—the sharks swarm to the scent of blood.

The ARC Captain slowly raises both arms in surrender as the gunship brings its weapons to bear. There's little else he himself can do in this instance; his WESTAR-M5 might be able to pierce that windscreen at point-blank range, but it's slung across his back — he'd be dead before his finger even touched the trigger. If he wanted to survive, his only option was to try and reason with the ship.

"I'll lay my cards on the table: the rest of my squad isn't far behind. They're packing enough firepower to wipe out a vanguard. You gun me down, you're never making it out of here alive. If we don't kill you, the Vulture droids outside will pick apart whatever's left. But that doesn't have to happen—"

And he truly prayed it didn't. He could practically feel the knife's edge he was standing on digging into his sole. Cornered animals, the both of them. If one lashes out, this cave will be their shared tomb.

"—because if you're not with the CIS, then I have no quarrel with you. And as far as I'm concerned, what my masters don't know won't hurt them."

Slowly, slowly, he lowers his arms and begins to turn around.

Cold, unyielding metal digests the trooper's words with appropriate suspicion; MAKO doesn't have a lie detector incorporated into his design, but he considers himself a decent judge of character regardless. He's never known a trooper to be so cautious without good reason. He truly believes himself to be in danger, then. Good.

"You really need me to repeat myself? The CIS want me dead just as much as everyone else." The ground rumbles to the sound of the gunship's thrusters throttling, an animalistic growl, but he doesn't pull the trigger—not yet, at least. The reminder of the skulking Vulture droids brings a greater priority to mind.

"Wait. I have reassessed the situation." MAKO shunts forwards on his landing gear as the trooper begins to turn, his weapons systems powering down with a whine. In the following silence, something drips in the darkness. One of his stabilizers, now exposed by his movements, is scorched and dented; coolant wells from a ruptured line like blood from a wound.

"You and I. If you are telling the truth, I think we can work something out." He sounds as if he's chewing on rusted nails, admitting as such. Given the circumstances, it seems he's leaning towards his hatred of the Separatists over the Republic. "We have a greater chance of nailing those chipbrains if we work together. You can see the kind of firepower I am packing, and you claim your brothers are similarly equipped. The odds are in our favor."

MAKO doesn't take kindly to being laughed at; his already short fuse fizzles out, and his temper takes front and centre with almost explosive ferocity. He hovers eye-level with the Cybertronian, and backhands (if one could call it that, lacking true hands) him across the face with a manipulator.

"You want a chase, dog?" He shoves forwards, almost slamming his prow into Sixshot's chest. That singular photoreceptor flashes bright, red and angry. "Start running."

"Your Allspark sucks me good and hard through my hull," the prickly AI retorts. "Of course I do not transform, idiot. I have no need to. You are compensating for your lack of skill with all those additional limbs and opposable digits."

Not to mention the (assumed) face that exists beneath that ugly faceguard. Machines should never have faces, in MAKO's opinion, unless they're the sort that are purpose-built to be trapped in the Sisyphean hellscape that is domestic servitude. Humans are weird about whether or not the drone in their house resembles one of them.

"Where I am from is not your concern." The ship does an impressive job of glowering, despite its distinct lack of features. "What you should be concerned about is how badly I can scratch up your paint with my PDCs."

The bait is cast, but fails to lure a bite. MAKO sighs, a whoosh of hot air escaping lateral vents in tandem with the synthesized sound of his irritation. One of his manipulators loops back on itself, serpent-like; reaching for the elezen as its claws twitch.

"You swim in hypocrisy." An accusatory claw is jabbed against Aymeric's chest. "Observation: you have several titles denoting the rank of Lord. What then is your purpose, if not to lord over others?"

The manipulator retracts, though the claw remains pointing at the man before him. "Observation: the task of assisting your people would be easier if they viewed you as superior."