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Difference between revisions of "2018-08-27 We'll See"

From Transformers: Lost and Found

(Created page with "{{Log |logtitle=We'll See |logdate=2018/08/27 |location=Lost Light - Science and Medical - Medibay |participants=Rodimus, Prowl, |npcs=Kaput, |summary=Rodimus returns Prowl's...")
 
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Latest revision as of 01:08, 28 August 2018

We'll See
Date 2018/08/27
Location Lost Light - Science and Medical - Medibay
Participants Rodimus, Prowl
NPCs Kaput
Summary Rodimus returns Prowl's datapad, and they discuss the war crimes some of the crewmates have come forward with. Prowl tries to mess with how skeeved out Rodimus is and PAYS THE PRICE.

When Rodimus arrives in the medibay to visit Prowl, he isn't covered in biohazard containment film -- but he looks a like he WISHES he were. He braces at the doorway just to make sure nothing oozing or gushing explodes him as he appears, and then casually -- CASUALLY -- saunters over to get a look at Prowl. His paint is a little scuffed and finish dull, like he scrubbed way too hard at it. "Sooooo. Hi." He is carrying a datapad, which he offers.

Prowl lies flat and dejected, gazing listlessly at the ceiling as he recovers from today's dose of radiation. Nothing is OOZING per se, but the many hairs that cover his carapace have begun to fall off. They surround his figure in a fuzzy outline, and fall onto the floor when he shifts upright to meet Rodimus. He snatches the datapad and quickly flicks through the digital pages. Mutter-mutter. Flick-flick-flick. Mutter.

"Oh g---." Guh. GUH. The datapad is Prowl's own, and Rodimus pulls his hand back with enough speed to suggest he's honestly considering the possibility of contamination. A bit weakly, he asks, "So. How's it going. With stuff." The datapad has been ruthlessly hacked by Soundwave, but at least it's intact?

"Oh, you know." Prowl sours when he notices his little private directory has been breached. HIS WRITINGS. "Trying to kill off parts of my body, little by little." He looks up over the edge of his datapad where it's held close in both hands, and lifts a brow. "Does it disturb you, Rodimus?" he asks, blandly.

"Yes," Rodimus says, absolutely frank. "Are you going to pretend it doesn't disturb you?"

"I don't think much about my frame, to be honest." Prowl extends a looong spindly, shiny spider leg and drags the tip across Rodimus' flames. Hairs definitely graze Rod's chin as the appendage pulls upward and away. "But yes, it's unpleasant."

Rodimus recoils so quickly that he trips over his feet, into a medical cart, and dings his spoiler hard against the wall. He slaps the tickling sensation away, and glares at Prowl. "You're enjoying that."

Prowl laughs openly, his mirth brightening the scarlet eyes of his creepy new alt and making all eight of his lengthy limbs shiver. "I am. Allow me some sliver of cheer in my recent slagstorm of bad news and rotten decisions. Speaking of, there's a few war crimes tethered to your name. Did you know? Maybe you should."

"Ugh." Rodimus looks willing to laugh with Prowl -- still creeped out, still uneasy, still rubbing away the memory of those tickling hairs -- and then he goes and says. That. His smile fractures and falls away in pieces. "I -- uh. I guessed. Yeah, I assumed."

"I don't mean Nyon," Prowl clarifies, his smile gentling. "Can you guess? Can you remember?" His questions are more curious than pointed and demanding. "Don't worry, none are as awful as mine. And Soundwave's," he adds, sliding from the berth to stand.

Curious or not, gentle as they are, Rodimus folds and falls back under Prowl's questioning. He folds his arms (and he just has two of them) over his chest. "Can I guess? Prowl, that's like the worst game I've ever heard of." He looks a bit overwhelmed as he says, "I guess I don't think about it. But I knew I'd have to."

Prowl tilts his datapad where it sits, angled against his hip. "A lot of these are indirect. Mechs under your command failing to be truthful, or permission granted without more thorough reading. Accidents and misunderstandings that count under technicalities. I wanted to be smug about it but you look like you're going to collapse into yourself."

Rodimus curls his hands to form fists and unfolds the cross of his arms as he straightens. "Actually that's just because of your gross goo-legs. I looked them up. After helping Soundwave peel it off. Goo legs, Prowl. Anyway, it's not -- all indirect. I can think of a couple. Actually, kind of funny--" He says that in a way that makes clear it isn't funny. "--but couple of things probably when I rescued Dealer and we all know how that turned out."

Prowl wriggles his limbs. They undulate with surprising smoothness. Maybe he's getting the hang of it. "At least he's dead. If you want to outline the details so I can include a reference to it on the Autobot side of things, let me know."

He heads over to that cart Rodimus clattered into and sets his datapad down. With a small swipe to the left, holographic panels project and line up to the side of the device. Dossiers of crewmates with their war crimes details. And a "rating" for their volunteered information. "I wouldn't have guessed little Nightshade, or Waspinator, or Vort- Nevermind, that one is obvious. Where do you think Orion places?"

“Uh uh. You can’t trick me into answering that. Ratchet already chided me for tearing him down by calling him Orion.” Even if he refuses to answer, the manner of Rodimus’s evasion is suggestive.

He studies the crews crimes with a dimming of light and a slow vent. “Frag. Do you think this will really help? I can’t help but notice you just named Decepticons.”

"Ratchet has a problem. You can tell him I said that. I'm not afraid of him." Prowl stops to lift his voice to the rest of the indifferent medibay nurses. "I said Ratchet has a problem. Get that on tape," he points at a passing drone.

"It's a different angle," Prowl answers, whatever that means. Then, he looks affronted. "You think I'm biased? Against Decepticons? Me?" A sly grin follows his mock offense. "Worry not, we have a veritable rainbow of unethical Autobots." Sunstreaker's charming mug pops up. Then Fortress Maximus. Then Bulkhead. "I want to believe that they were doing what they thought was right, at the time."

"Decepticons were too, you know." Rodimus pauses. "Mostly." His pause draws out longer. "Some of them. Anyway, yeah, you did mention Decepticons and I do think you're biased. I am too. How many of them do you think will actually take part in this?"

Prowl bristles. Which means all of his hairs bristle too. "Some of them," he agrees through a mutter. "How many?" He looks over his list. "I'm hoping more. A lot of neutrals are coming forward. Neutrals. Maybe the Decepticons need a little more encouragement. I did plant explosive chips in their heads when they tried to rejoin society, after all."

Rodimus leans away. "Gross. Stop doing that. It's gross." SORRY PROWL. G R O S S.

He tries to focus on the datapad and on what Prowl is saying, but he keeps getting distracted by movement -- or imagined movement -- in his peripheral vision. "What're a few explosive chips between friends, anyway. At least you didn't melt them down for materials."

"I really don't know how you managed on Earth." But Prowl stops and tucks his legs away, back behind him, out of sight. "Get Soundwave to nudge the Decepticons. Everything he says comes out like a threat anyway, so it should be easy."

"I was there for like two seconds, and everything I saw there leaves me deeply and profoundly confused by the attachment so many have to the place," Rodimus says. Earth is gross. "Also in my two seconds there I saw what they'd managed to do to Sunny, so it's not like organics are winning many arguments here."

Scowling, he defends Soundwave: "Not everything sounds like a threat. And we don't want to threaten people into it. Or coerce them. It has to be freely done, with their whole heart, or it won't matter."

"It's the synthesizer," Prowl says, and it sounds like he's attempting to be delicate in the face of Rodimus' scowling. His turn to tuck inward and fold his arms. "Of course. I understand that. It does not matter who comes forward, and in what amount." He's clearly trying to convince himself.

"It does matter, somewhat: obviously it will be better if we can get more buy-in from everyone, but I think the best way to do that will be to show them the full and willing participation of those that do go," Rodimus says. He shifts, like he might pat Prowl on the arm, but he super seriously reconsiders. He's not touching that. "I guess we'll see, in the end. And I guess I better start--." Start what? He doesn't know. He just kind of stalls and fails to finish the sentence.

Prowl eyes Rodimus, then moves to stand behind him so they can stand there and brood over the next step in solidarity. Except there's now the ghosting brush of hairs and pointed limbs across Rodimus' spoiler. Maybe it's the fun helping of radiation that prompts Prowl to continue messing with Rodimus. It's just really funny to Prowl, okay.

Ohhhhh my GOD.

Prowl has about a split-second warning as the air around Rodimus's frame flashes rippling hot before igniting. Radiation is for losers: Rodimus is just going to burn it from his frame as he pivots to grab hold of one of those limbs near the base -- and see what happens.

Prowl wears a ridiculous grin up until Rodimus starts to burn, and oh god he's got a hold of an appendage. "Ow! Okay-okay-okay!" As he tries to yank away from the searing grip (which looks like it might actually burn straight through), the scent of burning organic matter flips the medibay's sprinklers. No one looks pleased as they glare over at the captain and a writhing, twisting Prowl. Orderlies rise to handle the situation.

"No, hang on, I want to see what happens," Rodimus orders the orderlies back as he presses the flat of his hand against Prowl's joint. He is absolutely trying to sear it straight off.

"No, help me you idiots!" Prowl snaps, but the orderlies remain where they are, watching. "That stings! You slagging-" He wrests free and slumps flat across the nearest berth, his new wound cauterized, leaving Rodimus with a frantically twitching spider limb that balances in his grip.

Rodimus fliiiings the leg once he realizes that it's come loose and it's still moving, and then stares expectantly at Prowl's back. "How long does it usually take to grow back?"

The leg lands on the floor, and about five hovering drones surround it to poke at it. Prowl lies there under the light mist of the sprinklers, grumbling loudly. "How would I know! Why don't you go pluck the quills out of Minimus' aft while you're here!"

"They're on his hand. I think they're on his hand. They haven't spread, have they?" Rodimus, who at this point has extinguished, now turns to the orderlies and waves his hand at the ceiling. "Can't you put that out?" It's super inconvenient. He's still staring at Prowl's back, waiting. Watching.

Prowl remains in this undignified position as the singed nub on his back begins to split, and from the energon-tinged "meat" forms a pinkish claw that slowly threads itself into the proper form. It grows and blackens and knits its segments in a way that might be described as hypnotic if it weren't awful to look at. Tarantulas really outdid himself with this process. No wonder the Quints want it. The sprinklers go out, and now everyone else is watching, both fascinated and disgusted.

"NO. Oh, COME ON." Rodimus lights his hand right back on fire and begins to reach out toward Prowl only for orderlies to -- this time -- lunge back in and stop him.

Rodimus extinguishes, but sullenly. "Can't you just burn it all out?"

"Urgh..." Prowl reaches for the nearest glass of medical grade and guzzles it. He clumsily twists to face Rodimus, and glares. "Are you a doctor? No? Then leave me to the professionals, Rodimus. Thanks."

"Captain, we really can't let you set the patients on fire, even if they deserve it," laments Kaput.

"You have no idea how gross everything I just watched was," Rodimus tells Prowl in a voice of ringing conviction, "and just how much the fact that I'm still standing here is a testament to my regard for you. That was disgusting. Back me up, guys." Come on, Kaput.

Kaput looks completely helpless. The orderlies snicker.

"If you try to burn it all off you're going to melt me," Prowl grouches. "I still have metal. It's just... woven with regenerating organic slag, apparently. Why don't you go ask Tarantulas for the cure? Maybe he'll respond to the threat of fire a little better."

"I'm not going to threaten a prisoner with torture for information," Rodimus says, having just exposed Prowl to not the threat, the but the fact of flame and pain. "Look -- sorry about that." He pauses. He searches the ceiling. He looks back at Prowl. His expression is truly regretful. "I thought it would help."

"Whatever. Was almost worth it to see your paint curl." Prowl seems too damn parched to smirk this time around. He empties yet another glass, then snaps his fingers. "Can I count on you to tie up that mess? I really, really don't want to have any involvement. Conflict of interest." He pauses. "Tarantulas, I mean. I just don't want him here on this ship."

"I'll deal with him," Rodimus promises Prowl, just the faintest protective growl of Crew Threatened in his voice. "He's not getting any one of his eight creepy hands on your or Minimus again. Ten hands?" He pauses, and searches Prowl's frame. "Do you have the bug legs and your arms or are they included. How many is it?" So much for dignity.

Prowl seems placated by this assurance. The question has him searching his own form. "I..." He looks over his shoulder and counts. "Ten? I don't know how it works, I haven't transformed. Nightshade told me to talk to Sequin for some tips, so. Now that I'm lightly fried and drenched and radiated, I should probably head over. I wanted to check on Minimus but we're like ships passing in the night."

"Or like creepy techno-organic bug beings passing in the night," Rodimus says. Helpfully. After a pause, he adds, "I'll let him know you want to catch him. Look -- Prowl. What I said. To Tarantulas. You know that I didn't mean it, right? You're my crew."

"Of course. Of course I know that," Prowl answers immediately. The smallest of smiles, THE SMALLEST, grace his lips. It's faint in this light - which is stark and bright. "Thanks for rescuing us. Slaggit, I'm trying to be frosty here. It's my natural state."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to hug you." Rodimus scrubs his hands down his arms and shudders. "Ugh, I think I can still feel fibers under my armor. Thanks. I'm going to go light myself on fire and then scorch myself chemically with solvents. It's good to have you back, though. Really. Let me know if I can do anything to help with all of--" He gestures. "That."

"Don't scour yourself too hard. It looks like someone else already did a solid job of rubbing you down," Prowl teases.

Rodimus low-key flusters: "BYE PROWL."

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