Arachnae gives a shake of her head, "Stability, not security. She's up on the repair list now. Hence why I have been called out of my lab. Delicate work this is."

Cinderblock nods and frowns, "She's beta. We just want to make sure she's back up and running."

Fleet arrives from the IHQ Central Chamber to the west.

Fleet has arrived.

Arachnae nods, "She'll beback in the air as soon as possible. Simply a matter of repair and rest." Over pads the medic towards Catechisms' table. She picks up the report pad, looking over scans and diagnostics.

Cinderblock has disconnected.

Suddenly, there's a clattering noise, which, oddly enough, sounds like it is coming from one of the closets. It gets louder, and the closet door rattles. Suddenly, the door is dented from the inside, swings open, and a Seeker falls out of the closet, looking rather worse for the wear.

This Seeker would be Catechism, and she rolls over on the floor, horribly bending an already injured wing in the progress, and she stares up at the ceiling, expression blank.

Arachnae steps back out of the lab after having stepped in to grab her personal scanner. A pause atthe clatter-bang and subsequent mess before she mantles wings behind her, "Ahh, there you are, Catechism. There was some report made that you were in need of medical assistence?" A glance at the morebent wing, optics glimmering softly.

The door slides open, and the pastel wonder steps in. He immediately slips to the right of the door, so as to not block it, and looks around. This Seeker still wears that shiney, 'I've just been repaired and needed a fresh coat of paint' look, although he's been working to scuff it up.

As he surveys the room, he spots his new Executive Air Commander... laying on the floor. Obviously the promotion did nothing to stop Catechism from being Catechism. Without offering a single salute, he takes another step or two towards Arachnae and Catechism. "Uhm... ma'ams? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Catechism continues to stare dumbly at the ceiling. Her nosecone is crumpled in, there's damage all about as if parts of her had been forcibly twisted, assorted blunt trauma, and, of course, the newly bent wing. After a long moment, Catechism rocks up to her feet in a rough crouch and glances about the room, optics unfocused, no recognition showing within them.

Then, the Seeker jumps a few metres straight into the air and glances back at the closet, as if to retreat and hide inside there. Gathering herself together, she hastily salutes Arachnae and mumbles, "I'm all right, ma'am. Just had a bit of trouble, there." She hasn't even dealt with the fact that Fleet's around yet.

Shockwave has arrived.

Arachnae gives a shake of her head, setting her scanner on a counter before begining to pad towards Cate. "Now now. No need for all of that silly saluting to me. Why dont you just have a seat..' she gestures to an empty table, 'And let me straighten out your wing and your awefully crumpled cone." Calm tone, quiet, "You can't go around with a bent cone, now can you?"

No one wants a bent cone! Which is why Fleet keeps his cone hidden.

Since no one responded to the Seeker's request for help he shrugs and heads over to the energon dispenser. He enters his ration code into the machine and fills up a mug, then quietly sips at is as he waits for a tech (most likely a gumby) to be free for his follow-up check.

Catechism paces away from the closet, giving one last glance at the dented door. She mumbles, "Sorry about that," walks over to the indicated empty table, and obediently sits down. Again, her optics focus on nothing, and it takes her a while to respond, "It'll impair my combat effectiveness, so I suppose not." Awkwardly, she adds, "You aren't injured, are you, Fleet?" Looks like it did finally register to her that he's there.

Arachnae glaces at Fleet, nodding once in a sort of absent hello. She studies the lellow seeker a moment then heads to cate's table, scooping her scanner up as she walks. "No problem. Sometimes it's a good idea to have a few dented doors. Gives me something to assign miscreant techs to repair when they act up." Wry smirk that settles into a more serious mien. "Now.. how long have you been in the closet?"

At that moment, the door to the laboratory peel away to reveal Shockwave. With one foot inside, he stares at the exchange between Arachnae and Fleet. "....." Surely, there must be some kind of policy against lellow, out of the closet jets in the military.

Fleet shakes his head as Catechism addresses him. "I was. I took a beating outside of Polyhex, but I've been repaired. I'm just waiting for my systems to incorporate the new parts." The Seeker glances up curiously as Shockwave stares at him. After all, HE wasn't the one who just came out of the closet! That was Catechism!

(Sheesh. The factory gives you a pastel paint job, and people just ASSUME the strangest things about you...)

Catechism isn't sure, really. She's not even sure how she got in there. Certainly, she doesn't know how the door got locked from the outside while she was in there. So the Seekers hunches down slightly, as if trying to look smaller and notes quietly, "I'm not really sure. I-" the Seeker pauses and stares at the door and the one who has just enetered. Her sluggish visual processing systems inform her that it can only be Commander Shockwave. Wonderful. Maybe she can just sneak off when he's not looking and spend the rest of her life injured? Wordlessly, she salutes. It'll be a while before she gets back to Fleet.

Arachnae's wings flick as she starts her scanner, running a pass across Catechism. "No matter then. I can certainly get you all tidied back up and ready for full duty." A glance towards the lab, a slight inclinatin of her head towards Shockwave as acknowledgement of his prescence before she turns back to watching the scanners readout. "Now, Catechism, why don't you lie back and try to relax." A wave of her empty hand towards a technician, "Hook her up to a systems flush and an energon feed. Scanner's showing some sluggish neural reflex that could simply be due to a lack of fuel." Wings flick behind her as she hooks her scanner up to the main table system, letting the overhead begin the scan-an-pan process, feeding the information to a series of monitors.

Like the Angel of Death over the lambs blood-stained household, the eye of Shockwave passes over Fleet. He approaches an unoccupied table and commandeers it, connecting several leads to his left forearm. Standing quietly, Shockwave observes his systems data as it rolls across the monitor, comparing it to his own diagnostics and making adjustments where necessary.

Arachnae pulls out a medical scanner and runs a check on Catechism.

Catechism reclines back, as instructed. She ought to read as fully fuelled. She did, however, suffer concussive trauma to the head, and it hasn't been treated for days. Unlike some of her fellow coneheads, Catechism doesn't have a reinforced noggin. Her optics flick in the vague direction of Fleet, not quire settling on the yellow/lellow Seeker and she inquires, "How did that go? I've read the reports, but first hand accounts provide a different perspective."

Fleet does offer a proper salute towards Shockwave, but the timing is... off. As though he were waiting for Shockwave's gaze to pass him by, so he wouldn't notice it. Once that's done, the Seeker heaves a sigh of relief and hunches a little before shaking himself and heading over to the waiting area, mug still in hand. He casts a curious ear to the going ons, but seems otherwise to be playing 'background seeker' again.

Arachnae lets the tech handle the simple hookups, focusing instead on the materials list for this repair job. She keys in what is needed and assigns another technician to begin pulling the parts. Fleet may have slipped into background seeker mode, but she's going into medic mode. Nothing but the goodness of repairs coming frmthis sector now.

Fleet finally answers Catechism with, "We came, we saw, we got beat. Their reinforcements arrived too quickly, and they had quite a few heavy hitters there from quite early on. The Dinobot, for one. It's hard to match a Dinobot without a gestalt on hand. We kept them busy for as long as we could, but it just wasn't long enough to get a supply run through."

B-1B Lancer arrives from the IHQ Central Chamber to the west.

B-1B Lancer has arrived.

Catechism stares, straight forward, and her optics dim. To one paying attention to her vital signs, the Seeker just completelyy shut off her optics. She thinks, thoughts coming to her more sluggishly than they should and disjointedly. So she remains quiet and simply allows Arachnae to do her job, unable to summon a coherent response to Fleet's recounting.

Arachnae picks up an injector, changes tips and starts mixing up a lil cocktail for Catechism. A little perk her up with something to numb the soon to be discomforting sensation of having armoring reworked. That combined, she injects the personalized solution into an energon feed line, sets the injector aside and starts with the work on fixing the warped cone.

Shockwave continues monitoring his restorative progress.

It's not long before Fleet is seen to by a random tech, and it doesn't take long for them to confirm that yes, his systems are repairing themselves. Not quickly enough for Fleet's taste, but then, it never is. Once he's done the lellow Seeker finishes his energon, although his attention is still on the room's occupants.

Catechism just lies back, mulling over what Fleet said as she is repaired. So it was pure brute force? She likes brute force. However, brute force isn't enough, sadly. Catechism, depsite herself, knows this. They are Decepticons, purple-masked and born to deception. The Autobots, despite themselves, can field formidable foes. Clearly, more guile needs to be used. Mmm, guile... Guiledarts!

The whisk of doors sliding open gives Fusillade entry to the repair bay. A faint rumble escapes her as she gives a possessive glance toward the repair bay. "Finally, everyone's getting fixed." A little bit more quietly, she murmurs, "Hmm. Had to pull out the Sweep, wonder where the other techs are. At least it's getting done." A thin smile is sent toward the welding theatre, before she sidles over to the requisition counter, and begins to fill out the necessary forms to get an extra set of wing and tailfin blades. Belatedly, she shoots Shockwave a double-take of alarm.

Arachnae continues the work on putting the cone on the conehead back to rights. A welder and a crowbar are brought into play, working the metal out of line and setting aside the pieces that arn't going to be considered structully sound.

When Fusillade arrives, Fleet transfers his mug from his right hand to his left, then shoots her a salute, saying, "Commander!" before relaxing. Marginally. The trooper again scans the room, starting to feel a bit out of place amongst all these higher ups. He pidda-pads towards the cleaning unit to rinse off his mug, occasionally eying the door as he walks.

"Whuh? Oh /that/, right. At ease, Trooper," Fusillade says, before dropping into a more informal lilt. "Hey, Fleet. How are they doing in there anyway? First I had to yell to get Cinderblock patched up, and now my XO's on the carving board right now." She shifts weight to one hip, as she taps one fingertalon impatiently on the screen. "They are NOT interchangeable, though. Right doesn't fit into left, they're mirrored..." She gives the order taker a resigned glance, before tapping thoughtfully on her chin guard, and just waits for it to get sorted out.

Catechism has her optics shut off. She can't see Fusillade enter. Slowly, however, it does trickle into her processors that she's hearing Fusillade's voice. Catechism supplies minimal power to one optic and scans the room. Locating a vague grey shape that seems to be Fusillade, gives the Air Commander a weak salute, trying not to interfere with Arachnae's work as she does so.

Arachnae's wings flick as she picks up on another entry into medical. A look at the incoming recently upped Fusi, a shake of her head and she returns attention back to Cate, welding on newly curved cone plates. The medic starts to simply hum merrily to herself. She does nod to a technician who's setting up the trays for the remaining repairs.

And by the time Fleet has finished cleaning his mug, he's been addressed by a superior, thus preventing his escape! Oh, dear!

The pastel Seeker returns the mug to its proper place and takes a few steps towards Fusillade. "It goes well, I'll assume," he begins quietly. "She's being tended to by Arachnae. I don't see as she can be in any better hands." He tilts his head slightly and studies Fusillade, trying to determine where on the 'New Officers' spectrum she falls between the two normal extreme of, 'Hey, I'm still the same old Fusillade' and 'I am Officer! Respect my authority!'

Taking up a stylus, Fusillade nods as she jabs the equivalent of an electronic signature to the oodles of certifications required to have personal, multiple copies for the modular weapons. The gaze from Arachnae is caught, and Fusillade lapses into thoughtful silence, or at least suppresses her ebullience to a dull roar. "Can't be too distracting, don't want Catechism falling apart on me later." And then, randomness. Shoving the next padd back to the tech at the counter, she squints toward Fleet, and just blurts out, "Why those colors anyway? Most production models are primary colors." Well, he didn't HAVE to answer her, but somewhere in Fusillade's mind, she is certain that she at least won't be hit for it now.

Fusillade adds, "Color me curious."

Catechism gives up on thinking and speaking for a while. Also on movement. It's getting easier to all of the three aforementioned, but given her previous incident with the closet, she doesn't want to push it. Catechism's still not sure what was up with that. How did it lock from the outside while she was inside?ade's conversation completely jumps track, derailing his own train of thought in the process. He looks down at himself as he processes it, and then shrugs. "I wish I could give you a better answer, but I came out of the factory with these colors and never got an explanation myself. I suspect it has to do with the algorithm that assigns the colors. Certainly, they're weighted towards the primaries, particularly the blues or the darker tones, but they're a weighted quasi-/random/ function, which means that every now and again you're going to get something odd-ball. I was an odd number, I suppose. The possibility of changing over to something more standard didn't occur until later in life, and by that time I had decided changing would draw more attention than just sticking with what I had been assigned."

Arachnae switches her attention to the torso damage, letting a technician finish the cone work. Tapping a talon on her chin,she studies the work ahead for a moment before eshewing the usual and traditional medical aids. Instead she dips her hands into solvent, swishing them about while extending talons. Then onto the more delicate work. Having ten talons is like haveing ten finly manipulated scalpels and she puts each to use with the delicacy of a master painter working on a magnus opus.

"Huh. Maybe we should just paint everyone the same. Would save costs. But we'll leave that to the bean counters, mmm?" Fusillade still is leaning on her elbows, posture much the same as a farmer speculating about the weather. "Could be purple and pink polka dotted, just as long as you followed orders. Say, speaking of which, you're good at not getting hit when Autobots shoot at you, right?"

"Negative." Shockwave declares as he monitors the extent of his regeneration. "Main color determinant of Decepticon jet configurations skews toward the secondary color designated as 'violet.' Primary color palette is reserved for exceptional, individual units." There is a pause before Shockwave continues, "However. Mathematical abnormalities have been discovered in this theory. There have been far less than exceptional troopers sporting primary-color oriented schemes."

Catechism doesn't seem to be disconcerted that the medic is using talons rather than scalpels. It may be that Catechism only had one optic half-on and can't see all that well. It may just be that it's hard to scare her. It may be that she can't think straight or even sideways at the moment. She mumbles, "But then we'd have to get a lot of one pigment. What if it ran out?"

Since Fleet is a yellow (a pastel shade, yes, but still a yellow), Shockwave's last statement could potentially apply to him, but Fleet is certainly not the sort to take offence to these sorts of things. He inclines his head towards Shockwave and says, "Excuse me, sir. You're right. Violet does seem the most common," and lets that matter drop. Then he turns back towards Fusillade and replies, "Not as good as I'd like to be, ma'am, but if I got hit once in a thousand times, that wouldn't be as good as I'd like to be. But I am... pretty good."

Arachnae isn't getting into the color scheme talk. That falls on the level of doing ones talons with the sweeps at a nail party. Youjust don' get involved. Those talons of hers continue to cut, nip and occasionally electrically fuse things back together on the inside of her patient, the humming continueing.

Fusillade straightens visibly, like a meerkat on alert, when two unexpected sources join the conversation. A smooth, well practiced salute is sent the Commander's way. "Good evening, Lord Shockwave. There are several shedule conflicts I will need to speak with you about during your earliest convenience." she states crisply, before peering at Catechism. "You should be resting up. But well... if we used just the base and not a lot of the pigments, which are additives anyway, then it wouldn't be an issue. We'd all be some shade of grey, though," at this point she cants her head to peer over her own form briefly, before continuing, "But it might make for better camo against the planet's surfaces. Particularly if we pursue this whole tunnel idea that I've heard bandied about by the past several megacycles. And no particular reason I'm asking right now, Fleet. Just keeping some options open for later missions." She smiles thinly.

Fleet inclines his head in response to Fusillade's comment. "That's understandable." Then, on the pigment talk, he adds, "The problem there is that we have a number of models, particularly the Seeker designed, who are identified primarily based upon our paint job. Certainly, if we were all set to match, I imagine people /could/ learn to tell us apart by voice and body language... but I frankly doubt they'd bother, just as many don't bother to do so with the Sweeps."

Arachnae has disconnected.

Catechism just waits on the medical table for her internal self repair systems to set into her structural damage. She can tell that her engines and arm guns are pretty badly hit. However, her thoughts are becoming clearer. She can think again, insofar as she ever could, and without hesitation, she properly online her optics again.

"I will not be on Cybertron for much longer. Address your concerns now." Shockwave tells Fusillade as he witnesses her salute in the reflection of the med-table monitor. To Fleet, he replies, "Decepticon jet-configurations are identified by height, color scheme and shade variations, body language, speech patterns, weapon complement, design modifications, physical behaviors, and serial number imprinting. Sweeps are identified by body language, speech patterns, weapon complement, and physical behaviors."

Fleet takes a long time before answering as he carefully weighs the wisdom of even doing so. Finally he says, a bit hesitantly, "Well, yes, sir, we /can/ be identified by all those things, but non-Seekers often don't bother learning any identification beyond the color. Some don't even learn that much... for example, I've been mistaken for other Seekers more than once, and... and there really aren't that many pale yellow Seekers running about."

Catechism could comment that she's been mistaken for Dirge. And possibly Ramjet. She doesn't, however, She tries to avoid Shockwave. He makes her feel stupid, and she's rather not waste his time with her no doubt idiotic words. Injured as she isn't, she certainly can't up and wander out. So her best option now is to stay quiet. So she does.

Finishing the last of the entries, Fusillade mmmphs at Fleet. "Yeah, it is true. We are rather visually oriented." Towards Shockwave, she states, "My new assignment will make my further participation in your program draft nigh impossible, sire. If it is possible, and more importantly, acceptable, to continue at a slower pace, I will be willing to do so." And then, Catechism begins to rouse. Fusillade slinks over, and waves an obsidian hand in front of her face. "Heeeeeeeeeey!"

"Fifty six in active service. Not including units on long-term, interplanetary tour of duty." Shockwave announces to Fleet. "If it is your observation that few outside your ranks fail to identify you for who you are, then you would be well-advised to either perform a noteworthy feat or develop what others have identified as a more 'engaging personality.'"

Fleet tilts his head to the left and... smiles, although he quickly chases it away. "Yes, sir. Your advice will be carefully considered." Considered, and most likely rejected, as Fleet has always seen it as one of the great strengths of his kind that they can, at will, blend into the background so as to be more easily dismissed as 'crowd filler.'

Catechism is now capable of adjusting her to gaze to track Fusillade's hand as the bomber waves it around. She looks up and over at Fusilalde and inquires,"Yes, ma'am? I am afraid that I haven't been able to get much done in my invalid state, although I have kept up on reports."

Shockwave continues monitoring his vitals.

Catechism admits, "I was thinking about getting a proper mounting for that trophy I took. ma'am, but I hadn't really considered bigger quarters. There's no reason for me to take up more of the Empire's valuable space. Perhaps I'll look into getting a desk, though." She winces. "I had no idea how much paperwork came with this post."

Fleet seems to have fallen below the radar at this point, which is the spot he prefers, anyway. He offers a final salute to all the officers present, whether they want it or not, and slips out the door while no one's paying attention to him.

Fleet moves west to the IHQ Central Chamber.

Fleet has left.

A faint 'meh' escapes Fusillade as Catechism outlines her undemanding desires. "Well, I didn't mean to suggest going overboard with it. But we're going to be up to our audials in it for a while. History files of past engagements, personnel dossiers, intelligence if DCI will ever put it out for us, the list is endless. Might as well be comfortable so we can focus properly on it, no?" She raps her ebony knuckles on the table's edge, before standing and straightening herself with a sharp nod towards Catechism. "Next time I'll bring you some white high grade, if you'd even touch it. Maybe keep it to barter with someone else in the future. Who knows? See you on Earth." With that, she begins to saunter toward the doorway.

Catechism chuckles and notes, "I wouldn't, but it'd work excellently for bartering purposes. Thank you, ma'am. I'll keep that advice in mind." Hmm, maybe she can track down Swindle. He knows how to acquire trophy mounts. Then, she leans back to get some rest in. So much for there being no rest for the wicked.