We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
Barricade was wrapping up the last of the cuttings, the raw mesh sluicing clean fluids now, the silvery glitter of repair nanites in the fluid glistening and sparkling healthily, the EM off them strong and clean rather than lukewarm and ugly like around the wound had been. Cade bent down, bringing his face nearer to the hole in her plates, optics scanning the interior of the wound for any lingering trances of the poison in the protomass. Nothing. Clean. He stood back, glaring at the medic in a perfectly lethally irritated sort of way, his EMF a tangled of hostile frequencies.
“What did you negotiate that necessitated getting half-gutted and limping your Primus-damned way home dripping vital fluids? Please do share, I’m staggered with the need to hear this,” said Barricade, expression murderously blank.
Tracking Moonshot to make sure that the tray of excised protomatter was set aside safely, Cleaver pointed to another cupboard. It was a means to count to calm as much as anything else. "Cans of cleansing foam in the bottom, there, and take a piece of the clear gauze as well. Tip of the scalpel will still be warm enough to heat-seal it on."
When the necessary closing supplies were brought to the berth, Cleaver returned her attention to Barricade. The urge to smack him was still close, but then it never really went away a lot of the time when he was using his vocaliser... "A demilitarized zone. I'm building a Neutral base because this ship is getting too fragging small."
Mental note: Memorize the layout of Cleaver's bay. This 'shuffle through umpteen-thousand bottom drawers in search of medical supplies' scrap wasn't going to cut it, especially not if medical emergencies like this one became commonplace. More scalpels, unmarked canisters, implements that would've made excellent torture devices- sweet Primus, what the Pit did she do with all this stuff?!- Oh. Right. There was the cleanser and, just to add insult to injury, a neat roll of gauze right next to it. In other words, right where they were supposed to be. Imagine that.
-and then Moonshot's world turned on its audio with a near-audible choke of static. Only the fortuitous presence of a table to grab onto- and maybe, just maybe, a particularly murderous black mech to stagger against- kept him upright. He'd heard some insane things in his comparatively-short life, but what Cleaver so casually stated made all the statistical improbabilities involved in sniping miles-distant targets look like sparklings' play. It was the lot of a neutralist to keep their helm down and their aft covered lest one or both sides use it for target practice, something Cleaver of all mechs would know, but there was no question in her tone. This wasn't a vague idea, something the medic toyed with in her spare time- this was something solid, something real.
"Neutral base," He repeated, blank-with-shock tone edging towards incredulous. "Did I hear that right? Demilitarized neutral base?" He didn't add it, couldn't bring himself to vocalize it, but he sure as hell thought it: Safety?
“Congratulations,” said Barricade in a tone that pretty much described exactly what little that meant to a mech with no context of the war they were talking about. What he saw and the context he had was a Neutral medic morally thick enough to go out of her way to repair and help, at her expense, some wrecked racer Bot that could put her in the black with either side if they ever found out about him. A femme who adopted stray cassettes and new-spark Neutrals and had, apparently, let herself be wrecked for the sake of negotiations because Cade knew what defensive and attack wounds looked like that Cleaver’s told a story indeed.
“Let’s hope that mech who fragging stabs and mutilates those he makes a truce with is a mech sane enough to keep such a truce. Though, considering you are a mechanism who would stand there and allow such a price for peace, you two mad bots deserve eachother.”Barricade exvented, hard. “If we’re done here?” I’ll be going.
Cleaver's optics were hard and steady on the Saleen, ventilations coming in slow modulations as she tempered a thousand knee-jerk answers. There was no point in explaining anything to Barricade, who barely had a grasp on the scope of the war, hadn't lived through the holocaust that had befallen their homeworld, and couldn't begin to comprehend what a haven from all of that on the front lines truly meant.
So finally, flatly, she just said: "Yeah you're done. Go and cleanse off in the 'rack."
Barricade's withdrawal from the medbay was like a dark cloud passing overhead, the air feeling clearer and lighter for it. Cleaver motioned to the patching supplies on the berth in front of Moonshot. Barricade had done, by far, the most serious and squeamish part. What he'd neglected to finish was minor. "Easy finish, Moonshot. Spray the cleanser and put the soft patch over the wound, then trace round the edges with the unactivated scalpel to seal it on."
As Moonshot studiously followed her instructions, Cleaver let her gaze slide back to the door Barricade had just taken his leave through. Difficult as his situation was, there were some parts that were almost enviable. Not remembering the eons of devestating conflict that had ground her down so much that a stab in the side seemed like a pittance to pay in exchange for a haven of peace, for one. Trusting Moonshot implicitly to effectively put on a plaster, Cleaver offlined her optics and took a moment to wonder what that absence, outside of the fear, might feel like.
<fin>
Last Edit: Feb 27, 2012 10:59:20 GMT -5 by Deleted