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.]


Hmn.

Old fool...
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.]

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