#servusendura

[matrixblessed]

@servusendura said:

"You have my deepest sympathies."

“Cyclonus, I love you, but you’re one of my clowns. Or an acrobat, at the very least.”

[violetherald]

Cyclonus blearily squints in the gloom, servos on her hip guards. “It is late. Come back to berth. You will be cross in the morn, otherwise.”

And there she is, as if simply thinking of her had summoned her to his side. Galvatron takes in her sleep-mussed appearance, amused and not at all intimidated.

“And when did you and I become old, exactly?” he asks, sauntering over to take her by the waist. “I recall many a sleepless night spent between the three of us, in trenches and alleys and storage bays, with not so much as a yawn to show for it when the sun finally rose.” He presses their forehelms together. “Or perhaps we have simply been permitted the comfort of routine.”

[venatorventus]

{ @servusendura }

He yipped softly, startled, but-

Well. He knows that servo all too well. "My Love- oh, Cyclonus, hello. You wouldn't believe the things being said about me, the.. the slander!"

[unicronnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnom]

@servusendura replied...

“You show distress over this. Why?”

( BECAUSE UNICRON REFUSES TO GO A DAY WITHOUT HASSLING SOMEONE AND THE PRIME IS USUALLY ITS FIRST PICK )

( YOUR HASSLING IS A BYPRODUCT OF THAT. REST ASSURED, UNICRON DISLIKES YOU LESS THAN IT DOES THE PRIME. )

[its-babe-disposal]

“Is… everything alright?”

"Oh, everything's alright- except for one thing." Tailgate thinks things could be better- mostly, Cyclonus should be way closer than she actually is.

"Come over here," she beckons from where she's sitting, and then pats her lap.

[a-life-revised]

The pulse rifle embedded in her arm cycles on with a soft, almost pleasant hum and the sharp tang of potential energy. Cyclonus moves the candelabras out of the way, plants her weight, aims for the wall-- and fires, low-powered energy bolts piercing through the false surface and sending chunks of it crumbling away.

Hollow. What looked like an emergency evacuation tunnel, though not one she recognized. Knocking more of the wall out of the way into the tunnel with the barrel of her blaster, she switches her visual input to infrared and pushes her way inside. At worst there's probably some retrorats, or some other pest, but it won't hurt to check.

The War may have ended, but four million years of it, and you know the sound of a gun. What's more than that, you tend to be able to distinguish the types, because it tells you if you need to worry about the fire from Seeker or gunformer- or otherwise. The whine of it is what tips him off, and he pauses, helm tucking against his chassis. He'd abandoned his fusion cannon in protest of his old ways- he doesn't regret it, necessarily, but it's not the first time he'd thought that, perhaps, it was a rash decision.

Perhaps it's the inherent paranoia, but he feels like he's fine tuned to know when he's about to run into danger.

And the sound is quiet and far off, but unmistakeable. The question, now, is what to do about it. He can, in fact, that a hit, he's meant to, but not like he used to be capable of, after being stripped of his war armor. Best play it safe- at best, whoever it is will pass them by. At worse? They'll come to blows.

..he switches to infrared, and trudges on.

[violetherald]

@servusendura replied:

"..." She is deliberately not making optic-contact.

Something about flustering his otherwise stoic Knight has always served to turn Galvatron’s insides molten. He presses his forehead to the nape of her neck and tries very hard not to implode from feeling so much.

“I love you.” It’s quiet, more em field than words.

[violetherald]

"Lord Galvatron," Cyclonus entreats, cautious with unease. Gods walk amongst mortals, these days; though she is no longer the young nun she once was, she is no less superstitious, servo resting on the hilt of the sword magnetically affixed to her hip. "Are you unharmed? Do you need he- do you want anything?"

In reply, Galvatron opens his arms, wordlessly beckoning her to where he sits, slumped in thought, against the wall of his habsuit.

“I am all right.” His optics are distant, but not vacant. “I did not mean to… to worry you.”