Ironhide gives a mechanical-sounding hum. “It serves its purpose,” he agrees. After a moment, he adds, a bit smugly, “And it is quite stylish. I could have ended up with a paint job like Ratchet’s.” If Ironhide had been in root mode, he would have shuttered. Perish the thought. Ironhide’s never been a particularly vain mech, but that garish shade of yellow... green... whatever it is, is quite the opticsore.
“Yes,” he continues, answering Chloe’s question. “There are some limitations, like size and frame type, but if someone wanted to they could scan just about anything they came across. Bumblebee scanned twice before finally choosing his altmode.” Although that one hadn’t lasted too long if the scout’s shiny new finish is anything to go by.
When Chloe falls silent, Ironhide does as well. For a few moments, he wonders if he should be telling her all this--about Cybertronians. It’s never good to give information away to another species that could prove deadly, especially when it’s a so-far neutral faction in an intergalactic war. Ironhide’s seen first-hand how fast things like this can go wrong, and he doesn’t really want to see it again.
Neutral factions can become allies as quickly as they can enemies.
Ironhide hopes that, for the better for both its people and his, Earth stays a neutral faction.
Pulling his attention back to the road, Ironhide follows the others down the darkened street of the Witwicky family home. He doesn’t reply to Chloe’s apology but rumbles in acknowledgment. What’s done is done - Cybertron had sealed its fate long before the war had even begun. And hopefully, once they find the glasses, retrieve the cube, and leave this dirty little planet, the child will never have to know what it feels like to lose her home.
Finally pulling to a stop, Ironhide remains silent until Chloe is a safe enough distance away for him to transform. Fully upright, he rotates a stiff shoulder joint and peers down at Chloe, his helm slightly tilted to the side. “You’re welcome,” he says, watching her rush away. His helm tilts a little more before his attention is brought back to the matter at hand by a call of his designation.
