sight. His knee is starting to really hurt now, even with most of the sensors surrounding it turned off. Growling, he starts to head for the first medbay he can think of*
Bombshell: *is himself on the move, scuttling in his weevil form and hissing curses aimed at Hook's competence, ego, and authority. He's quickly back in the area of the Nemesis medbay, though, grumbling about MIGHTY Megatron having half his processors offline*
Blast Off: *would be stomping if he had the full use of both his legs, moving into the Nemesis medbay, glaring at anything that moves - not that he has seen that many mechs on his way here. Spotting a bug puttering around, he limps closer, looming over the - probably - medic.*
Bombshell: *continues his angry chittering as he transforms, focusing on his worktable as he unlocks a cabinet and starts pulling out eggs the color of red amber. It's only when he notices the faint shadow from the light fixtures overhead that he whirls around, hissing*
Bombshell: WHAT DO YOU WANT.
Blast Off: *engine makes a low growling sound at that tone. Frag, but he hated medics.* I need a medic. *sour tone, glaring at the little bug*
Bombshell: Oh, do you? *leers at the shuttle for a moment, before glancing down over him and at that knee with a few clicking sounds from his jaw* Mmm. You do.
Blast Off: *still glaring, though not as angrily anymore* Something's snapped in my left shoulder as well.
Bombshell: Sit down on a table, then. *tucks the eggs back away quickly, relocking the cabinet* Were you involved in that ruckus from before, or did you find some inventive NEW way to injure yourself?
Blast Off: *sits down on the table in question with a grunt* I do not hurt myself. *narrows optics*
Bombshell: Yes, well, I've come to grasp that just about every bit of damage sustained around here was caused by SOMETHING particularly idiotic.
Blast Off: *lifts an optic ridge* Or someone. *glares at something not there, obviously going through memories in his mind*
Bombshell: I'm sure. How about you lie back and let the good doctor see what's wrong? *collects some rather invasive-looking instruments, setting them down on the workbench next to the table*
Blast Off: *eyes the instruments with a glare, frag, he didn't even care anymore, he just wants to go back to space.* Fine.*lies down, albeit a tad reluctantly*
Bombshell: *takes a prying bar in hand and reaches over to Blast Off's knee for a moment, about to start peeling when he suddenly straightens up again*
Bombshell: ...this is ridiculous.
Blast Off: *blank stare*
Bombshell: I am so NOT INTO THIS.
Blast Off: So?
Blast Off: Just fix it.
Bombshell: SO!?
Bombshell: This is exactly the problem I'm TALKING about with you half-grade simpletons.
Blast Off: *grunts* Just fix it, will you?
Bombshell: You have no appreciation for my craft, you have no patience even to learn what's wrong!
Bombshell: You just saunter on in here and demand MY valuable time when something needs to be fixed! No, you don't even come HERE anymore, you demand me to go under that moron HOOK!
Blast Off: *rolls his optics, getting annoyed now* You're a medic, aren't you?
Blast Off: That is what medics do.
Bombshell: A medic. Mmm.
Bombshell: Excuse me, one moment.
Bombshell: *walks over to storage, pulls out a small little handheld device, and heads back over with a blank expression*
Blast Off: *watches the cretin get something, eyeing whatever it is he's holding in his hand*
Bombshell: *leans up over Blast Off''s face, staring down with a clinical calmness* Do you have any history of adverse reactions to neuro-circuitry based painkillers?
Blast Off: *optics narrow* No.
Bombshell: Excellent. *moves quick as lightning, slamming the pointed tip of the instrument down right between Blast Off's optics to administer a brutal, paralyzing shock*
Blast Off: *has no chance of avoiding it, yelling as his entire body go slack, it soon turning into a roar of rage*
Blast Off: What the FRAG did you just DO?!
Bombshell: Shorted out all the connectors in your motor processing complex. It's very reparable.
Bombshell: Very difficult for a medic, but not so much for an ELECTRICAL ENGINEER.
Blast Off: *snarls* Then REPAIR it!
Bombshell: *falls into a hideous, shrieking voice, his optics flashing violently*
Bombshell: WHEN I'M GOOD AND READY, YOU PATHETIC TWO-BIT BARBARIAN!
Blast Off: *growls furiously, engine roaring with fury*
Bombshell: I am a skilled and disciplined professional! There is NO Cybertronian alive capable of what I am, and I should KNOW, because the last competitor I killed and ATE!
Bombshell: You idiots should be GROVELING for my services, and instead you stomp into my medbay and MUSCLE me around!
Blast Off: Maybe if you weren't such a pathetic little CREEP they wouldn't HAVE to!
Bombshell: *twitch*
Blast Off: *ferocious glare*
Blast Off: Now fix me.
Bombshell: *calms himself for a moment*
Bombshell: On most days, I love all my fellow Decepticons so dearly.
Blast Off: *opticroll*
Bombshell: But today, well, let me explain your situation.
Blast Off: *is more or less seething in anger, but keeps his mouth shut for once*
Bombshell: I am NOT going to fix you. I am not going to repair your KNEE, or your SHOULDER, or any other pathetically unoptimized part of your system...
Bombshell: ...instead, I am going to open up your head, disassemble ever processor in your skull related to motor functions and give them an ACID BATH in front of your optics...
Bombshell: ...before I pull THOSE out as well, so I have somewhere to store my WEEVILSPAWN while they GESTATE, until they can devour you piece by piece until you're no longer capable of SCREAMING!
Bombshell: UNLESS.
Bombshell: I HEAR.
Bombshell: A LITTLE APPRECIATION!
Blast Off: *still growling, but he doesn't make any comments*
Bombshell: *lowers himself to snarl directly in Blast Off's audio receptor* NOW.
Blast Off: *grinds the words out* Could you please repair my knee?
Bombshell: Oh, of course, my pleasure. *zips back down to the knee, chittering pleasantly as he slips the prying bar in and starts loosening plate connections to give himself some access*
Blast Off: *motor is making a quite unhappy sound, but he doesn't voice any complains he might've had*
Bombshell: *slips a little-rod like instrument with a camera tip into the joint once he has space, one of his optics going offline as he takes in the feed from it* Now that we're being courteous, would you care to explain how you obtained this injury?
Blast Off: *muttering* I got ambushed. *still sounds angry*
Bombshell: Yes, I'm well-acquainted with the type of ambush that damages interior cabling through applied stress. *is dripping with even more sarcasm than usual*
Blast Off: *exasperated opticroll, he has no interest in listening to this crazy mech's experiences* I am sure you do.
Blast Off: *That was pretty sarcastic too, yes.*
Bombshell: *looks up from the knee, then crawls up onto the table, hissing dangerously* You know, you should be very careful making insinuating statements with a badly damaged optic.
Blast Off: *merely glares back*
Bombshell: *SLAMS the non-camera end of his peering instrument into Blast Off's right optic, hard enough to fracture the lens*
Blast Off: *yells in pain and anger, wishing he could wringe that cretins neck hard enough to snap his head straight off*
Bombshell: -I- AM THE COMPASSIONATE MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL HERE!
Bombshell: I want my questions ANSWERED, and not grudgingly.
Blast Off: *one opticked glare*
Bombshell: All I want to know is how you injured yourself.
Bombshell: Is that too complicated? Should I speak in simpler words?
Bombshell: HOW. YOU. HURT.
Blast Off: *snarls the words out* I was tortured.
Bombshell: ...I am sorry to hear it.
Blast Off: *sneers*
Blast Off: I'm sure you are.
Bombshell: That sounds like the tone of a blind mech.
Bombshell: Surely I'm mistaken.
Blast Off: *Is all but glaring daggers at the insecticon now, the first optic flooded his system with enough pain to barr any want for more*
Bombshell: Oh good, perhaps I heard wrong. *gives his shoulder coverings the same treatment as the knee joint, spreading and then poking in to investigate*
Blast Off: *Is keeping quiet, albeit it's forced at times.*
Bombshell: ...torture, again? This is a rather inelegant form of it, it just looks like the joint was strained until some of the mechanisms fractured.
Blast Off: Yes. *manages to avoid the answer being snappy*
Bombshell: *sits back on Blast Off's chest with a drawn out sigh, toying with the prying rod between his fingers as he stares off into the distance* Blast Off, right? What do you want in life?
Blast Off: ...go back to space.
Bombshell: Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what do you DO there that's worthwhile?
Blast Off: What I do?
Bombshell: *turns with a rather pointed look, his beetle legs clacking against each other for a moment* Yes, what you DO. Keep in mind that I'm perfectly capable of delving into your processors and TAKING the information I want, so a hasty reply is a good motivation for me not to.
Blast Off: I watch Earth.
Blast Off: Hack this internet the humans have, wreaking general havoc...
Blast Off: It's space, what do you think I do?
Bombshell: ...I was hoping there would be a constructive accomplishment somewhere on that list.
Blast Off: *pointed silence*
Bombshell: You've obviously let yourself be victimized in this pathetic arrangement, and for what?
Blast Off: *stares at the medic, lifting an optic ridge as if to say "for what indeed"*
Bombshell: I find myself in a very similar position.
Blast Off: Really. *flatly*
Bombshell: Yes. Really. I can't even have the satisfaction of seeing how much pain input I can flood along your nerve circuitry before your processors start to malfunction, because someone else has already apparently DONE that.
Blast Off: What a shame.
Bombshell: Indeed. *has lost all traces of sarcasm from his voice by this point*
Bombshell: Sure, there's my technical work - what little of it I can squeeze in around demanding warmongers like yourself.
Blast Off: *snorts*
Bombshell: There's Kickback and Shrapnel, but I'm even starting to spend less time with them, in lieu of that... AUTOBOT.
Bombshell: *shudders*
Blast Off: *notices that reaction* What Autobot?
Bombshell: AN Autobot. Does it honestly matter to you?
Blast Off: What if it does?
Blast Off: I spend most of my time observing what goes on planetside, I may have some information.
Bombshell: *narrows his optics to a very, very fine line* ...what "information" could you possibly be peddling that would interest me?
Blast Off: I can track said Autobot and send you whatever I find.
Bombshell: . . .
Blast Off: Well?
Bombshell: Is it standard practice for you to offer to spy for infatuated Decepticons, or is this being offered because we've come so CLOSE? *theeere's that sarcasm again*
Blast Off: I'm just showing you my appreciation.
Bombshell: Then how can I properly show you my thanks, Blast Off? Because, after all, fixing you is just the basic expectation inherent in my job description.
Blast Off: *eyeing the medic intently, a plan slowly forming in his mind* You could owe me a favor.
Bombshell: I don't do favors without the details UPFRONT. *shifts forward, leaning in low to press his face right up against the shuttle's still-functioning optic*
Blast Off: *stares levellely with his one good optic into the creep's face*
Bombshell: In the mood to elucidate?
Blast Off: What if I'm not?
Bombshell: *slams a fist on Blast Off's injured shoulder* Then this repair job could take a long, long time.
Blast Off: *face remains stoic, even if that made his shoulder hurt like a fragging glitch*
Blast Off: I have time.
Blast Off: Do you have enough information?
Blast Off: *calm, oh-so calm voice*
Bombshell: *tilts back at that, letting out a low, ANGRY hiss*
Bombshell: ...maybe not.
Blast Off: ...well? *getting impatient*
Bombshell: ...I need insurance.
Blast Off: What kind of insurance?
Bombshell: *reaches into his chest compartment, FAR back, and pulls out a circular chip so small it rests delicately on his fingertip*
Blast Off: *eyes it warily*
Bombshell: How about it then?
Blast Off: What is it? *about the chip*
Bombshell: Unknown insurance, for your unknown favor.
Blast Off: Hn.
Bombshell: Of course, if you care to shed some light, it won't be necessary...
Blast Off: The details may change.
Bombshell: Then I must insist. *cradles the chip between his index finger and thumb, chittering faintly*
Blast Off: ...
Blast Off: *eyes both the chip and the bug*
Blast Off: And when the favor is called in?
Bombshell: Then you won't even know it was in there.
Blast Off: ...very well.
Bombshell: *nods once, then begins his work with a delicacy so elaborate it's almost farcical. He slowly disengages the fractured right optical lens, murmuring as he sees Blast Off's inner optical components*
Blast Off: *watches the other's movements closely with his optic, wondering if he's just made a bad deal or not*
Bombshell: *suddenly twitches for a moment, then again with a muffled noise, and then finally he can't restrain it - a little giggle of delight as he caaaaarefully manuevers the cerebro-shell down through the mess of components to the circuitry below*
Blast Off: *Well, there's no way out now. Frowns as the medic places the chip inside his skull, not enjoying the feeling very much*
Bombshell: *lets out a soft vent of air as he CLICKS the chip into place at a connection junction between a major processor and a memory cluster, then whips himself upright, standing up on Blast Off's chest with a shout of joy*
Bombshell: o/` OH OH OH, woke up today! Feeling the way - that I aaaaaaalways dooooo! o/`
Bombshell: o/` OH OH OH, hungry for something that Iii can't eat - then I HEAR THAT BEAT! o/`
Bombshell: o/` That electric sound, keeps calling me down - it's like a message from hiiiiiigh aboooooove! o/`
Blast Off: *No, he did not like the feeling at all. He glares at the creep as it starts singing* Shut up, will you.
Bombshell: *just gets louder to shout over him* o/` Oh oh oh, pulling me out to the NEURO-CIRCUI-TRY that I LOVE! o/`
Blast Off: *engine growls, carrying the vibrations through his chassis, making him rattle softly against the table*
Bombshell: o/` Goodbye to sooooooocial mores! Every day's like an OOOOOPEN DOOOOOR! Every night is a fantasy! Every scream like a symphony! o/`
Blast Off: *yells, he's had enough already* SHUT UP!
Bombshell: Fine, fine. I'll just DANCE. *does so with a gusto, wiggling his derriere towards Blast Off's face*
Blast Off: *groans, but starts yelling obscenities as the bug squirms towards his face*
Bombshell: You're the GREATEST, Blast Off! You remind me why I put UP with all of this!
Bombshell: *transforms to weevil mode, wrapping his legs around Blast Off in a hug and SQUEALING his glee*
Blast Off: *roars with this undignity, entire frame shaking with the fury his motor is making*
Bombshell: *transforms again with a little coo* Settle down, settle down, I need to fix all this now.
Blast Off: You better.
Bombshell: *stays perched comfortably on Blast Off's chest, but gets to business, pressing his tools into the shoulder joint with a hum of contentment; his touch when he's as trying is as deft as he was bragging about. Despite little flurries of heat and pressure, it isn't nearly as painful as the sharp-pronged tools he works in make it look like it will be*
Blast Off: *doesn't wince or make any sounds, except for engine noises throughout the procedure. It was a lot more painful breaking it than fixing it.*
Bombshell: *goes into a tone of actual professionalism with surprising ease* The metal itself was strained enough that I can't guarantee its perfection. I've used low-level heat-based molding techniques to repair the damage, but if you have any problems, come to me and I'll replace the entire joint assembly.
Blast Off: Fine.
Bombshell: Mmm, that's the kind of tone I prefer to hear from the people I'm helping.
Blast Off: *just grumbles in reply*
Bombshell: *slips down over to the knee joint, giving it the same gentle treatment as he restores the damaged wiring to its original condition... although the way that one beetle leg is rubbing up against one of the fuel arteries leading to the thrusters is a little more than "gentle"*
Blast Off: *idles as the cretin fixes him up, and doesn't react till he feels something rubbing against one of his major fuel lines, sending little flares into his processor. He twitches, only he doesn't, and so he resorts to yelling instead* Stop that!
Bombshell: Hmm? Stop what? You should be quiet, this is sensitive work. *puts a little bit of emphasis on the word "sensitive," the claw at the line wrapping itself around the line as it keeps stroking up and down*
Blast Off: Stop that...stroking! *voice has a certain distressed quality to it as the "caress" goes on*
Bombshell: Well, how am I supposed to FIX you if I stop WORKING? *chitters with exasperation, forcing down a chuckle as he twitches the beetle leg against the tubing, the very tip of the claw pressing gingerly against it*
Blast Off: That isn't fixing! *Oh, what he wouldn't give to be able to give that fragger what he deserved...*
Bombshell: On the contrary, I'm restoring the plugs to their proper shape so that they can lock into their ports securely again. *gives a little electrical tingle from the utensil he's using to do just that, but the beetle leg is keeping up its slithery caress, wrapping even tighter*
Blast Off: *despite how much this is creeping him out, his sensor are rather enjoying it, streaming data to his systems. Blast Off, on the other hand, roars with renewed rage, swearing all deals are off and that creep is a walking dead*
Bombshell: Shhhh. Do you expect me to work in these conditions? *sounds rather bored as he continues work on both fronts, resocketing the newly fixed wires and abruptly clutching the beetly leg into a tender squeeze*
Blast Off: *does not shhh, but rather the opposite*
Bombshell: *suddenly gives one of the newly connected wires a gentle little pull, fondling it between his fingers. Doesn't stop the beetle leg from it's accelerating rubbing, though. He waits for a few moments* ...there's a wing assembly here, and this cable wasn't stressed by direct contact.
Blast Off: *some coherency is scraped up* You stay away from my wings.
Bombshell: It looks like one of them was warped, or at least very roughly treated... I need to inspect it, or else air resistance might cause the same damage again. Open your wing. *is slipping his massaging claw further and further along the fuel line's length, brushing up against the shuttle's heat insulation*
Blast Off: No. *almost hisses the answer, hating every single byte of information that flows into his processor*
Bombshell: Do you really want to have to come back to me soon...? If you insist on making me prove the necessity, I can jack directly into some of your data ports... *gives an anticipatory hiss as he says it, claw coiling tight around the object of its affection*
Blast Off: NO!
Bombshell: Then perhaps you should show me your wing, Blast Off. *looks at him directly, a coy expression on his face* Here, I'll restore some of your function so you can. *for a moment, it looks like he's getting up and is about to take his claw away from the fuel line it's molesting...*
Bombshell: *...until he just whistles, shrilly, and a chitter comes FROM THE CEILING. In seconds, a sort of miniature Bombshell in weevil mode has squirmed its way from behind a ceiling light fixture and buzzed down onto Blast Off's head*
Blast Off: *Does NOT want Bombshell anywhere near either of his wings, damaged or not. Relief wash over him as Bombshell retreats, only to yell - almost screaming - as the THING comes out of the ceiling and LANDS on him*
Bombshell: *little Bombshell makes a very high-pitched chitter, which Bombshell disturbingly echoes. The thing then transforms, a near-perfect replica except for its stubbier beetle legs. It immediately sinks its hands into Blast Off's exposed eye socket, fishing, and meanwhile, the real Bombshell's claw is still teasing that fuel line*
Blast Off: *keeps screaming, intakes whining as his temperatures rises, fighting with all he's got to get his body moving, anything - to no avail. As the thing starts digging into his skull - his SKULL for frag's sake! - it turns into a shriek, voicebox straining with the effort of maintaining the loud decibel level*
Bombshell: Stop complaining. Arkansas is just restoring some of the functions that the shock paralyzed. *"Arkansas" lets out a cheerful little giggle of pleasure as its little fingers get at Blast Off's processors, fiddling around in a way that feels disturbingly cavalier*
Blast Off: *doesn't show any signs of comprehending what Bombshell just said, still shrieking until his vocalizer finally gives in, flaring crackling static instead, almost as loud as the previous yell, still struggling to regain his lost motorfunctions*
Bombshell: *Arkansas lets out a happy chit-chit as it finds what it was looking for, disconnecting a cable from its connecting circuit and plugging it back in to restore motor function to Blast Off's lower body. It keeps its hands right where they are, though*
Blast Off: *finally, something is moving. He lashes out with his legs, ignoring any and all sensation coming from them, be it pain or pleasure. He wants that damn weevil off, and he wants him off now*
Bombshell: *yelps as he's knocked about, tugging HARD on the fuel line for a moment before a boot to the chest knocks him back off the table. In a moment, he's up and snarling:* Alabama, Connecticut, Colarado, California, Idaho! *and five more of the things come soaring out from behind the light fixture, flying around with an ominous buzzing*
Blast Off: *the agony shooting up his leg only fuels him on, the screech of static never silencing as he trashes about, the only coherent thought in his mind being get away*
Bombshell: *lets out a whistle, and suddenly all six of the gathered mini-Bombshells are in robot mode, three darting to each leg of Blast Off's and pinning. Their strength isn't exceptional, but they know just where to target on the legs to get the flailing under control*
Blast Off: *isn't giving in without a fair fight, jerking and kicking to get the little hellspawn off, every byte of processing power intent on that one task*
Bombshell: *covers his face with one hand, grumbling bitterly as Idaho and Alabama are sent flying off with squeals* Blast Off, you are ANNOYING me. Alaska, Hawaii, Arizona, Indiana, NORTH AND SOUTH DAKOTA! *and yet six more are flying out to join their brethren, until the buzzing sound is filling the whole room and their collective pinning strength becomes formidable*
Blast Off: *That sound is driving him straight to the edge of sanity, vocalizer crackling furiously before going offline, but he's still open mouthed, silently screaming. He twitches his legs, frantically trying to get them loose*
Bombshell: *stalks closer once he's confident that his drones have him pinned, leaning in over to get right up to Blast Off's face again* Let me make this simple for you. My babies are hungry. Show me your wing. Or I'll let them have a snack.
Blast Off: *snarls at the so-called medic, the word bitter and sour in his mind. He won't give up the fight for his legs, not quite getting what the insecticon is talking about*
Bombshell: *rolls his optics and lets out a deep, deep sigh* If you insist. Alabama. *the mentioned drone digs its face into the opening Bombshell had created before, sinking sharp little teeth into the fuel line that he had been stroking. The thing tears past the cable exterior with a gleeful squee, and starts sucking a flow Energon clean out of the shuttle's system*
Blast Off: *that sends his systems into a near-panic, giving him far more strength than he usually possesses, diagnostic warnings clogging up his processor. That thing is drinking his energon directly from the fuel line, and he can not. Get. Away*
Bombshell: *slams his own hands down onto Blast Off's leg to keep it flat, a cacophonous chitter coming from the entire group as they all turn their glowing optics as once towards Blast Off - Bombshell included* WING, Blast Off. Show me it, and this can all be over.
Blast Off: *putting all of his strength into it, he tries one last time to heave the hellspawn off, but is unable to get enough leverage to make it actually work. He calms down - or at least his legs do, his mind is still panicky and obeys the command, his dented wing sliding out of his leg with a loud whirr*
Bombshell: *all of the drones let out a collective giggle as the shuttle obeys; Arksansas scampers up over Blast Off's body to the optic socket again, zipping in to disable all those motor functions again by crudely ripping the connection out again* Was that so hard...?
Blast Off: *would have been shaking violently had he had the ability to. As it is, he stares up at the ceiling, optic wide while his mouth is still tensely open in a scream.*
Bombshell: *puts his hands soothingly on the now-exposed wing, clucking as he surveys the damage* See? This is exactly the sort of thing I'm here to help you w-ALABAMA STOP DRINKING HIM. *swats at the drone who was still nomming on the fuel line with one of his beetle legs, sending the whole load of them buzzing off the table and around the room*
Blast Off: *Doesn't respond, still staring at that ceiling like it's the only thing keeping him sane. Thoughts of his beloved space swirls in his processor, only wincing when he hears the buzz from the hellspawn.*
Bombshell: Idaho, YOU get to repair the line. The rest may go. *puts his tools to good, efficient use on the battered wing, softening and reshaping the metal into its appropriate shape while a drone prods a caulking-gun looking thing up against the torn tubing to patch it up. The others transform to weevil mode and fly back up to the ceiling, scuttling back behind the light fixture so fast it's almost hard to believe they were there at all*
Blast Off: *sharply tears his optic away as the mini-weevils appear in his field of vision, now staring glassily at the wall, engine rumbling its discontent as this whole situation.*
Bombshell: Simplicity itself. Your wing shouldn't give you or your system any trouble, now. *and the last one flies back to its hiding place as well when its work is done, but not before delivering its tool back to the workbench... and scampering up to Blast Off's face to give his cheek a little smooch*
Blast Off: *His vocalizer flickers on just long enough to give another screech of static before offlining, the kiss startling him out of his shell-shocked state. He glances wildly about, it turning to a glare as cold as space when his optic settles on the insecticon*
Bombshell: *takes the spread plates of his knee and eases them back into position, oh-so-careful and PROFESSIONAL as he restores Blast Off to perfect condition there. He moves up to the shoulder to do the same, but this time he doesn't even need to watch his hands as they work, choosing instead to flash Blast Off a warm smile*
Blast Off: *doesn't take his optic off of the creature, neither does it get warmer. He will remember this, painfully so, till he's gotten his revenge for this humiliation.*
Bombshell: *practically skips over to a supply box marked "glassware," hunting through it with a series of clanks and clinks before he returns with an optic lens, setting it back into the socket surprisingly quickly* Don't you feel so much better now that you've been restored?
Blast Off: *The new lens quickly flashes a deep red as his vision become stereo again, doubling the force of Blast Off's glare. No, he did not feel any better, even if he was restored.*
Bombshell: ...oh, yes, you still can't MOVE. Well. *throws all his beetle legs forward, each of them clacking against the sides of Blast Off's helmet* Let's not forget the arrangement. I will do you a favor. It can be a very flexible favor! It can be an INVOLVED favor, even.
Bombshell: But I want to know everything that you can possibly find to know about Moonracer. Whom she speaks to. Where she goes. The things that seem to delight her, or relax her, or annoy her. Every moment she's out in the open. VIDEO FOOTAGE.
Blast Off: *understanding flare across his optics for a moment, he has not gone through this hell for nothing. If only on pure principle - and the uncertainty of what that damn chip implanted in him was - he would carry out his end of the bargain. He would get that chip removed.*
Bombshell: I hope we understand each other. *picks Blast Off up off the table, straining a bit thanks to his rather unimpressive physical strength, but managing to hold his upper body upright as he drags him towards the medbay door*
Blast Off: *Self-repair systems working furiously on fixing his voicebox, glaring daggers, broadswords and heavy laserfire at Bombshell, clearly unhappy about the indignity of being dragged out of the medbay like some piece of unwanted scrap metal*
Bombshell: *meets the look with a fierce glare of his own as he hauls Blast Off outside, propping him against the far wall* And if she finds out - if you for even a moment UNSETTLE her or in any way make her aware of this monitoring - you will find out exactly how close to Wyoming I've gotten.
Blast Off: *unable to answer - damn that vocalizer of his, shorting out at a time like this - he narrows his optics. In a sudden flash of inspiration he opens a comm link (swearing that he didn't come up with the idea earlier, his main processor has to have a glitch, this has happened way too often these past days), speaking in tones of restrained fury* :: As long as you keep up your end of the bargain, I'll keep mine. ::
Bombshell: Excellent. *gives Blast Off's head a condescending little pat, and steps back into medbay, turning around as a claw reaches for the door* I also highly recommend you don't speak to other medics about getting that chip removed. The consequences would not be pretty.
Blast Off: *optics are mere slits now, burning their way through Bombshell's chassis.* :: Fine. As long as you don't blabber about what happened in there I won't either. ::
Bombshell: Of course not! Now go be WELL! *smiles brightly and SLAMS the medbay door closed. The moment the door is shut, a faint, almost ticklish sensation starts to come... from the INSIDE of Blast Off's head. A few more tingles and there comes the audible click of his motor functions being restored, and then stillness*
Blast Off: *glares death at the door, the first thing his body does is shudder violently, trying to shake off the sensations that linger in his wiring. He gets to his legs, gingerly touching his new optic lens. It didn't feel any different, but the knowledge that it came from that weevil's lair created a certain psychosomatic impression that it did. As he hurries away from the hellhole, he has to very grudgingly give the creep some credit - his knee and shoulder worked flawlessly, just a hint of soreness remaining. Albeit he strongly suspected that was more because of the now-repaired fuel arterie than anything else.*