Do you sleep with your Fusion cannon?
Sleep clouds his mind, thick and heavy, recharge still lingering in his dozing systems. Megatron glares with dim optics at the Anon, neck cables already aching from holding his heavy helm upright, irritation building at having been so rudely awoken.
The fusion cannon in his arms couldn’t be more obvious, its gleaming beauty painfully conspicuous. It’s locked like a lover in his arms, pressed close to his chassis, perfectly oiled slot ready to slide into his arm, the trigger mechanism poised and tempting in the event that an intruder should be so foolish as to dare its glorious wrath.
The warlord glares at the Anon defiantly, a war battling in his optics, before his jaw finally clenches. Voice still gravelly, one optic twitching, Megatron grinds out a short, mulish response in viciously clipped syllables. “You wouldn’t?”
