Ep0.5 - 'Setting up Shop' - Closed

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The Neutral base was finally starting to look like something habitable after a week of work, but Cleaver was painfully aware that there was still a lot to be done. Both Moonshot's and her own ships had been dismantled and their parts spread around. Her small transport had furnished multiple rooms with berths, made a respectable living area in one corner of the central atrium (three Cybertronian sofas; a big TV that Moonshot had rigged to satellite inside an hour; the old crate that had faithfully served as a table and pede-rest since she'd taken on the ship), and the energon processor had been rigged up and was chugging away happily. Now that her intake had almost trebled, and would remain so for the duration of manufacture, that was particularly significant.

Today's focus was the Medbay, which was largely set up and operational, just far from practically laid out and installed. Monitoring equipment needed riveting to the walls, berths secured to the floors, and storage for the myriad parts, tools and chemicals bolted firmly enough that a crashing blow from a malfunctioning mech wouldn't rain the contents down.

Cleaver had been nursing her second cube of the morning whilst she finished welding a closed shelving unit out of one of the hull panels of Moonshot's shuttle. She set the cube aside on the closest of the four berths to tip the cupboard up on its end, tapping the welds to make sure they were strong. Satisfied, she got a secure grip and went to heft it up onto the waiting wall brackets.

Only to instantly drop it when several strained hydraulics helpfully pointed out that she'd made the thing out of ship plating and that it was slagging heavy for it.

Stepping back with a rub of her wrists, Cleaver ran through a mental list of who could help. Moonshot would have been content to, but she was quite certain he was 'breaking in' the firing range all day today. Ironhide had bridged in an hour ago and busied himself clearing rubble, seeming far more collected than he had the last time she'd seen him.

Moving back to the half-finished decontamination arch, Cleaver comm.ed her cohort mate whilst putting micro-tools to the machine's wiring. It sent a warm haze through her chassis to do so, smiling by default when it came to the sparkling's other progenitor.

::Hide, you anywhere nearby? Got something heavy needs wall mounting, and I can't lift it on my own.::

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The comm came through while he was in the midst of chucking several larger pieces of rubble off the lip of the outlook at the front of the base, and Ironhide's first knee-jerk response - Primus, dahrlin', yeh've still got welds healin' over in yer side, would yeh STOP lifting things?? - promptly ran head first into a permanent alert flag of STOP FUSSING AT CLEAVER. It resulted in a cut off choked sort of noise in his vocalizer but achieved the wanted result of making him check himself before he replied. ::On mah way, dahrlin'.::

Quiet base, quiet spaces - it felt empty, compared to the Autobot facilities. They managed empty spaces there mostly by having people on different shifts; it wasn't ever the actual silence of the abandoned mine. It was soothing in a way, and was starting to look like an actual space; Ironhide could see the way it would look when more mecha started trailing in, a shift here, an hour there, bustling and ever changing.

That was for the common spaces. The medbay was Cleaver's space and matched the femme - sturdier, more permanent in feel, and orderly. Or would be, but in the meantime Ironhide looked askance at the freshly cobbled together cabinet that was sitting against one of the walls.

Cleaver had half turned at the sound of his steps; Ironhide stepped up behind her, brushing a kiss against her cheek and then her shoulder. His hands settled against her sides, welds beneath one palm, the place she had pointed out to him which meant sparkling cradled gently in the other. "Tell meh yeh didn't try t' lift that mess over there by yerself?"

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His hand felt cool over the radiant heat of her chassis, and Cleaver tipped her helm into his briefly with a smile. "Misjudged the weight," she replied, even and without apology. It wasn't as if she could have lifted it before getting sparked, anyway. She had the strength to manhandle the most uncooperative of patients (as Barricade had eventually learnt), but deadlifting something that large and heavy would take two.

As an afterthought she nudged her elbow into his abdominal plates with a just-exaggerated scowl. "And don't call my cupboard a mess. Made that myself, y'know." Brushing over his hand atop their sparkling, Cleaver maneuvered out of Ironhide's hands and came to stand at one end of said cupboard with her hands on her hips. "Brackets are already fixed - just need to lift this up onto them, slot it down and bolt it back." A smirk, wholly affectionate. "Steady enough for that, love?"

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"Think th' fine work of cabinetry nearly outweighs us both," he told her, with a grin and teasing flux of field. "Think we can manage, though, if yer sure those brackets are gonna hold."

She was, they were, and the brackets did, though he wagered it was a close call on some parts - he had an idea how far into the wall she'd had to drill those brackets from his half of the weight, and he kept a steadying shoulder pressed into the thing as she bolted it back. "An' now we all know why they assemble ships in orbit," he joked, flexing his hands with a subdued crackle of tightened linkages. The same hand snuck back to her side, brushing light. "What else d'yeh need?"

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One week.

One week of trying to protect her precious hunk of metal and duct tape from Moonshot's ever hungry gaze. She didn't think he would feel this… strongly about it. But part of that, she couldn't help but think, was probably a combination of a deep rooted wish nourished by the excitement of having his own space, his own range, to shoot at. And what better target than a beat up old car? His new puppy-like behavior aside, she didn't imagine she'd actually have to sleep in the thing to keep it from disappearing. Twice he had already tried while she was with Cleaver, helping move things here into some type of order, and twice she ran him down with her new, much better Apache.

So, she did what anyone would do with a hyperactive individual. Divert their attention elsewhere with something productive.
Guns.
She liked guns. She wanted guns. And guns on the Apache would be, they both agreed, badass. That, at least, occupied him for a couple hours whenever he had a new idea, and just this morning she woke to stacks of blue print papers (he had taken the enthusiastic courtesy of projecting them onto paper her size from the datapad) littering the area around her car.

Those same blueprint papers were carefully rolled and tied to the back of the Apache she now drove, tugging a trailer of stuff on the list of things needed to move to the Med Bay. Cleaver had already gotten started before she even woke up, but she knew the drill, knew the area well enough, and had been in a somewhat state of awareness to recall the list of general things useful in the 'Bay today-- on the list, organizing a section for humans. Almost instinctively she glanced at her arms, twitching her fingers, a few of the more severe areas still bandaged but some of her skin finally able to not only be exposed, but regaining a bit of its dark complexion.

The new 'Bay just around the corner, she pressed the acceleration just a little bit, eager to get to work again for the day after having slept in. 'Oh we have a visitor.' A visitor that made her girl senses tingle like a sorority sister, and for that brief moment she allowed herself to entertain that slightly missed gossip girl frame of mind.
"Sup, Cleaver? Sorry, kind of overslept." She pulled up close enough in the room to unload comfortably, smoothly sliding off of her seat after cranking down the Apache and taking time to stretch herself out with a few pops. "And hello!" To the red mech, a small wave given mid-stretch.

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"Actually you're just in time, Cat: I have a cupboard that needs scrubbing." Cleaver knelt to great the smallest tennant, running an critical optic over both arms before removing a cardboard box from subspace. Introductions could wait a klik. She nudged the package towards Cat with the tip of one finger, the flaps already unsealed and open from earlier inspection. "First though: this is your uniform whilst you're in the Medbay, and it is to otherwise live in one of the storage boxes on your Apache."

The 'uniform' was comprised of the highest quality safety clothing that money could buy (and money didn't mean a whole lot to Cleaver as she had plenty and she could get pretty much anything delivered to her holo's postbox with enough of it). The boots, gloves and trousers were chainsaw-resistant to protect against dangerous Cybertronian internals, and the jacket was equally sturdy whilst still being easy to unzip and remove to prevent heat exhaustion.

Cleaver watched Cat paw through the contents. "Everything has been flame and chemical retarded, and you will wear it when you touch anything potentially hazardous."

Satisfied that Cat had absorbed the seriousness she was placing on this rule being abided by, Cleaver rose back to her pedes with a nod to Ironhide. "Cat, this is Ironhide, weapon's specialist from the Autobot faction. Ironhide, Miss Catherine Bravocci, my assistant-in-training and a resident here on the base."

She flashed a safety/priority/protect/duty series of glyphs that weren't quite apologetic to him for leaving him standing idle.

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It wasn't actually something he was conscious of or could even seem to help any more - to stand next to Cleaver was to be touching her in some fashion, his hand brushing her waist, her hip, her dorsal plates, her rotars, as though tactile contact confirmed her reality, near and safe and beloved. Her glyphs slid so easily into his own that it took no thought at all - affirmative/understood/agreed.

One hand still resting light against Cleaver's hip for actual physical steadiness as much as mental, Ironhide carefully dropped to one knee beside the human woman. Older than Miko, younger than Mrs. Darby - his judge of human ages wasn't much more exact than that, but his optics touched on the lingering wounds on her arms. He'd heard about this one, from a gleeful Shadowrunner who had wanted to tell him all about what he and the rest of the cohort had missed.

Inclining his head slightly, Ironhide pitched the bass of his rumble to something suitable for organic audios and the range between them. "Hello, Miss Bravocci."

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She flopped to her knees after her satisfying stretch, reaching down into the box to pull out the jacket piece to the suit. It was nothing like the cut up half-T and shorts she was currently wearing… but it went well with the bright purple of her glasses. Jacket now resting in her lap, she smiled up at Cleaver through the serious tones. She knew she needed it.. she knew why.. and she'd certainly not hesitate to let Cleaver know, once again, her gratefulness. "Thanks, Cleaver." Her cheeks dimpling when she tried to keep her smile from turning into a grin, eyes somehow looking innocent. Somehow. ...Kind of.

She was in the process of slipping off her flats and removing the boots from the box when Ironhide kneeled, and this time let the grin break through. "Call me Cat." Boots on her feet given a quick once over, she refocused her eyes up to Ironhide, hands relaxed and on her hips. Larger than Moonshot and much, much thicker with a presence that seemed.. 'older' than him. "Nice t'meet you, Ironhide! If you're stickin' around…," She dropped her tone in a mock whisper, leaning in slightly with a raised brow that took away any seriousness from her suggestion,"...trade you cupboard scrubbing duty."
'Weapon's specialist. Moonshot's gonna love to meet you.'

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Ironhide huffed a laugh, deciding he liked the woman. "Cat, then," he agreed. "Ah have t' wonder what yeh'd be tradin' meh scrubbin' duty for." He turned his head enough to glance back at Cleaver, a grin curling his mouth, before focusing back on Cat. "Rock haulin', maybe? Ah made a bit of a mess blowin' out that wall th' other day."

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Her grin wasn't so much a grin as it was a cackle in smile form. Something Cleaver might have recognized from Moonshot when he got that certain glimmer in his optics talking about his weapons. "Depends. Do I get my choice of how? Pretty sure I could make due with blowing them into smaller fun-size pieces..." Though from the way her tone trailed off, and that damned cackling-grin, it suggested the job would be more about blowing up inanimate objects and watching the smaller pieces rain down... perhaps sweeping them under a rug... than it would be about actually removing the rocks from the area.

"I just might, if Moonshot has his way with the Apache, huh?" She added, rolling her eyes upwards to Cleaver. Not that she had instigated it or anything.

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Cleaver tipped her helm back with shuttered optics, venting heavily with an exasperated rattle. "Primus help me, I'm surrounded by explosion-addicts. I'm not going to have a base if all three of you buddy up to wreak havoc."

Leaning her weight into one blade at her side, the old femme arched a deeply critical brow at Cat. "And maybe you'll be able to explain to me why you need weapons on your mode of transport, hn? The only answers I've gotten out of Moonshot are 'just cuz' and 'it's gotta have guns'."

She smiled fractionally taking the sting out of her last question/accusation: "Are you two actually conspiring to void the DMZ?"

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Ironhide had turned to look up at Cleaver as she spoke, but at her words his field waved a short burst of surprise as his head swiveled back to regard the machine Cat had ridden in on. "Guns?" he rumbled, pointing. "On that?"

A headtilt, scanning and measuring the device with a considering air - Moonshot, he remembered, was the other Neutral on base, and Blue had had a lot of good to say about the other sniper - and then, because he could feel Cleaver watching him and it sparked a hitch of amusement in his own field to tease her (and an answering hint of amusement and exasperation in hers), another slow tilt of his head back in the other direction to view the Apache from the other side, letting a thoughtful hum vibrate through his chassis. "They might have a point, dahrlin'," he offered. "Base is big, mine went down deep. Primus knows we've got local organic life burrowin' into our base every which way - no trouble for one of us, but she near runs down somethin' lookin' t' make a nest in here, or comes across something with bigger, sharper, an' more toxic teeth than she has, an' guns might not be a bad idea." He huffed a small exvent. "Couple of manipulator arms might not be a bad idea either - it's got more base counter weight for liftin' then she does - no offense," he added as an aside to Cat, nodding to her. "Just thinkin' of convenience. Lot of this base ain't gonna be built t' yer size."

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Why she would need weapons… conspiring?

Shoulders and hands slowly rose to turn upwards in a shrugging posture, eyes rolling with it in an expression of mock innocence. …Which became laced with mischief the second she heard support (logical support at that, which was more than she had offered so far, or even thought about) from Ironhide. Shrugging and raised hands shifted to motion at the Big Red in a theatric way, eyebrows rising above her glasses. "From the Weapon's Specialist himself." She pointed out before moving to dig back in her box, shifting new gear into one of the packs on the Apache.

"Just sayin'! It'd be possible! …Besides, it kept his attention away from my car when I couldn't be there. I had to sleep in the thing last night to make sure it didn't wind up on the new range this morning." She tapped the rolled 'blueprints' rolled up on the back as she spoke, failing utterly and completely at looking annoyed or displeased. …She may or may not have contributed to a few of the ideas. "Something more constructive than blown' up my shit." And threw an arm out to Cleaver, not quite able to hide the undertone of a giggle, when she offered: "Or yours! for that matter."

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Cleaver hadn't weighed in on the Truck Issue, on the one hand because Cat had already proven herself more than capable of holding her own against mechanical beings a hundred times her mass, and on the other because she honestly wasn't sure if this was actually a game and Cat didn't care if her truck got blown up. Perhaps she just wanted to blow it up herself...

"My shit is predominantly attached to me. Furthermore, Moonshot is perfectly aware that I am possessive of both a welding arc and an imagination." Cleaver looked to the surprising co-conspirator, cuffing him with the flat of one blade. "You: don't encourage them. Not everything in the 'verse needs a gun. I've gotten by just fine without one."

::And you are not strapping a cannon to our sparkling. Ever.::

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The cuff was almost expected - he'd been teasing (well, serious enough, when it came to Cat's potential security, but teasing all the same) and in Ironhide's experience cohort generally told you when they'd had enough teasing by cuffing you upside the helm. There was nothing new or unusual about that.

Her words over the comm, though, startled him, almost shocking, and he couldn't even tell why. Whether it was that meeting Cat had, for however brief a klik, taken precedence over the constant spark pulse of 'sparkling' in his processor, or the sudden realization that he hadn't thought of or given any consideration to the inescapable fact - that sparkling came out into the world, they learned, they grew, they explored, and eventually, they DID THINGS. Whether those things were to take up a gun the way Bluestreak had or... or...

Their sparkling, he realized, the sparkling currently nothing more than a patch of warmth beneath Cleaver's plates, could be a civilian.

The sparkling - Cleaver's sparkling - could be a non-combatant like hir's carrier. Could, quite possibly SHOULD, be a Neutral. Could be a medic. Could be... Primus, he didn't even know what civilians did, artists, historians, architects, inventors of things other than weapons, trades and skills and mindsets that had barely ever brushed up against his function and which had been lost along the way in the black and the war. That tiny unrealized sparkling nestled up beneath Cleaver's plates, could be ANYTHING.

Anything at all. Anything ou ever dreamed or wanted to be. Freely, and if that wasn't the final emergence, in the mesh, of Prime's oft-quoted dream, then Ironhide didn't know what could be.

He'd been knelt down on one knee to talk to Cat. The realization that thrummed through him jerked a startled note of static from his vocalizer and dumped him straight onto his aft, where it took him another klik to realize that both femmes were staring at him like he'd glitched. Ironhide rebooted his vocalizer, clearing static with a rough engine sound, and gingerly picked himself back up to his pedes to stand by Cleaver. "No," he managed a bit hoarsely. "Yer right."

::Absolutely right, an' Ah wouldn't. Ah won't.:: That close, the wonder he was feeling carried through as easily as comm signals, awed and a little unsettled but grounded in bedrock certainty - No. Never.