robothell | (no subject)

Who: Brainstorm, Tarn, and guest star Spinister
Where: Brainstorm's workshop
When: After Tarn discovers their liasons
What: MAKE ME A WEAPON
Warnings: Anxiety

For spur of the moment fragging, Brainstorm had to pat himself on the back for a job well done with clean up. Spinister had made sure his joints were oiled and his paint was fresh. He still had ached like he'd gotten punched in the valve rather than fragged in it, but overall he was fairly pleased with the events.

There was still the fact he didn't have to hang out with a sociopath and Spinister did, so he hopes that after they had triple checked over the mech's frame for any missed transfluid splatters or paint flecks the mech had done it another three more times because he was fairly comfortable with Tarn having no motivation to take a visit to him.

The bow had been set in storage with the rest of his finished weapons, while he'd set to work on something new, first drawing up concepts and taking stock of the material he had to work with. He was running a bit low on nucleon, which meant that he was going to either have to convince Spinister to get more for him or go and do the dirty mining work himself.

Threaded | Flat

Tarn has bided his time with great patience. Since discovering Spinister’s tryst with Brainstorm, his head has been buzzing with possibilities and ideas. Dangerous ideas, perhaps, but ideas none the less. Brainstorm has most notably been known for his work as a weapons manufacturer, and if there is anything that Tarn craves, it’s a weapon.

His run in with Rampage has left Tarn on edge, constantly on alert for possible danger. With his vocalizer ruined, taking with it his last line of defense, Tarn needs a physical weapon more than ever. He fears that it may be useless against his most recent threat, but it certainly gives him a peace of mind at the very least.

With his mind set, he begins his search, scanning for Brainstorm’s particular spark signature. Giving Spinister a vague excuse for leaving camp, he begins tracking the double agent to a building close enough to the outskirts of the city that he is willing to risk venturing in. It’s the furthest into the city he’s been since his exile and he’s apprehensive, moving as quietly as possible and taking time to listen for the sound of engines around each corner.

Eventually, he makes it to what he assumes is Brainstorm’s workshop. Without hesitating, he enters, pulling himself together into something resembling his old self. Chin up, shoulder’s back, back straight, he strides into the lab with confidence.

“Brainstorm. I’d like to ask a favor.” He manages to keep most of the static from his voice, but it is noticeably rough.