heavyweaponsbot: (This is the only way)
[There are dragging, scraping sounds as the comm clicks on, and they continue throughout the transmission.]

I require...

[A long pause, as if the next part is physically painful to say.]

... a mechanic. And a drink.

[The comm clicks off there, as the speaker continues hauling his broken old aft toward his quarters.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Hide your pain)
I tire of this ship, its crew, and its... holidays. I have no use for these toys. What is the meaning of this?

And is there nowhere I can have a proper spar? Settle for the bees again, if nothing else...

Hmnf.

[The comm clicks off. If anyone is so inclined, the weapons master can be found down in the caves, brooding, and occasionally slamming a fist or two into the walls.

As for his squeaky whale, it has been deposited safely in front of a certain medical officer's door without so much as a word on the subject.]

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Ironhide

February 2019

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