|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 21:40:56 GMT -5
Perceptor frowns and shifts the scanner so that the cables do not become disconnected. "Actually, given that I am currently our primary repair technician," he is not a medic and will not call himself one, "it rather is my 'problem'. If you become disabled, I would prefer to already have some inclination as to the best manner for reviving you, rather than attempting to suss the methods out while your functions are unstable and potentially fading." Why, yes, he did just pretty much ignore the implication that Drift wouldn't want anyone coming for him. Huh.
The scanner begins to let loose with a series of thin squeaks and beeps and squeals, machine noises of almost irritation, saving Drift from most of that knowing look Perceptor was beginning to bestow upon him. Just armor, huh?
Pull the other one, please, Drift.
Perceptor frowns at the scanner. "Have you received any maintenance since your rebuild?" he asks.
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 11, 2011 21:49:17 GMT -5
"Well, would hate to have my death in combat be so irritatingly inconvenient for you," Drift sneers. He doesn't care about dying, other than how it might cut short his attempt to redeem himself. But being injure, helpless? Needing someone to come for him? No. His hands curl on the rim of the berth, trying to push his discomfort into the cool metal.
Any other snappy retort (presuming his first retort had any snap to it) was drowned out in the stupid machine Perceptor was using on him apparently freaking out.
"YOUR THING'S BROKEN!" he shouts, over it, smugly. And that's another patented Drift dodge out of that other uncomfortable question.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 22:01:45 GMT -5
"Well then, see that you avoid that entire situation, and you will not have that on your conscience," Perceptor drawls as he pokes a button on the scanner that silences the alarm cues. See? Two can play at that not-really-snappy-retort business.
"And the only 'thing'," Perceptor continues, standing back a pace so that he may cross his arms as he quirks a brow ridge at Drift, "that appears to be broken, is your own maintenance schedule. As in, it appears to be utterly lacking."
He heaves a sigh and turns to start fetching things from the nearest workstation. Containers of fluids and small brushes and other implements that seem to indicate that he's planning on getting a lot more intimate with Drift's systems. "Drift, neglecting your own needs does not add any facet of heroism or punishment to your quest. It merely shortens the time you may have available to complete your tasks, as your neglected frame deteriorates around you."
The irony should at least give Drift a giggle. Maybe?
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 11, 2011 22:28:41 GMT -5
Drift...does not giggle. Unless copious amounts of high grade are involved. As in...enough high-grade to blank the memories of any witnesses. So, no giggly for you, Perceptor. But you do get a snort and a muttered, "Guess you'd be the expert on that."
And Drift's maintenance schedule is perfect. As in a smooth, clear, empty expanse. He's 0/0. Which is a perfect score.
"Whatever stuff's causing your little box to pitch that screaming fit isn't important," he says, staunchly. "Seen me in combat. Do I look broken to you?"
Answer that only on the one level, please.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 22:32:54 GMT -5
Yeah, just going to ignore that first part, because throwing his own shortcomings right back at him is totally unfair. Unless Perceptor is the one doing the throwing. Then it's a valid tactic.
"Do you neglect your swords?" he asks, instead.
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 11, 2011 22:35:39 GMT -5
Have a hard glare, Perceptor. Enough to erase any doubts you may have had that Drift had been a Decepticon...and not so long ago.
"Swords are useful," he said, his voice hard. The implication is clear. He is not.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 22:37:48 GMT -5
Perceptor gamely faces that glare without flinching. It isn't an easy task.
"Swords are useless," he counters, reaching out to try and grasp Drift's wrist. "Without a skilled hand to wield them."
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 11, 2011 22:46:53 GMT -5
Drift grunts. Perceptor's words sound suspiciously like a compliment. Compliments always have a motive behind them. "Been doing all right so far. Don't need some stupid maintenance."
And now Drift needs an adult because Perceptor is touching him. He forces himself to let the hand close on his wrist, consoling himself that he could break the grip at any time. Every touch is a threat to him, not just from women.
"What do you want from me?" he asks, trying to inflect it as a threat.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 23:14:35 GMT -5
"Really." Though it isn't a question, there is still a note of wry disbelief in those two syllables, and Perceptor half-turns to grab a bottle from the supplies he'd gathered, flick the cap open to squirt some of the solution inside onto the top cloth of a stack of clean cloths. The bottle is set down, and the saturated cloth snatched up, and Perceptor begins applying it to the hand he holds in his own before drift has a chance to yank it away.
He works quickly, across the palm and down the thumb, using his fingertips to dig carefully into the seams, aware that each second he is allowed to continue, that it is only due to Drift's sufferance, and that sufferance can be withdrawn - violently - at any moment.
"Basic diagnostics indicate that you are in need of a thorough detailing, systems flushes of most of your primary fluids, and your self-repair is taxed and needs calibration to more efficiently maintain your ongoing repairs." If allowed, he will finish that hand, working back up the palm and down every digit before relinquishing it and holding up the cloth, now soiled with who-knows-how-long's worth of built up grease and dust and other abrasives that have been slowly building up in all the tiny joints of Drift's hand.
See? Not all touches are bad, Drift. It's almost like taming a wild Saber-toothed Tigertron.
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 11, 2011 23:33:22 GMT -5
Yes, really, Drift thinks. Stupid maintenance is stupid. Which is why it's called stupid maintenance. And besides, "You should have better things to do with your time," he mutters, as the larger mech takes his hand.
He sucks in a sharp vent at the touch of the rag against his palm, the solvent tingling into the seams. He held himself stiff, splaying out the fingers, fighting his instinct to jerk his hand away, maybe swat off Perceptor's head with his other hand.
"Just gunk," he mutters as Perceptor holds up the filthy cloth, looking aside, face tight and angry. It's like Perceptor's calling him out as the kid with hygiene problems.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 11, 2011 23:47:49 GMT -5
"Considering that I have not yet managed to work out the solution to sending everyone back to their respective realities, actually, no, I do not. Repairs and maintenance." Perceptor tilts his head with a thin smile, one that invites Drift to join him, rather than something mocking or derisive. "Here, I make things, and I fix things," he observes, adding with a sardonic, "When I am not speaking too much."
"And, occasionally, I am fortunate enough to fix something that improves its efficiency and performance. Such as removing 'gunk', which, if my calculations are correct, should have provided at least a five-point-six percent increase in speed and precision."
And, be honest, doesn't it just feel better?
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 12, 2011 6:45:08 GMT -5
"Sounds...boring." He gives a shrug, closing and opening his hand experimentally. Some of the solvent is still tingling its way into the filthy joints with a sensation Drift cannot entirely consider unpleasant.
But feeling good is for weaklings. "Haven't earned the right," he says, quietly, pulling his hand away. He realizes he's leaning against the berth, with almost no room to retreat, the Great Sword bumping against him as he leans back, a silent reminder, like Wing, tapping his shoulder. There's a moment of struggle, mouth twitching, before he thrusts out his other hand.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 12, 2011 9:47:20 GMT -5
"It has its moments," Perceptor replies with a small shrug. Really, he's actually been quite happy here, except for their stay on Pz-Zazz, and those hectic days after the major skirmishes - battles. Be honest and call them what they are, battles - with the Decepticons. Well, and the moments where Shockwave or Oil Slick's cruelty had gotten under his plating. Really, he has been allowed quite a lot of leeway in his activity, being granted time to study what he wishes to that is available between crises, much as he had been with the Autobots on Earth.
...he really hates this blasted war.
He shifts to watch Drift's expression closely, looking for any sign of enjoyment or pleasure. The joints are not filthy, exactly - Drift obviously performs some self-maintenance to optimize his functions, but, really, there are some things that only a really good detailing and full systems overhaul can do. And the thought of such a simple, basic necessity being held up as some sort of luxury that Drift feels that he must somehow earn... pains Perceptor.
But then Drift offers his other hand. Perceptor doesn't care how grudgingly it had been offered; he will take the gift he has been proffered gratefully, a soft, almost shy, smile of pure pleasure spreading across his features as he reaches for another cloth and saturates it with the solvent. For once, he remains silent, working carefully, but quickly, as one would work to pull the thorn from a tiger's paw.
|
|
|
Post by Drift on Apr 12, 2011 13:06:41 GMT -5
War has its moments, too. Mostly the fighting part. The rest of it was tedious, interminable waiting around (and Drift actually was so bored once he read a vocabulary book, hence how he knows the word 'interminable.')
Drift does not accept help easily. If he had his way, he'd win the war all by himself. Not because he thinks he deserves anything like glory for it, but that that's the best way to get it done right, and over with, with no one getting hurt Well, other than Decepticons.
So he puts his hand out, but his engines rev to a low growl of discontent at himself, and, perhaps, a low-volume warning to Perceptor not to presume too much. Hands are one thing. And Perceptor's already been--literally--under his plating. That better be the end of this checkup thing.
He looks at the hand Perceptor's working on: it is pretty banged up, the black scratched down to the dull grey underneath, the white armor on the back of his hand scorched from the recent explosion. But it does not--he insists to himself, despite contrary evidence--feel good.
|
|
|
Post by Perceptor on Apr 12, 2011 14:57:54 GMT -5
Perceptor works the cleanser solvent as deeply into the joints as he is able to with the cloth, wiping away the accumulated grime and contaminants. Before he releases that hand, however, he turns and drops the soiled cloth next to the first, and grabs a micro-sprayer, the type that would, and in this case, does, hold lubricant. Provided that Drift will allow him, he will work that into each cleaned joint to replace what the solvent had removed, and seal the tiny gaps once again. And if just cleaning out the joints "didn't feel good", then getting them lubricated should feel utterly "horrendous". Of course, if he had his druthers, he'd be buffing out the damage and repainting that hand, as well, but he does make note of that low rumble of Drift's engine, and stifles his sigh at the too-obvious warning.
"Who have you relied upon for repairs in the past?" he asks conversationally as he motions toward the first hand he had cleaned. Perceptor suspects that Drift has relied upon his blades to prevent injuries in the first place, and his self-repair systems to handle what had gotten through. Perceptor could be wrong, of course, but his index of suspicion is high.
|
|