heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
... Need a pair of hands. And cleaning equipment.

Got... organic bits stuck in my foot.

[He's just going to be pretending not to see all that carnage on his way back. Because repression is so very healthy.]
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: (Rise or fall)
[If it's possible for a five-ton Autobot to sound tired, Ironhide does.  Not nearly as much as he would, if he'd been organic, but still.  And then, finding the ship in complete disarray?  Not so good on the nerves.]

We... have returned.  All those who lived. 

[A pause, and he cycles air through his intakes.]

The one we went in for, the female, has been secured.  I want a status report from... anyone who can give it.  On the ship, on... yourselves.

[And anyone he cares about -- YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.]
heavyweaponsbot: (8D I blew up a PLANET)
Much better.

No more annoying scanners giving my processor a malfunction.  So... what are we in for this time, hm?
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...


[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.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Right will win)

[Gears and joints crack over the line--someone's working the kinks out]


About time this place ceased altering my structure.  Tired of looking like Ratchet too...  So now what?  Do we continue sitting by...?  Or do we try and get answers out of these... people?

Could use a drink too.


heavyweaponsbot: (Default)

June 2014

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