heavyweaponsbot: (We are not amused)
[The com crackles. Ironhide shakes it. He hasn't bothered to go find his "living quarters". Not yet. He has a far more important job to attend to.

When the comm finally starts up, the voice on his end is deep, faintly accented, and still very angry.]

Autobots. Come in. Respond! I have lost your signals... answer me!

[When there is no immediate response, he snarls into it, then goes silent for several minutes.]

...

Where is this place?
heavyweaponsbot: (OH FUCK MY LIFE)
[Ironhide has never sounded this awkward or embarrassed in his entire time aboard the ship. He doesn't even seem able to quite get coherent words out of himself.]

I... I need... to find books. Certain... books. Of... questionable content. I... do not ask this lightly, I...

Need books about... human... mating. Do not ask.


Hate my life.





((ooc: Ironhide chucked Ratchet's books out the window. See? His wife is not happy.))
heavyweaponsbot: (Rise or fall)
[Ironhide isn't using his comm. He refuses to admit that anything happened over a public channel. Instead, he's dragging his aft away from deck 3. He moves stiffly, leaning heavily on a wall as he limps along.

One hand is constantly pressed to his chest, as if that's going to help anything. His intakes rasp, big frame shuddering occasionally.

He has one goal in mind - Get to Ratchet. Something is wrong, not just the fresh mark on his armor. He just has to get to his friend and medic.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Human | NOT THE FUCKING TOOTHFARY)
...

[The com clicks on. And there is a long... long silence. Some shifting in the background. Unlike previous transmissions, this one lacks the distinct creaking sounds of metal. At last, a voice speaks. While familiar, it is not... the same as before.]

...

I require... [another pause] I... need... hmn.

Clothing. Covering. Now.
heavyweaponsbot: (More than I can compute)
[The audio feed turns on, and for a moment, there's no sound, except for the shifting of metal. It would seem the maker of this transmission is "asleep", for lack of a better word. And then... there is the sound of tiny feet on metal.]

Ribbit!

[More metal shifting. A voice muttering something in Cybertronian. And then...]

Hmn? What...

[A pause.]

WHAT--GET! GET OFF OF ME! IMMEDIATELY!

[A loud thud!, some frantic ribbit-ing, and scraping of metal against the floor.]




((ooc: ... Yeah, C4 just keeps on making friends wherever he goes. Follows this.))
heavyweaponsbot: (Truth will show)
I begin to loathe this boat nearly as much as aircraft... Going to rust in all this... damp.

Need something to keep from stiffening up. Some sort of exercise... Only so many times I can drive around these decks. Unlike some, I do not enjoy poking holes in turf, or studying these yellow creatures all day.

Hmnf.

Open to... suggestion.

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heavyweaponsbot: (Default)
Ironhide

June 2014

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