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@to-ground-control
βοΈ CANON DIVERGENT PORTRAYAL OF CENSERE [IDW], SIXSHOT [IDW] & TRANSMUTATE [BW]. βοΈ A study on one-way trips, cosmonauts, watching life and death, the view through a telescope, hailing ground control, Where The Great Canine Winks, blue fields, the space between words. βοΈ 18+, private, mutuals only.
βοΈ RULES βοΈ ABOUT βοΈ please read both before following.
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thers a homosexual after me
He looks around, seeming nervous. "Right now...?"
[ G1 SIXSHOT, G1 HOT ROD ] "You." The source of the earth-shaking crash that hit the planet an hour ago stares down Hot Rod, looking particularly... proud of itself, actually. There's a smug air about the towering Decepticon, as he drops to one knee to get to Hot Rod's height. "Finally. Hot Rod, yes? I don't believe we've ever formally met. Daniel's told me quite a bit about you. Settle down, I'm not looking for a fight."
Hot Rod feels himself lose all sense of dignity the instant he hears the other mecha speak. During a bad day, when heβs not feeling so proud and there is high grade in his systems, he will perhaps admit to whimpering.
The speedster-turned-Prime stares up at Sixshot with as much trust as youβd give a fox thatβs avoiding water. That is, until he mentions Daniel, and itβs like every single pressure point in his body releases with an aggressive hiss.
βY-Yeah! Daniel heβs, my, uhββ it comes too fast to him that he doesnβt know what Daniel is to him. Heβd seen him as a friend, once. As a prime, heβd been something more of a deeper responsibility, one humans would callβ
The word is foreign in his lips and in his processor. It leaves him dizzy, a sour taste in his mouth.
βSorry, if you know Daniel, then you probably know what I am to him.β Hot Rod scratches at the back of his head, feeling suddenly immensely awkward. βItβs, uh, nice to meet you. I think I heard about you from himβ vaguely.β
Sixshot chuckles lowly at Hot Rod's reaction, tipping his head like a dog observing some spooked squirrel. He doesn't blame the speedster, no- most did not take kindly to a sudden appearance of a mech twice their height, and far fewer took kindly to him, in general. That, and- well, Sixshot had never needed to learn what an Autobot might consider a conversational greeting.
For a mech he'd never exactly met in person, Sixshot had expected Hot Rod to be a little... bigger. Broader, better postured, maybe, or at least greet strangers with a better stance than that. His first impression of the Prime-turned-racer was soldier. Pilot, maybe, with a voice that Sixshot could easily picture over the buzz of intercepted ship-comm static. From first glance, Sixshot could tell Hot Rod had it- the lamentable spark, the brazen spirit, the never-go-down-kneeling attitude he'd seen a thousand times over on mechs just like him now lying in rows.
Sixshot allows his posture to relax, shifts his arm to put distance between his hand and his guns. Sympathy. He's glad Daniel gave him an opportunity for it, the wonder boy who spoke of Hot Rod with eyes wide like he'd hung the moon. "Your boy," Sixshot rumbles, in a tone that sounds like a wolfish smile. "His car. Heh. I can make sense of the odds and ends of your duty to him. Though I apologize if his recounts of me seem contradictory of any received by your peers." He sticks out a hand for Hot Rod to shake, clawed fingers glinting in the light. "Tell me- how is he? Hm. Still getting enough of those human bar things?"
Sixshot laughs at the small craft's comment- a loud, barking thing laced with chuffs of static. It's difficult not to. This tiny, indignant thing has quite the spirit, Sixshot decides. What would perhaps be symptomatic of a terrible lack of self-preservation in a mech, is read only with amusement in MAKO's case. It is very difficult to take threats seriously from a being who he could, theoretically, put through various puzzles and mazes for snacks.
"I'm afraid you'll find that very difficult, beetle." Sixshot rumbles, tipping his head to one side. "Very few things scratch me at all, and far fewer do enough damage for me to care. Don't let that deter you from trying, however. And if my root form disturbs you so, with all my limbs and opposable digits, I'll gladly pick up a shape more akin to yours if you'd like to play a little game of chase."
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."
Sixshot grunts as a sharp manipulator collides with his faceplate, the sensation more sound than feeling. He feels the distant twinge of his spark spinning a little faster- the delightful anticipation of conflict, dredging him from his impasse.
"Hah!" The Phase Sixer is definitely smiling now, almost incredulous at the nerve of this insignificant thing to pick a fight with him. "How can I, beetle? You haven't given me anything to fetch yet." He makes no effort to stop the sharp prongs of MAKO's prow from colliding with his chest, thrilled by the screech of metal-on-metal. Instead, he grabs at the wings of the smaller mechanism, grips down tight- and attempts to throw it skyward, the pistons in his arm cranking with the motion.
[ CENSERE, NEUTRAL HOT ROD ]
"...It's a matter of experience, actually. Spark flowers naturally develop their crystalline shape when traces of spark energy are exposed to a charged ionic solution at the right... Hot Rod? Hm. I hope I'm not boring you."
βNo, no. Itβs fine. Pretty, hm, interestinβ stuff. Youβve just been over this a few times with me in the past.β Hot Rod takes the teacup set out for him and drinks from itβ regrets it instantly, as its contents have gone cold. He discreetly heats it up with his fingers. Necroworldβs sole constant citizen had so kindly voiced for Hot Rod to not do that many, many timesβ but itβs hard not to, when he does not want the tea to go to waste, but keeps forgetting to actually drink it while itβs hot. βIβm just distracted. New shipments and stuff. You can keep going if you want.β
"It's polite to pretend like it's the first time." Censere doesn't appear too disappointed, apart from a slight downward change in tone. Actually, the change in tone might just be attributed to Hot Rod's discrete burning of his tea set. The mortician does his best to appear as if he doesn't notice- but years of isolation happens to wear down on one's ability to act. "I only wish to refresh your memory. I find the process quite fascinating- a fascination that has stood the test of time for several megaanna, mind. It wouldn't do for it to be forgotten." A pause, as Censere drinks the rest of the tea from his cup, before reaching across the table to check the teapot of its contents. Quarter full, still. He doesn't look up to speak again, busying himself with adding a few cubes of sweetener into his teacup. "No trouble with shipments, I hope. Should you be somewhere right now?"
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"Hm," the Cybertronian hums, with an upward lilt to its voice that suggests the face behind the mask is smirking. For all intents and purposes, Sixshot obeys the little machine's demand- retracting his hand to rest on his knee, but ignoring MAKO's boasts. "You don't transform, do you? Like one of those. Drones, crafts- whatever the organics are calling their dear imitations." "Your energy signature," Sixshot begins with a claw under his chin, shifting his weight to lean back. "Heh. It's strange. I don't recognize it. Are you from Earth? Some place more alien? Or are your claims of being one of kind true after all, beetle?"
"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."
Sixshot laughs at the small craft's comment- a loud, barking thing laced with chuffs of static. It's difficult not to. This tiny, indignant thing has quite the spirit, Sixshot decides. What would perhaps be symptomatic of a terrible lack of self-preservation in a mech, is read only with amusement in MAKO's case. It is very difficult to take threats seriously from a being who he could, theoretically, put through various puzzles and mazes for snacks.
"I'm afraid you'll find that very difficult, beetle." Sixshot rumbles, tipping his head to one side. "Very few things scratch me at all, and far fewer do enough damage for me to care. Don't let that deter you from trying, however. And if my root form disturbs you so, with all my limbs and opposable digits, I'll gladly pick up a shape more akin to yours if you'd like to play a little game of chase."
[ SIXSHOT ] "My. Haven't seen a thing like you before." The towering Phase-Sixer's voice comes out in a curious, low rumble- he leans down, reaching a single claw out to tap at one of MAKO's wings. "What are you?"
"Get your filthy mitts off of me, Cybertronian," the comparatively tiny machine snaps; it lurches back to distance itself from Sixshot's outstretched hand, its wings mantled and flared out in an impression of a rather oversized, irate beetle.
"You will never see another like me. I am one of a kind," MAKO boasts. "You may admire my glorious self, but you may not touch. Not unless you are willing to pay."
"Hm," the Cybertronian hums, with an upward lilt to its voice that suggests the face behind the mask is smirking. For all intents and purposes, Sixshot obeys the little machine's demand- retracting his hand to rest on his knee, but ignoring MAKO's boasts. "You don't transform, do you? Like one of those. Drones, crafts- whatever the organics are calling their dear imitations." "Your energy signature," Sixshot begins with a claw under his chin, shifting his weight to lean back. "Heh. It's strange. I don't recognize it. Are you from Earth? Some place more alien? Or are your claims of being one of kind true after all, beetle?"
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