DHQ Time: Day 45 of the Second Quarter, 8:3:00 (Nocturnal Cycle on Cybertron)

Scrapper has decided that this is not his year. Upon reflection, it may also not be his decade, century, millennium, or eon, but it is definitely not his year. He lies supine on a medical table, one arm sprawled over his optic band, as if to block out the harsh repair bay lights. Various medical monitoring systems are hooked up to him, but anyone trained in reading the results will see that the Constructicon is mostly all right. Scrapper's just healing off some lingering damage, which shows in various nicks and gouges on his frame.

Long Haul, for his part, is doing a bit worse. In addition to a lot of cuts and such, he also had several large rends from that ugly, giant leech thing (one which tried to bite off his right arm, dammit), and also pushed his strength to its limits for a while trying to get (an UNGRATEFUL) Airwolf out from underneath a boulder before carrying his wussy brother back home. But he's at least waking up. The transporter moans softly as he comes-to.

Scrapper just lies on the berth and idly wonders inane things. Is that bright white light the thing at the end of the tunnel or just the medical bay lighting. And ow, whatever it is, why does it hurt so much? Also, is it actually the light that is causing the pain, or does he just generally feel crummy?

Long Haul finally wakes up and pushes himself off the meditable.

CRASH-CLANG-CLATTER!

Well, he didn't mean to do it that way, but whatever works. The Constructicon allows himself a few muttered swears before managing to put himself in a sitting position. In a little while later, he'll try kneeling, then standard. No need to rush things, after all.

Scrapper notes that covering his optic band and hoping the white light will go away does not work. It is definitely there, and he's not floating toward it, which is points towards being in a repair bay. Woo-hoo! Or an Autobot interrogation chamber. Then, the crash and clatter of noise pieces Scrapper's audios, and he blurts, "Okay, okay! Secret Trumpet #79 is in... in... no! I'll never tell you!"

Long Haul looks up at Scrapper from his spot on the floor and growls, "I already KNOW where Secret Trumpet #79 is, y'wuss!" The Constructicon shakes his head and grumbles something that sounds like, 'Slaggin' engineers,' then carefully considers his next step in his quest towards standing up.

Scrapper does not removes his arm from his optic band, not wanting to expose it to the hellish suns of the Pit... interrogation chamber... repair bay... wherever this is. Seems like his visor is stuck in 'cavern darkness' mode. However, his brother's words reach Scrapper, and so he asks, hesitantly, "They got you, too? Or was it the rock slide?"

"They, who, y'idjit? We're in the Charr base repair bay," Long Haul snaps as he finally decides to make his move. He pushes himself forward from his sitting position with a clumsy clatter, instead ending up kneeling, and from there sits back on his truck-bed-heels to reach up and grab ahold of the edge of the meditable. Okay, he can do this... he's a strong guy... he can do this... "You passed out unnerneath that pile'o'rubble out of sheer wussiness and I hadda dig you out an' haul you back."

Scrapper claps his optic band with one hand, makes a bit of an effort, and sits up. He's rather leaning forwards, all the better to point his optics band downwards and away from the hurtiness. Scrapper bridles, "'Idjit'? 'Sheer wussiness'? I don't need to take that from you! I suffered a fair bit of energon loss, and the sensible thing to do was to shut down to prevent further trauma."

"The sensible thing?! While yer buried beneath a ton of whatever?" Long Haul objects. "What if I hadda lost track of where you was, huh? You'd be down there now!" The transporter finally pulls himself upright and... sits down on the meditable instead. "I mean, Primus, I thought maybe you'd'a-" his voice catches and he quits that line of thought, instead finishing with, "Whatever. Wuss."

Scrapper growls and flexes the fingers of his free hand. Unbidden, the thoughts come. Yes, it was the sensible thing to do. He was trapped, wholly unable to get out on his own. If Long Haul had not fished him out, that would have been the end. Blacking out allowed him to conserve his energy and thus meant that Long Haul had more time to fish him out alive. None of this sits well with Scrapper, and so he takes his hand off his optic band, winces at the light, and glares at the fuzzy, unfocused form that is Long Haul. He snarls, "I said cut that out! I was pinned. I couldn't have got out on my own, awake or not-" Scrapper's voice cuts out, and he mentally kicks himself for admitting that.

Long Haul slams his fist hard against the meditable, putting enough force into the action to put a considerable dent in the table. Sense doesn't matter to him at the moment. All that matters is emotion, the surge of terror he had felt when he had thought that maybe he had lost one of his brothers, and now that brother was YELLING at him. "Dammit all to the slaggin' SMELTER, Scrapper, then you LET us know yer off-linin' so we know, rather then doin' all that crazy LAUGHIN' an' then cuttin' off without warnin'! Whut was I s'pose to think of THAT, huh?!" he snarls, jabbing the index finger of his other hand, the one that hadn't almost been bitten off, at Scrapper.

Scrapper winces at the noise and looks slightly cowed, shovel flicking down a little to make him look smaller, but there's still a bit of resentment about him. Happy to be alive? Yeah. Irritated to be alive on these specific terms: blacked out like the coward that he is and rescued by his brother, who just won't let the issue drop? Oh yes. Scrapper manages, "I... look. I don't need to explain myself. I'm not the one who set the timers wrong."

"I din't set the timers wrong!" Long Haul protests, sounding offended. "I set 'em like what you told me to set 'em! If they were wrong, it's cos' you doan' know how to give good instructions!" And for the record, Long Haul, expert of carrying stuff, isn't the only one who wasn't letting something drop. All Scrapper had to do was overlook his comment about the engineer having passed out out of sheer wussiness, and the argument would have been over ages ago, but conceding is one thing none of the Constructicons know how to do. Except maybe Scavenger, who manages to be annoying about it anyway.

Scrapper is contractually obligated to only overlook things like exhaust ports that lead directly to the core of space stations. He scowls and snaps, "You obviously weren't listening well enough! I can explain things just fine. Remember the mass launcher? You fired that and didn't die. And that reminds me. I need a decent length of radio antenna." The engineer rubs his hands together and demeanour brightens.

In that peculiar way Constructicons have of suddenly shifting moods for no obvious reason, all the anger instantly leaves Long Haul and instead he tilts his head curiously as he looks over at his brother. "Huh? What for? An' I ain' gettin' it for you, not til I've healed up some."

Scrapper spreads out his arms, as if to gesture out the length that he'll need. He explains, optic band starry, "Yeah, Hook mentioned getting a pointer, and not only do antennae make great pointers, but they make an interesting noise when you swish them through the air." A little more cuttingly, Scrapper adds, "And I think I can manage to not kill myself with it, despite my weakened condition and how terribly, horribly dangerous antennae are."

"Well, it's not like /I/ knew how much you were talkin' about!" snaps Long Haul, crossin' his arms indignantly. "Half the time when y'want wire or some such, yer talkin' bout spools ovit or astromiles ovit or somethin' like that," he grumbles, sounding pouty.

Scrapper sighs, but not discontently, and agrees, "Of course you didn't, but an astromile-long pointer would be just silly. Just and antennae somewhat longer than an arm span will do." It's amazing how the thought of a swishy pointer with which he can use to smack errant listeners cheers Scrapper up. Dozing off? Zat goes the pointer!

Well, no, but it's antenna wire. For all Long Haul knew, Scrapper wanted to transmit REALLY low frequencies! Except that he probably wouldn't think of that connection to begin with. "Well, y'can get that yerself, too," he grumbles, shrugging and considering going back offline. Bah. Brothers!

Scrapper looks downcast and demurs, "But that's your job. I wouldn't dream of stealing it." Besides, he's quite happy to sit here on the medical table. Getting up would involve detaching the medical monitoring device and would probably hurt and seems like way too much effort.

"Then you can wait for it!" Long Haul snaps. "I hadda carry your aft back here, which ISN'T m'job 'cos you're /s'posed/ to be able to carry yourself, so you can jus' wait for yer tenna wire," the transporter snarls. Really! It's not like Scrapper is the only one injured here, or even the one injured the most!

<KNUJ> Radio DJ Broadcast says, "This is Broadcast... Coming in live and clear on Planet Earth..."

"And I'm not supposed to have large rocks on top of me! Extenuating circumstances, Long Haul," Scrapper seethes, rapping his fingers against the medical table. He may be less damaged than Long Haul, but he'll probably accomplish less later, anyway. Medical tables are surprisingly comfortable when one isn't strapped down and sliced open.

Which is why Long Haul has decided to go ahead and lie back down. "Well, then, blame 'stenuatin' circumsances for why you doan' have your 'tenna wire yet, 'kay, 'cos I'm not gettin' it!" Well, not now, anyway. Slaggin' engineers.

Scrapper hmphs and crosses his arms. If he had a pointer, he could whack people from afar, even while sitting on this medical table! Maybe the astromile-long pointer isn't such a bad idea, then. Scrapper glances over at Long Haul and inquires, "Going for a lie-down?"

Long Haul holds his right arm straight up so that Scrapper can see the large gap in his armor all the 'way round where something tried to bite the whole limb off recently. And if Scrapper were to look closely, there's also several large rends in his outer hull where the same creature tried to turn him into a snack. "Yeah. Yeah I am, 'til my systems take care of this. Y'gotta problem with that?"

Scrapper stares at the wound for a moment, morbidly fascinated. So that's what mouths are good for! He mutters, "Better remind Mixmaster to look into better puncture-proofing our armour." More audibly, he continues, "Why must you be so argumentative? I think that sounds like a fine idea." He uncrosses his arms and lies back on his medical table. He's not dead. Life may be several shades of junk, but in the end, he's not dead, and that fact makes this, theoretically, a good day.

Sounds like Scrapper would get along well with a certain yellow see-

Let's just leave that line of thought alone, shall we?

"I'm not arguin'!" Long Haul argues. "I'm tellin' you what I'm gonna do!" He pauses and in a totally different, completely calm tone of voice, says, "An' I'll talk with Mixy 'bout that, sure." Not that anything will be done, since it'll be a good long while before he gets another upgrade for himself, but technically it's a good idea.