robothell | Not in Kansas Anymore

Not in Kansas Anymore

Who: Tarn and Spinister
Where: The City
When: Sometime after arrival
What: Spinister gets an unfortunate welcome.
Warnings: Tooorture potentially??

This was not the WAP.

This was not the WAP at all.

Spinister shakily wipes the black tears from his face with the back of his hand, confusion and panic condensing themselves into a small, hard lump somewhere under his spark casing.

They were playing jenga while waiting for Fulcrum to call in. Then the white-out pain of his spark suddenly starting to burning out, the blurred sight of Crankcase and Krok seizing on the floor in agony.

The pain had stopped as suddenly as it'd come, leaving a ringing, fading soreness behind. When the world cleared up again, it had not been the comforting sight of the WAP's lounge room that had greeted him. Spinister staggers onto his feet, gun and rotor sword slipping into his hands, the former of which he aims into nothingness as he twists round and round, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

"Guys?" the heli calls out desperately. "Where are you? This isn't funny. This isn't funny at all!"

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Tarn has been wandering for some time in search of energon and a place to rest while he sorted out his thoughts on everything that has just come to light. Agitated, he begins pacing- transforming back and forth with every other step. He can feel his t-cog spewing heat, the grind starting to become somewhat painful. He knows that he a treading a thin line, and unlike back home, he has not a single transformation cog to replace the inevitable failure of the one he is currently abusing. He settles back into his preferred bipedal mode, hand going to touch the overheated plating resting over the aforementioned part. He's going to have to be more careful. When this cog burns out he's screwed.

He doesn't even have anyone to preform the surgery. The only medic he's encountered on this god forsaken version of Cybertron is on a mission to offline him.

Tarn huffs and exasperated sigh, glancing around the ruins of an old building when he hears a voice calling frantically outside. Its sounds somewhat familiar, but from where he can't quite place. Taking a step outside, a wolfish smile twists his face under the mask as he observes Spinister frantically trying to make sense of where he is. Ah yes, Tarn remembers where he's met this mech. He was part of that Pathetic group of scavengers that his team ran into on Clemency. The ones harboring the Coward on their list.

In fact if he remembers correctly, this mech earned himself a place on said list as well after the incident. Tarn clears his throat, leaning against a crumbling door frame.

"Well, well. Where are the rest of your little friends?" He calls in a smooth voice. "I would so enjoy having a reunion."

Tarn's voice stops Spinister dead in the middle of gingerly poking at a suspicious looking pile of garbage with his rotorsword.

Slowly, he turns around.

Misfire would have blubbered and flown off. Fulcrum would have blubbered and run off. Krok wouldn't have blubbered, but he'd have done the sensible thing and run off. Crankcase would have bitched while running off.

Spinister on the other hand was the kind of Decepticon who dove into combat on command and constantly regarded the world with a vague or immediate threat. Unfortunately, the kind of killing tenacity that made for a good enough fighter to run with Razorclaw's crew didn't particularly set the heli up well for surviving an encounter with the DJD.

In this particular instance, he just gives Tarn the single most insulted of looks he's ever managed to contort his mostly be-masked face into before starting to shoot at the DJD leader.

Tarn glares as the first bullet whizzes by his head, the second and third ricocheting off the armor plating covering his chest, and the fourth lodging itself between his treads. He looks down at the bullet, hand reaching up to flick it out. It lands a few feet away with a muffled clink.

"Come now, Spinister, that wasn't very nice." He purrs, optics narrowing and brightening behind his mask. He takes a few steps closer, regarding the copter with a sort of reserved interest. Killing him for his outrageous show of disrespect comes to mind of course, but in this new Cybertron what good would that do. Especially when Tarn knows as much as he does about this mech.

A certain idiot savant scientist would perhaps ease some of his worries surrounding a potential ally to preform t-cog transplants. Tarn supposes he should 'play nice'. Even if it only involves tricking him into doing what he needs him to do.

"Put the gun down, my friend, I only wish to talk."

"... Like, 'kill you with talk' talk, or actually 'talk' talk?" Spin asks, stepping back and circling to Tarn's left, keep well out of arm's reach and keeping his gun trained on the purple mech. This is a serious and legit question for someone who literally talks people to death!

"If it's the second one, I think 'negotiate' might better! It keeps people from getting confused about what you mean since 'talk' kinda has extremely negative connotations in your case."

There's a beat.

And then Spinister seems to remember who he was talking to because he flips into helicopter mode and showers Tarn with plasma rounds from his alt-mode turrets.

Frag this wasn't going to work, was it? Tarn shields himself with his fusion cannon as much as possible before moving to take cover behind a pile of nearby rubble.

"Fine, then, negotiate!" He growls trying to avoid the plasma rounds being shot at him from above. "Really this is not the best way to handle this situation, Spinister. My request is that we may come to terms without all of this shooting business. Now, if you would please desist"

One of the rounds grazes his arm just slightly, leaving a sluggishly bleeding scrape in its wake. He glaces down at it in irritation.

The last plasma blast leaves a smoking scorch mark in Tarn's cover. For a long moment, there was nothing but the deafening beat of helicopter blades slicing through the atmosphere.

Tarn did say 'please'. Not that 'please' generally got you much of anywhere with Decepticons, but Spinister's been conditioned enough with Krok's 'please don't's to at least stop and consider.

"... Why're you so interested in negotiating all of a sudden?" he calls out.

Tarn continues to crouch behind his meager shelter even as the plasma rounds cease. That was easier than he had expected. Now he just has to find a way to convince the copter to come down and talk. Then its only a matter of time until Tarn can convince him to do as he wishes.

"Negotiation is necessary in such a setting. Do you know where we are, Spinister?" He slowly stands up from behind the rubble, brushing a bit of debris from plating.

"I dunno, but it's not a terrible scrap heap. I mean, it's got actual buildings." Yeah, check out those buildings, man! "Also, energon! I've never seen that much raw energon in ages."

Spinister watches Tarn step out from behind his cover and snaps a warning shot into the ground a few meters away from the DJD leader's feet.

"Don't try anything funny."

It was kind of like a chihuahua threatening a bull mastiff, but this was Spinister.

Tarn stares at the smoking charred spot on the ground, where Spinister had shot, with an impassive cock of the brow.

"Hm- Yes, the energon is a plus but...have you noticed the disproportionate amount of Autobots? This strange Cybertron is crawling with them." If there's anything Tarn knows about Spinister, other than his bizarrely on point scientific talents, its his ridiculous paranoia. And if he intends to gain any sort of control over him it is best to capitalize on that. "Well they have noticed us. And they aren't particularly pleased about it. It is really best for us Decepticons to remain a team. At least for the time being, until they decide to stop trying to kill us."

a little bit of embellishment never hurt anyone.

"Uh. I didn't actually see much of anyone."

Which, unfortunately, isn't going to stop the genius surgeon from believing every word Tarn just said. Paranoia made Spinister one of the most perceptive members of the Scavengers, but he was simultaneously also... gullible in ways a lot of other mechs weren't.

The heli transforms and lands, still wary, still keeping his distance, but the gun in his hand isn't pointed at Tarn anymore.

"Why are they trying to kill us? I thought the war was over."

perfect

Tarn's frame relaxes slightly more now the the gun isn't pointed at his face.

"Will the war ever truly be over, Spinister?" He takes a slow measured step forward, opening his arms in a friendly gesture. "Now, what do we say to putting the blaster away, hm? Surely, that isn't how you treat your ally."

"I shoot at Misfire twice a week," Spinister answers cheerfully. He sobers up immediately afterwards and glowers at Tarn. "I'll shoot you twice a week too if you give me a reason to."

Which means no, he's not putting the blaster away just yet. Spin takes a few more seconds to stare the huge tank down before he lets his optics drop to the DJD commander's burnt hand.

"Want me to look at that?"

Tarn lifts his hand to inspect it closely upon Spinister's comment. Some of the wires closest to the surface had been singed and were causing a delay in sensory information.

That simply won't do, will it?

"If you wouldn't mind terribly, I would be thankful."

A little bit of politesse never hurt anyone.

Tarn's brand of politeness probably hurt plenty, lets be honest here.

Still, it was a standard Decepticon transaction. Spinister proved himself useful, Tarn didn't kill him messily; a bit of powerplay sprinkled on top and gambling that you held enough cards to keep the other mech in line for the duration of their alliance.

For all his social handicap, Spinister was at least familiar with this. The heli steps into Tarn's reach, rotors set ramrod straight in his hub as he reaches out to gently take the raised hand.

"I haven't got pain dampeners or anesthesia," he warns stiffly.

"That's quite alright. I wouldn't be in my profession if I couldn't handle a bit of pain."

Tarn lowers his hand for Spinister to get a better look, eyes brightening in interest.

"Hn."

After a bit more suspicious glaring, Spinister finally deigns to put his blaster away.

He then promptly sits, attempting to drag Tarn down with him by the wrist. If that works, the surgeon takes his field kit out of his inventory and pulls a few tools out so he start wordlessly disassembling the armor on the DJD leader's palm.

Edited 2015-01-26 23:01 (UTC)

Tarn allows Spinister to tug him down. He kneels in front of he scientist, settling down on his heels and steadying himself for the undoubtedly uncomfortable procedure to come.

He leans down just slightly for a better look as Spinister begins to dismantle the plating on his palm. It is a sort of curiosity that consumes him, but he also wants to be full aware of what his new comrade is doing at all times. In case he decides to go back back on their delicately arranged deal

"I do appreciate your help. There are not many mechs here who would be able or willing to preform repairs on me.

"You're not a very nice person and no one likes you," Spinister points out in answer, somewhat distracted by the procedure. He might not have Misfire's utter lack of mind to mouth filter, but it's a sieve with a lot of big holes at best.

Still, there was no maliciousness in his tone or touch, his concentration on delicately jiggling somewhat heat-warped armor pieces off. Tarn was built to a different standard than what he was used to and even with the fire damage the work goes smoothly. It's probably Tarn's very few saving graces, Spinister decides.

Once the armor was off, it was a simple matter of slicing the molten metal mesh and insulation off the damaged cabling so that he could start splicing them.

"So, you're here on your own too?"

That's the only reason Spinister could think of that would explain why Tarn would strike up with deal. The other DJD members would have no problem with performing repairs on Tarn after all.

Tarn holds back a groan of pain as Spinister sets to work on repairing the inner cabling. It is not often that the Commander of the DJD admits to being impressed by someones skill, especially someone who landed themselves so epically on The List. But here we are. Spinister is exceedingly gentle in his work. Especially for someone who was shooting at Tarn not moments ago. To be honest he expected much more rough treatment.

He chuckles a bit at the backhanded comment, though it comes out slightly strained.

"That's not entirely true. I have a few friends. But yes...I'm here on my own as well.

Tarn's friends were terrible people too, but Spin was too engrossed to bother saying that out loud. Tarn probably knew anyways. He connects a soldering iron to a port in his arm and goes to work heating the exposed, spliced wires up and then crimping them neatly with a needle nose plier.

"Have you set up some way to refine the energon yet?" he asks when he stops briefly to search through the items crammed into his field kit for some insulating tape.

"Not yet."

Loathe as Tarn is to admit it, engineering an energon refinery is not among his skill set. It never has been. Yes her tried the first few days to build a set up, but it was promptly destroyed in a fit of frustrated rage. Of course he intended to try again...

"I must admit, i am more skilled at destroying than building."

"Aw, you just gotta remember your cadet training! Crucible, heat source, tripod, scoop and inhibitor," Spinister recites as he starts wrapping insulating tape around the bare wires. "And a blast barrier!"

"All I've got for inhibitors is lead." Which means it's going to taste awful for Tarn since he probably wasn't used to the even lower grade, curdled corpse fuel that Spinister was used to. "I used to have some fancier stuff that we got off of some dead guys, but Misfire had that when I got popped over here."

Tarn just stares at him.

"That sounds...repulsive."

Lead inhibitors? Tarn would never touch the stuff; his tanks would probably rust from the inside out. At this point though, he needs energon. He might just have to suck it up, just this once.

"Well," Spin puffs a little unhappy sigh. "Welcome to the bottom rung, buddy. That's just how things are. Better than century old corpse fuel anyways."

Although corpse fuel had at least been tolerable with good company. Spinister's face twists into an unhappy expression, but he quickly buries his concentration back into tidying up the cables and putting the armor plates back on.

"Anything else I need to look at while we're here?" he asks, stopping briefly to bend Tarn's thumb plate back into shape.

Tarn lets out an unhappy puff of air through his vents as Spinister confirms his thoughts. Besides, he is right, anything would be better than old corpse fuel. He shudders slightly at the thought.

As Spinister finishes up the repair job, setting armor plates back into place, Tarn straightens back up.

"Perhaps if you would..." His hand comes up to touch the gunshot wound on his flank, optics growing cold as he remembers the circumstance that caused the injury.

"Hmmm," Spinister leans in and flicks a little flashlight out of his wrist compartment, placing light fingers around the edges of the wound. It'd just looked like a cracked biolight initially but now that it's been pointed out...

"This is gonna take a bit longer than your hand." It looked like at least one set of servos at been burnt through in there. No wonder Tarn had looked a bit stiff.

"Perhaps we should go inside that building, for the time being?" He says gesturing to the run down structure that he emerged from. "I would feel more comfortable if we less out in the open, if you understand. "

He starts easing himself up, wound aching slightly at the movement The thought of an adversary stumbling upon Tarn while he was so vulnerable made him uneasy. A bit of privacy would ease that significantly.

"Better than getting dust into everything anyways," Spinister says by way of agreement, tidying up his field kit and closing it before tucking the box under one arm.

"Is this base then?" the heli asks, peering curiously up at the building as he waited for his current teammate to get himself up. "Or is it, like, temp base?"

Tarn straightens up the best he can, leading Spinister into the building.

"Temporary base. It is probably best if we keep as mobile as possible. Just in case." May as well keep his paranoia heightened. Tarn takes a look around the interior, working his way further into the building "I think I saw a berth in one of the back rooms. Would that be easiest for you?"

It wasn't especially clean in here either, but Tarn had just stumbled upon it when Spinister showed up. It would have to do for now.

"Heh! Table works as well as berth for me, but I'm betting you're not going to be anywhere near as comfortable on a table," Spinister answers, shrugging slightly as he inspects the building, knocking on the walls, eyeballing any cracks they walked by.

It didn't seem too bad off. Sure, the structure wasn't going to last another year, but they should be long gone by then. Spin DOES make a note to tidy the place up somewhat though, if only for some peace of mind. Just because they were on the go didn't mean they had to leave in a turborat hole.

Tarn disappears into the back room, ignoring Spinister's investigation of the building and making a beeline for the small berth. It creaks as he shifts his weight onto it, lying down. Clearly the the recharge slap was made for a smaller lighter mech but as long as it continues to hold his weight, he supposes he can be choosy. He simply bends his knees, so that his legs don't hang awkwardly off the end.

"I would prefer to get this done quickly if possible." He calls into the other room, hoping to get the ball rolling sooner rather than later. The less time that he is vulnerable the better.

"Juuuuust wanted to make sure this wasn't a horrible deathtrap," Spinister chirps, popping his head out from around the door frame. "As long as we don't drop Monstercon on this place though, I think we'll be fine!"

He sets his field kit down on top of the night stand and kicks over an old, empty crate from one of the corners.

"Who do you think this place belonged to?" he wonders, plonking himself down onto the crate and sorting through his tools.

Tarn watches as Spinister kicks the crate over, irritation building at his near constant chatter.

"I'm not certain. I didn't stumble upon anything useful while scoping out this building. Just dust and old furniture."

He shifts on the berth to find a more comfortable position, causing it to creak. Still better than a table. Or the floor.

Tarn stares at Spinister as he lays out supplies on the nightstand from his field kit. This would hurt, Tarn knew. Digging a bullet out of his protoform is different that reattaching some wires.

Taking on look at the old stained supplies that Spinister is preparing, Tarn opts to look away. He doesn't want to know where those have been.

Oh, the tools have definitely been used on a number of corpses. Quite a number, really.

"I bet it belonged to some sort of IT nerd," Spinister natters on, oblivious to Tarn's annoyance, setting the tools out neatly by order of use. "It looks like the kind of place Fulcrum would like!"

Fortunately, he trails off into speculative mumbles and eventual silence as he starts working.

First order of business was getting the armor off; not a terribly difficult affair since Tarn's armor was actually built to be easy to navigate. He places the thick plating onto the floor, moves onto the protective dust cover, cuts away the burnt bits and further revealing some of the delicate machinery underneath.

The shot hadn't severed any of the nearby fuel lines, but there was coolant all over the place, coloring the dark mass of cabling a reddish tinge. He starts working on plucking pieces of the biolight glass, debris and pieces of the bullet out.

Tarn shutters his optics, gritting his teeth, as Spinister roots around for debris. He declines to comment on his inane ramblings, instead, distracting himself by reciting in his head one of his favorite poems. By Megatron. He immediately stops.

A shooting pain stabs through his side as Spinister brushes against a nerve sensor. "Urgh-- Primus, be careful, Spinister.

"You know that tiny, Genericon Captain of mine whose face Vos messed up? Well, he survived having his face put back together without pain dampeners." There's just a sliver of frost in Spinister's tone, but he doesn't look up nor does he stop working. "Barely made a peep, even after he woke up halfway through me reconstructing his fuel intake."

His forceps find the last piece of the bullet lodged inside of a motor relay and he begins the slow and delicate process of removing it.

"I'm being as careful as I can be."

Tarn turns to glare daggers at Spinister. Perhaps he has allowed the mech to get too comfortable around him. Surely that is the only explanation for the amount of sass he is getting from the helicopter. Unfortunately, there is nothing he can do about it while Spinister has his hands inside him.

"Yes, of course." He spits. "Just finish it."

"We're not even getting started yet," the heli shrugs. "Sorry, man."

Yeah, he kind of has to take apart most of Tarn's side in order to reach the broken components. The damage wasn't exactly extensive, but the wound was deep; self repair would have taken at least a month to work through it all. As it was, it was a good half hour of finicky disassembly to start off with. It leaves a rather big, empty gap in Tarn's side where the damaged components had once resided.

"Try not to move too much," Spin warns as he covers the hole with the dust cover before turning his attention to the little pile of broken parts.

His success as a surgeon mostly stemmed from his ability to fabricate parts on the fly- the kind of work that was usually relegated to molding or high precision fabrication machines. It was slow and tedious job with a flagging laser cutter though, and he still needed to splice all the various wires together afterwards. They didn't have much in way of scrap metal or corpse parts either; just everything that Spin had brought with him, or anything he managed to scrounge up from the building.

It's nearly ten hours later before Tarn finally gets everything put back into place- and even then, Spin still had to patch the hole in Tarn's armor.

By the time Spinister is done, Tarn is approaching his tenth hour of not transforming; perhaps the longest he has gone in some time. Irritability grips him and he struggles to keep still on the berth, twitching in a barely contained precursor to transformation. He can't wait anymore.

"I need to move." He starts to get up from the berth, frame creaking from being still for so long.

"Okay," Spinister mumbles, trying not to nod off. He's not really had much of a down time even before his arrival.

"Don't drive or run or transform or anything." He's beginning to slowly list forwards, faceplanting on the patched side armor, blow torch clicking off. "Gotta... let the repairs... set..."

Edited 2015-02-08 20:13 (UTC)

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Not in Kansas Anymore

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