heavyweaponsbot: (Lies betrayed and the oppressed)
[His kind do not dream. There are memories, certainly. But never dreams.]

[Not until the Elegante took that hard and fast rule away -- took him, changed him. Made him human. The change must have altered something. Ever since then, his recharge has been plagued with memories, with compounded memories and fantasies, fears and daydreams. He can't stop it. And while it's unsettling... it's something he's adapted to, more or less.]

[When the dream comes, he thinks it's going to be just the same as always. Another vague half-memory.]

[He is wrong.]

DREAM SEQUENCE - cut for length and headcanon )

[The old soldier wakes alone, staring up at the night sky beside the lake. Cold sand presses against his back, where he'd simply dropped in his tracks. Water is lapping at one of his feet, damp and uncomfortable in the joints. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, staring at it.]

[And for the first time since his arrival, he notices the barest hint of neon paint transfer, caught in the scars and grooves of his palm.]

[... you're stronger than this.]


Old fool...
heavyweaponsbot: (Rise or fall)
[Ironhide was out attacking the tree when the snow started. He should have stopped, and trundled on inside. Instead, he stayed put, pounding on the tree and generally hating on the world around him.]

[... There had been much talk of that Christmas holiday, lately. And of course, what should stand out in his mind, but the Elegante. All the more reason to stay out here and pummel a hapless tree until the cold succeeded in making every last joint in his body ache.]

[His fists actually creak when he un-clenches his fingers. That's not a good sign.]

[He heads in, finally, stomping down the pathways with a more pronounced limp than usual. Yeah, it was a bad idea staying out so long. The cold, the lack of maintenance and abuse finally seem to be taking their toll on his frame.]

[A fact which becomes all the more apparent when his bad leg loses its footing completely on the rapidly icing path. There's a surprised sort of grunt out of him before all four and a half tons of giant alien robot goes crashing to the ground with a CLANG of metal.]

[The old 'bot is nothing if not durable, but even his body has to give under the impact of his own weight. When he pushes himself back up again, his leg doesn't respond. The already damaged joint is ... okay, Ironhide has no idea what's wrong with it.]

[But it hurts.]

[And now he's moodily contemplating the walk back to the barracks and wondering if he can just transform.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Facing the fire together)
[Oh yes, by now he knew exactly how to get the pumpkins to stop talking. It would have been smart of him to do so. He would probably have been saving himself a lot of trouble by doing it.]

[But he hasn't.]

[The pumpkins are still whispering and whining. He'd smashed several of them -- Decepticon faces all, and that had felt good. By now... he's tracked on to one in particular. Only centuries of long association have allowed him to tune the words out, listening to the voice. If he shutters his optics, he can pretend he's being lectured, or being made to listen to some science babble or other.]

[His head is bowed, and one of his hands is resting lightly on the pumpkin in question.]

[He can't bring himself to break this one -- not when it has the voice he's been missing for months now. He'd never expected separation to be this difficult.]

[Ironhide can be found solemnly regarding the Ratchet-pumpkin in the early morning hours of the Keep.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[Things have died down. And now there's nothing going on but pounding, pouring rain.]

[While the old timer should probably have gone to refuel, he opts instead to go out in the wet. Why? He can't really say. Maybe he's disappointed he let his charges down -- after checking everywhere, it's become obvious Zuko is no longer among the Keep's guests. Maybe he feels he failed them some other way -- he should have been the one to put an end to Riku, not Xanth.]

[... He should still be on the Shore.]

[Try as he might these few weeks, he can't shake that feeling. There's something missing. And it's painful. Like he's missing a vital internal component.]

[Ironhide winds up near the lake, in the middle of the downpour, just staring out at the water. The water pings off his armor. He never thought he'd admit it, but the sound and motion of the waves is... well.]

[It's familiar.]

[And therefore, it's comforting.]
heavyweaponsbot: (FLAWLESS.  VICTORY.)
[Good evening, Keep residents. Where is your resident Autobot, you might ask? Why, he's found himself the Armory, that's what.]

[And, he was hoping to find some scrap metal. But, like so much of his life, lately, he's out of luck. No metal, no charges, no medic... not even the stupid frog.]

[His engine growls a low, almost mournful note before his fingers close around one of the practice blades, and he flings it across the room, where it smacks against the wall with a satisfying sound of cracking wood.]

[But the feeling only lasts for so long, and he's left with a broken sword, and no 'family'. Not even the scraps he was looking for.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[If you haven't heard from Ironhide lately, that's because the big 'bot is keeping to himself. Ratchet... vanished. Bumblebee is too quiet.]

[He doesn't like this feeling. This weird... lonely feeling. And, in a classic Ironhide move, when he doesn't like something, he shuts down.]

[If anyone cares to, they can find the old weapons master standing near the edges of the temple grounds, staring at something invisible in the distance.]
heavyweaponsbot: (We are not amused)
... Why are the birds speaking.

[Ironhide can be found sitting outside of his artichoke pod and casually throwing rocks at one of the aforementioned birds in irritation.

The bird does not shut up.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Let's do this thing.)
[Today finds Ironhide prowling the temple grounds.]

[He's trying to decide whether or not to head inside -- as instructed. Does he go in and demand his cannons back? Or does he stay out here and purposefully ignore the summons in order to make a point?]

[Ironhide ends up standing in front of the temple, his arms folded, and scowling. He has sand in his joints, his chest is aching, and he feels like he's been strung along by their captors. They should have been told about what they were facing. And they weren't -- not one bit. He's extremely cranky, in other words.]

[Approach him?]
heavyweaponsbot: (Action pose go!)
-- Eugh! Filthy... wretched...! Off me!

[Well. Anyone who was wondering where the hell Ironhide went off to, look no further for your answer. There are crashing sounds as the big Autobot tears his way out of the jungle. Underbrush is trampled, trees actually punched -- despite the fact that it doesn't really help matters.]

Where is that energon...

[He does sound displeased, more so than usual. Tramping around the jungle, getting stuck, and deprived of fuel for a long while doesn't do wonders for the old 'Bot's temper. And the rain isn't helping matters.]

I hate this place.
heavyweaponsbot: (Broke my damn juicebox.)
[Hello Vertiline. And how are you this fine morning? Hopefully you're not doing anything that requires your being behind the forge.

But if you are, you'll probably notice a massive black robot loading a lot of oddly glowing cubes into his arms. Along with a small collection of nails and such, pilfered from the forge itself.

His armor is battered, and pitted with holes -- the largest being on his chest. This accomplished, he proceeds to stalk back off toward his pod, the cubes carried very carefully. Every motion makes his joints creak. Once he arrives at the pod, he unceremoniously dumps the cubes inside, before stepping back out again.

Ironhide, at the end of this errand, can be found hunkered down in front of his pod, drinking out of one of the cubes, and thoughtfully watching the sunrise. Occasionally, he chews on one of the nails.

heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[Anyone wandering the top deck may, in fact, come across a big, black robot, standing at rigid attention.  His optics are fixed on the place in which he spotted the red bird, the last time he was up here.  It isn't there any longer, of course, he's simply watching the spot - as if he can make it reappear by sheer force of stubborn willpower alone.

Although, he's not quite certain why.  He didn't mean to come up here.  The voices are gone, and yet he still can't get them out of his head - whispering his guilt.  And there's only one incident he can think of.  Only one a disembodied voice on this boat could know about.

The little Autobot.

His failure to save her.  Her death in his arms.

He never did find out if it was possible to enter her into the system.  And with the first mate gone now...  The weapons master rolls his shoulders, as if to physically shrug off the thought, and returns to his vigil, apparently unmoved.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Your plan is dumb)
[Today, the Elegante will be graced with a roaming, restless Autobot. He starts out up on the top deck, practicing combat drills. There's only so much he can do just hitting bees. Granted, he is working alone, but it's better than nothing. He'll be up there, rolling, running, and punching at the air for several hours before heading out.

Next stop is Deck 12, to gather up more scrap metal. He's there for about half an hour, rooting around, finding things like staples, jewelry and the like.

Lastly, he goes to the bar for a refueling. Which he will sit and drink slowly, scowling at the general area around him. Despite feeling somewhat accomplished, he's also feeling stiff from the workout, and that, inevitably, makes him grouchy.


((ooc: Open to anyone at any point!))
heavyweaponsbot: (But why is the energon gone? :<)
[Considering how angry he made the medic earlier, he feels it's only right to find some way to apologize. They're supposed to be making something work, he's supposed to be trying his best not to damage whatever it is they have. And he really hasn't been.

So, he concocts a plan. It's probably not a very good one, given his track record. But hey, he's trying.

The moment he's free of fish, and other obligations, he pokes his head into the mess that is Ratchet's room.]

Come on. We have somewhere to be.
heavyweaponsbot: (Interesting.  Does it explode?)
[It's the end of the week. Do you know where your Autobot is?

If you said digging around on Deck 12 looking for more bits of metal, you'd be right. He doesn't particularly need it, without the ammunition to replenish, but the gaping hole in his chest takes more than a little effort for this auto-repair systems. And they do need the extra material.

He's currently got a set of metal sporks in hand, and is fiddling with the lock on a steamer trunk, wondering if he can get it off.]

((ooc: For [livejournal.com profile] medicalofficer but others are welcome to run into him as well!))
heavyweaponsbot: (Rise or fall)
[If anyone's listening, there's a clatter over the comms, as something heavy hits the ground. There's no sounds of fighting, no shouts, cursing. Just a thunk. And silence.

Somewhere in the palm trees, exhaustion finally got the better of the old Autobot. He'd spent weeks now, with all systems engaged, first while jeweled, then searching for his missing comrade. And when Ratchet failed to be located, he's thought the worst. It's taken a toll on him.

Should anyone feel the need to investigate the sound, they'll find a huge black pile of metal, sprawled amongst the trees... out like a light and apparently quite comfortable.]
heavyweaponsbot: (This waking hell I am)
[Careful observers of transmissions may have noticed an absence of a big, black presence. Especially where one Mikaela Banes was concerned. In fact, he hasn't made a peep since he and Ratchet went to investigate the restaurants.

He is, however, making amends for it now. Crashing his way down the decks and hallways, attacking nearly anything that moves, leaving a wake of destruction in his path... With a large smear of neon paint on one fist...

Said careful observers may also notice the bit of jewel--hard to distinguish amidst the scars and bits of metal he's made of--set into the semi-circular piece on his helm.

heavyweaponsbot: (Sideglance FTW)
[He had come to a conclusion. A conversation needed to be had. About... certain things. And he needed to do it now, before he lost his nerve.

Unfortunately, Ratchet wasn't in his room. Either of their rooms. Nor was he in the library, or the caves. Or the forest.

... How hard could it possibly be to find one neon Autobot? Especially on this boat?

Eventually, he winds his way up to the top deck, spending a moment staring out over the water, before heading toward the mini-golf course. Maybe the medic would be there.]

((ooc: Aimed at [livejournal.com profile] medicalofficer, but people can bump into him on his search if they like.))
heavyweaponsbot: (I will not bow)
[The sound of fireworks exploding can be heard in the background, along with the usual accompaniment of shifting metal. And the occasional, short laugh. Ironhide sounds amused when he speaks, in contrary to what he's saying.]

They really think these are fireworks? Give me my cannons back... I will show them fireworks.

[He pauses, chuckling to himelf.]

Guess it could be worse...

[He's up on the upper deck, like everyone else, occupying a secluded section of the rail, and leaning heavily against a nearby wall, should anyone desire to pester him.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Human | Know what we do t'punks like you)
[Testing out the alcohol tolerance of this new body was likely not the best idea he'd ever had. Especially after that little... talk with Shockwave. Probably was best not to antagonize the Decepticons but... one of them had been such an easy mark. And Shockwave was... he had it coming. One punch from Blurr was, in Ironhide's opinion, getting off too easily.

He was sitting at one of the tables--in the bar the nervous human had mentioned, his bare feet propped up on it, and leaning back in his chair. An empty bottle was on the table beside them, and another in his hand. Clearly, he had decided not to wait for Ratchet before starting in.

Still disdaining the use of shirts, he wore only the pants Mikaela had found. A plethora of battle scars decorated his exposed skin, available for all to see. He didn't seem to care, just watched the humans wandering around, looking for a by-now-familiar face.]

((ooc: sorry for spamming x-x Harass however you want ^^; ))
heavyweaponsbot: (Truth will show)
[Following this conversation, a certain weapons master has stomped out of his room, headed down the halls for a certain neon medic's.

He was just hung up on. He was just hung up on. Why? What was wrong with the medic?

The stingers from the bees were in one hand. If anything, he could make a peace offering. He was fighting with Mikaela off and on, there were too many Decepticons, and now his closest friend just hung up on him.

He reached the door, and pounded on it.]

Open up.

((ooc: Anyone can accost him on his little march down the hallway ^^))


heavyweaponsbot: (Default)

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