From the Ashes of One's Enemies

[Tarantulas]

Month 12, Week 3, Day 7, Open to 'Cons

Where Ship was a massive wedge, bristling with weaponry, the Conquest is a sleek needle, built for speed and maneuverability. Or rather, it will be. What the Conquest currently is is an idea, slowly taking shape inside the hollowed-out innards of Ship as the larger vessel is cannibalized to create it.

First there was a planning meeting. Starscream, with input from the department heads, told Tarantulas, Flame, and Swindle what he wanted, then locked them in a room until blueprints came out. (Screwdriver wasn't invited because she is crazy.) This mostly resulted in a lot of loud arguing and Flame sitting in a corner. Swindle and Tarantulas are no longer speaking to each other.

Now, the spider sits in a web suspended from the ceiling in what used to be one of Ship's larger meeting rooms, but is now a large empty box. He uses his front four legs to manipulate a 3D holo-display showing the progress of construction. He mutters to himself discontentedly as he shuffles through the data, trying to arrange it so construction stays on schedule.

Meanwhile, Swindle has arrived back aboard from a covert trip to Earth bearing a cargo of oil, sugar, volatile chemicals, fissionables, and just about anything else that can be rendered down into energon. "Careful with those containers," he calls behind him, shifting the crate he's carrying to look over his shoulder. "They're cushioned, but it's probably not a good idea to agitate them."


OOC: Flame mentioned with player permission.

[Wreckage]

Wreckage gives no real answer in the matter; Swindle gets more of a nonverbal engine sound to acknowledge his directive. With huge crates under either long arm, Wreckage has to crouch if he wants to set them down carefully. He would ordinarily drop them where he stood, but detonating the ship before they can even finish it is painfully counterproductive.

"How resourceful," he says idly, only the barest hint of something like amusement in the tilt of his facial spars as he stares at Swindle's back after his fourth trip with a load.

[Swindle]

OOC: Switching over to Swindle. Tarantulas is skippable.

"Resourceful?" the merchant responds, setting his burden down in the helpfully-stencilled unloading area. "You mean being able to get this stuff? It wasn't that hard. When you're selling weapons, there's always a buyer. Usually several." He grins as he goes back for another container.

[Counterpunch]

Counterpunch is also carrying containers, because he is a grunt and that is the sort of thing that grunts do. He sets the crates down carefully, because he's got no particular desire to be in the center of an explosion, and glances over at the 3-D holo, studying it a lot more carefully than he lets on.

"That what the new ship's gonna look like?" It's a dumb question. He's a mook. Mooks ask dumb questions that result in exposition.

He's totally not spying.

[Mistwind]

Service announcement: Swindle kinda holds command over the logistics it seems, and Mistwind is indebted to Swindle. Therefore, in the background, there is probably a Mistwind finding extreme joy in performing his standard function: Cargo lifting. Swindle has the luxury status of ordering the jetpack around more than anyone ever did, if he so wants.

Character is skippable/no more than a reference unless someone wants to draw him in. Just seeping the effects on one event into subsequent fitting threads.

[Wreckage]

Having trade options is not the norm where Wreckage comes from, let alone anything so materially lucrative. Swindle finds it nothing out of the ordinary but Wreckage, deliberately inexpressive expression aside, is more fascinated by the haul than the prospect of a new ship and does not join Counterpunch in admiring the model.

"Buyers?" he prompts. He makes for terrible conversation but decent cargo hauling as he hoists another two containers, this time one on his shoulder and the other under his arm, supported by the plating on his hip.

[Swindle]

Swindle bends at the knees, not the waist, to pick up a large container with several warning labels in various Eastern European languages, as well as radiation hazard stickers. "A planet like this, where the tech is more primitive than ours, it's a seller's market. They're using chemical-impelled projectile weapons, chemical explosives, remote-controlled dumb drones, and radar. I'm selling ray guns, neutron bombs, AI hunter-killer mechs, and full-spectrum scanners. Every rogue state, terrorist group, and paranoid dictator wants what I have. And of course if they buy it, then all the 'good guys' have to buy from me just to keep up. They're all too happy to pay my very reasonable prices." Diplomacy on Earth may have been set back by about a century since Swindle showed up. Or forward, depending on how you look at it.

"Look like?" The merchant sets down the dangerous crate on the floor, and piles a few others on top of it to make space. "Oh, well, we agreed we'd paint it purple. It's gonna be skinny, pointy. Like Ship, but a much sharper angle. And a bunch of projections pointing forward at the rear end. Think a really big Skystrike with like a dozen wings. But no spider legs! You had no idea how hard it was to get him to give up the spider legs! If we need to land on a planet we have anti-grav and if we need to capture another ship we have-" Swindle suddenly starts scratching the back of his neck, making a scrunched-up face, then pulls something tiny and many-legged off of himself, holding it up to his eye before crushing it between thumb and forefinger. "-We have tractor beams. Spider legs. I swear, the guy has a one-track mind."