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Post by Perceptor on Nov 8, 2010 23:48:04 GMT -5
"Science is for enrichment! Not destruction!" Ever the idealist, Perceptor is, even now. "You had no reason beyond faction to torment him so!" After all, it wasn't as if Sentinel was chasing Oil Slick, now was it? And once Sentinel was in custody? It wouldn't have mattered [who he'd been chasing.
"No, the 'easy way out' would endanger everyone else," Perceptor growls, finally deciding that he really did not have anything suitable to contain the device in. Not in this room, anyway. With a scowl, he decides to go for broke, tightening his grip on the ends of the nozzles, pinching them closed and bending them back upon themselves to seal the tips, at least for now. He would try melting the tips sealed, but he isn't certain how flammable the chemicals are, and his chemo-receptors have already been overwhelmed by the relatively small sample he'd already received. His vision swims lurchingly again, and Oil Slick suddenly seems to be more pink than grey.
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Oil Slick
Rookie
Pharmacists do it over the counter.
100ccs of Pure Evil
Posts: 247
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Post by Oil Slick on Nov 10, 2010 0:16:52 GMT -5
Oil Slick laughs. "Not for destruction, eh? Were you thinking so purely when you rigged up your little joy buzzer, Autobot?" Then he headtilts. "I had a reason: Curiosity." Oil Slick smiles, palms up. "As a fellow scientist, you should know about researching things to find out what they do. You do science for what you call a good cause - I do it to develop weapons. My weapons generally are less direct than a simple firearm, though..."
As he says this, Perceptor closes off the nozzles.
Four more open, each one on a different side of the box.
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 10, 2010 0:49:42 GMT -5
Thinking purely? Oh, Oil Slick certainly has him there. That was pure, petty revenge, under the pretense of sending a pointed message about not assaulting those under Perceptor's care with impunity. The semi-altruistic nature of the message does not cancel out the form he'd sent it in, or that Perceptor crossed a line with that single act that now places him on the same moral playing field as Oil Slick himself.
He'd already known that when he built the delivery devices and filled them with the viral agents. He'd made his decision when he'd put them on and concealed their presence under those pointless gloves. That does not, however, manage to do anything to stifle the stab of pure righteous indignation at Oil Slick's comments about curiosity.
"Satisfaction, you mean!" he hisses. Before he can launch into a tirade about weapons development and the duplicity of masking one's petty desires under the blanket of scientific research, he suddenly has twice the problem he'd had before.
Green gas billows up, obscuring the screen as the new nozzles deploy their contents. Perceptor yelps - getting another nauseating dose in the process - as flips the box to pinch off those nozzles, too. For each that he manages to block, though, two more appear on different sides!
He should give up. He should simply fling the foul thing across the room and flee. He does not, however, know how much gas the object intends to eject into the air, nor how many nozzles it ultimately has. What he does know, though, is that there are other people in the office, and even more in the rest of the building, and there is no way to get them evacuated now, unless he can mitigate the gas flow first. He cannot risk anyone else there!
// Autobot Perceptor requesting... requesting immediate assistance.... at [coordinates of the Coroners Office]! Unknown... unknown chemical... exposure... // he transmits to the Autobot Broadband, a note of desperation in his voice. In retrospect, he realizes that asking for help is merely endangering anyone who comes... but it is too late now, and so he keeps trying to block the delivery nozzles, even when more appear.
Even when the device becomes a ball of writhing snakes in his hands, and the cloud has become so thick that he can no longer see beyond it, and he has long since lost track of how many snake's heads he has pulled off, he keeps trying to kill the monster.
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Oil Slick
Rookie
Pharmacists do it over the counter.
100ccs of Pure Evil
Posts: 247
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Post by Oil Slick on Nov 10, 2010 1:05:11 GMT -5
Oil Slick's voice rings out among the chaos, echoing in various tones. His video screen projection looks more like a shadowy projection of himself. "You push me, Autobot, and I will push back, just to see how far you go until you break!" Oil Slick terminates the video uplink, which also terminates the gas flow, leaving Perceptor to his hallucinations... ----- OOC: Out of thread!
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 10, 2010 1:44:42 GMT -5
The snakes hissing ceases, their corpses drooping limply in his hands as a gangly scarecrow reaches out of the fading green haze toward Perceptor's core. He cannot help himself; he flings the dead monster at the shadow with a startled wail, falling backward onto his aft on the damp floor when he loses his balance. The scarecrow explodes into a thousand, a million tiny shards that flit away like delicate butterflies.
The pink elephant behind him rests it's trunk upon his head, giving him a pat that startles him nearly out of his armor.
"It's okay. The piano isn't that hungry yet, little guy! Just offer him some integers to tide him over until Festivus!" it offers cheerfully, before marching off after the little crystal-winged helicopters.
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Post by Emirate Xaaron on Nov 10, 2010 2:02:30 GMT -5
Emirate Xaaron can be quite brave and self-sacrificing, at times. He can also be an idiot. Guess what he's being right now?
Perceptor, molecular chemist and super-genius, is complaining about chemicals. What's Emirate Xaaron even going to do? He hasn't figured the plan out that far. Give Emirate Xaaron months to plan, and he is Primus's own perfection. Give Emirate Xaaron a few seconds, and he's... running headlong into danger.
A cab ride later, and Emirate Xaaron is pushing through the offices to get down to the laboratory, where... okay, the air smells all right. A bit dead. And Perceptor has... completely flipped his lid. Emirate Xaaron covers his face with one hand and sighs, as he tries to think of who their second best chemist is, as Emirate Xaaron hears Perceptor's own words reminding him that he's Emirate Xaaron's only chemist.
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 10, 2010 2:28:14 GMT -5
When did the Golden Idol get here? Perceptor whimpers when the giant Hemerocallis lilioasphodelus swallows up the lumbering elephant and then turns it's pistols upon the Idol, stroking it lewdly.
"Stop that!" he chokes out, reaching toward the door where the Idol is being fondled. "The all-seeing fluoridated aphid of eternal self-empackagement doesn't want any of your cookies!"1
"Oh, now why not?" the dripping ceiling asks, pouting fiercely. "Have you asked the aphid? Aphids like flowers! And bubblegum! Oooo, look! The floor is having us over for tea! Come along, pedicab, come along," it demands, wrapping a fuzzy book around Perceptor's leg, which promptly bursts into fiery stars.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Perceptor whimpers, clutching his hands to the sides of his head. "I think I'm drowning in the puppies. Why do my sensors detect the odor of physics? Is the pants accelerator frozen?"
1: lines shamelessly ganked from the lyrics of the song, "I Have A Tuba" by Kobi Lacroix.
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Post by Emirate Xaaron on Nov 11, 2010 1:28:35 GMT -5
Emirate Xaaron sighs very heavily. He needs a medic here. No, he needs Perceptor here, except Perceptor's out to lunch.
He can't call Botanica or Rodimus Prime for this job, at least not the preliminaries. They may both be talented medics, but they're officer medics, like Perceptor over there, and one officer medic compromised is more than Emirate Xaaron can spare.
Mayday apparently can't repair people, which is annoying, since Mayday's from Oil Slick's reality and might have had some insight. Topspin might work. He's a Wrecker. He should be used to bad situations. If not him, then Long Haul, Emirate Xaaron supposes. If not Long Haul... Swerve? Yeah, that's just what he needs, someone who gets torqued off at the drop of a hat around someone high as a satellite.
There is a certain irony to the fact that Emirate Xaaron won't risk Rodimus Prime or Botanica because they're officers, but here he is.
He carefully paces around the examining room, looking for anything that might be a trap, hands folded behind his back. Emirate Xaaron wants to hold Perceptor and tell him to calm down, but he doesn't know that Perceptor's not contagious. In fact, just because doesn't smell anything doesn't mean the room's not still dangerous. Oh well. He's here. He does say softly, "Perceptor. You're an Autobot named Perceptor. Your function is scientist. Your specialties are metallurgy, molecular chemistry, and electrical engineering."
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 11, 2010 21:44:20 GMT -5
"X-xaaron?" Perceptor croaks. "Your stamen are drooping..."
He clenches his jaw, trying to force his vocal processor to say the words that he is thinking, instead of the gibberish that bursts out randomly, and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the huge serpent curling itself around the indistinct blurr of bright, shiny gold that he hopes is really real, and really is Xaaron.
"Aerosol delivery. Green gas. With tables in the toenails of the buttercream flitters. They feel like prime numbers on fire. Are... Are you real? Xaaron?" he asks, shuddering as a colony of Metallo-ants starts marching their way up his backstrut and through his circuits.
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Post by Emirate Xaaron on Nov 11, 2010 21:52:26 GMT -5
Emirate Xaaron damns caution, throwing it to that reapable whirlwind, and tries to grab Perceptor around by the waist with one arm and take him by the hand with the other. Perceptor being so very tall makes this awkward arrangement about as best as Emirate Xaaron can manage. Yes, Perceptor might contact-contagious, but if he is, then they'll have learned something! Yes, this place might still be booby-trapped, so... better get him out of there.
He then tries to herd Perceptor out, ignoring any odd looks he might get. Emirate Xaaron is a master of looking like what he is doing is exactly what he's meant to be doing and how dare people question him with their eyes?
Emirate Xaaron replies, voice steady, "Yes, Perceptor, it's me, Emirate Xaaron. This'll be just like old times. Long Haul's going to be there. And Swerve. They'll find out what's wrong with you."
He hopes. One's a logistics expert, and one's a cranky mechanic.
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Post by Swerve on Nov 11, 2010 22:12:39 GMT -5
Swerve will maintain until the day he can't race any longer that he is a racer, not a medic, and being able to build and repair things doesn't change that. And he's halfway to proving his point already, blasting through the streets at top speed. Compared to other Autobot speedsters, he's still crawling, but he's going more than fast enough to be little more than a red and silver flash roaring past the many larger vehicles. It's weird, in some ways, to be this much faster than everyone around him. He's average at best back home and near the rear of the pack on the Event Horizon, but these civilian cars are so slow.
I'm gonna regret this. I just know it. His destination looms three blocks ahead on the left and the only thing between him and the sidewalk is a lumbering box truck. He snorts, sparks firing briefly from his exhaust pipes. As if one truck is really an obstacle. "Move it!" he barks at a convertible carrying a couple who stare back at the empty car shouting at them. The driver fumbles with the steering wheel as Swerve veers close enough for them to feel the heat radiating off his pipes, then Swerve abruptly snaps away, catapulting himself under the truck and across the other two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a sedan that lays on the horn as he skims past its front bumper.
Weirder than his relative speed is that he's trying to avoid smashing up the other vehicles on the road. Oh, the urge to reach out as he starts to transform, hook a bumper with one of his pipes and rip it off, is strong. Not as strong as the need to get there, to make things right. Kup said it could be fixed.
"Swerve, transform!" He grabs the curb once his arms unfold, turning himself over and landing in a crouch only a moment after his legs lock into place. Pedestrians jump aside in surprise because it isn't every day a sports car jumps the curb and turns into a person; Swerve doesn't seem to notice. He glares up at the building instead, scowling. Now… which floor's it on?
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 12, 2010 1:10:55 GMT -5
For one, glorious moment, right as Xaaron slips himself under Perceptor's shoulder and starts to lift him back up to his feet, the scientist can see Xaaron clearly, and chokes out a small sound of relief. The moment passes, though, and Xaaron is swiftly swallowed by a flowing mass of black-footed ferrets that chase and twine and wind all about themselves so much that Perceptor starts getting dizzy trying to track them. Instead, he decides to follow the pressure on his side that urges him to trail along in the wake of the giant citrus fruit wearing a pompadour wig and wielding a drum major's baton as it marches to a tango beat down a path of squirming eels. He keeps scrubbing at his face with his free hand, as if trying to brush the images away, and now and then, he stumbles when the cuckoo clock tries to trip him by wrapping it's chain tongue around one foot and yanking.
"I can taste the lights. It's foam is like the rainbow wheel, you know," he mutters, reaching out to slap away the purple mecha-cow buzzing around his head. "And my feet are pats of butter in the trunk of the Acidopholus grove."
"You feel nice. Thank you."
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Post by Emirate Xaaron on Nov 12, 2010 1:25:36 GMT -5
Perceptor is making his Emirate feel just a bit uncomfortable. Emirate Xaaron's heard of studies done where hallucinogens were applied as possible interrogation aids, to lower subjects' inhibitions and break down the barriers that keep them from telling the truth. He really hopes that Perceptor's just babbling, though not like he usually babbles, and that there wasn't anything to what Mirage said. He just replies, weary but wry, "It's no trouble, Perceptor."
Dragging Perceptor out the front door, Emirate Xaaron espies Swerve, and he genuinely is glad to see Swerve, which is plainly writ on his face, but he warns, "Perceptor's making less sense than a Junkion right now. Some kind of hallucinogenic gas. He's seeing, hearing, and feeling things that aren't real. First, we need to make certain that he is not contagious to other Autobots and Maximals and that there are no further surprises. Then, I need you to see what emergency care you can give him before we take him back to the Event Horizon."
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Post by Swerve on Nov 13, 2010 15:32:22 GMT -5
In his own way, Swerve is relieved to see Xaaron and Perceptor come hobbling out of the building; it means he doesn't have to go in there looking for them. All he does is scowl as Xaaron fills in the situation.
"Gas?" he echoes, pulling out his tool kit. "What, like bad fuel? I've seen a couple racers get hold of some really foul slag, but that isn't really my thing. Set him down, fraggit," and he points at a bus stop bench a few metres away. It is thankfully empty; Swerve's transformation stunt spooked off the couple who'd been sitting there. "I guess if you start seein' stuff, we'll know."
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Post by Perceptor on Nov 13, 2010 15:37:39 GMT -5
"Unlikely, King Arthur. Morgana would have had you by now if Merlin's potion were contagious. But the dragon is... in my tongue, and the pampers is on the starlight express with the filament."
The flying purple monkey pacing them cackles, drawing Perceptor's attention up toward him. "Why are you purple?"
"Duh, funny guy," it snickers. "Because ice cream has no bones!" He keeps snickering and flying little loop de loops until a backhoe on stilts wanders along and gobbles him up.
"But... you do not even taste like ice cream?" he murmurs mournfully, watching the backhoe continue on its way, until his attention is seized by Swerve.
"Your head is on fire." It seems like such a natural thing. His head is on fire, and the racer is wearing a spike-studded leather jacket, with a length of chain wrapped around his chest casually. "Who is your tailor? I've never seen a leather coat like that before..."
He reaches down to brush off the slithers that are squirming up his leg, catching Swerve's comments, even though the giggling balloons are trying to drown him out. Perceptor shakes his head vehemently. "Negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full." He reaches out to catch one of the stupid balloons, frowning when it flits away. "Vapor. Vapor gas. Not fuel in the weasel pants. Gone away, gone ahead. God's honest truth, she flew away."
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