#mxestro

Did you miss me?

Redstrike glances up from where he's been trying to read. He hadn't been having the easiest time of it. Not because he found reading to be difficult, but because the material the Prime gave him often made no sense to him. He shifts and reaches for a leash that isn't there and frowns a little before looking to the other bot.

@mxestro

     It takes all of his restraint to quell reflex, to keep his helm in those servos rather than pull away as his frame screams for; the important part is that he doesn’t, that Hornet stays, because he wants to. Mannerisms learned from others don’t get to taint what good things he has. His frowning face turns to meet Maestro’s golden shine, and he only squints because of how bright it is.

     ‘The same ones,’ he says, movements terse. ‘As always. The ones you can’t touch. I hate them.’

     Other Autobots who sneer and whisper among their petty camaraderies, a high command whose optics always avert at the most convenient times. Perhaps unspoken even to Jazz, a Prime that he once clung to -- a Prime that he now hopes burns away in whatever rancid thing their embers have become.

Tell me.

Would you like to dance in the moonlight with me?

Redstrike shivered, tucking his hands closed to his chassis. He had no real idea how to answer such a request. He'd never been allowed to dance on his own. He'd always danced for others. Things had changed since his last owner had died and he'd been passed from hand to hand. But his conditioning ran deep.

"My, aren't you a pretty thing."

" Thanks." Response is quick, automatic towards such a kind compliment from... somewhere. Blink. With a blink, optics track the source, brow arching towards the mech with a curious head tilt. It was that, a compliment, right? Could she embrace it as a genuine one?

Optimus’s optics narrow.

"Hello."

Sits in his desk chair and simply stares.

They don't stop.