We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
"Thank you, but I've got nothin' but parts and my skills to trade, and I don't rely of the kindness of good mechs. I'll, give you my comm. channel." Her optics had moved and lingered of their own accord on Ironhide, and she promptly swung her gaze back to Bumblebee - "For if and when you can make use of me. No doubt you all keep your medic busy." And again, looking at Ironhide - his newer welds on top of old and older ones, particularly.
Running her thumb across the lip of the cube, touched more than she ought to be by the gesture, Cleaver took a shallow draught with a smile. "And Pit, it's good to see friendly faces."
Ironhide rumbled, amusement coloring the sound. "Ratchet's got a mouth like a strut saw hackin' at yer internals, but he's good an' too fraggin' overworked." He clicked his vocalizer shortly. "Pardon th' phrasing," he added, softer. "Ah'll give him yer code; he gets tired enough of yellin' at the rest of us, he might call yeh up just t' talk shop."
He nodded at 'Bee to bring up the ground bridge; started to offer a hand to Cleaver again, then caught himself and slid it into a gesture to the open bridge instead. "After you, ma'ahm."
The shadows were stretching long in the site where he'd first seen her, the edge of the horizon turning crimson. Ironhide began taking cubes from his subspace, stacking them neatly, the blue luminescence of the energon shimmering in the dusk. "Pure as our refiner gets," he assured her. "Ah ran it twice." Last cube unloaded, he hesitated, trying to find something suitable.
"Be careful," he said at last. "Sure yeh don't need meh tellin' yeh that but... if yeh need anything, yeh've got mah comm."
Cleaver's field washed out warmly, and she took one of Ironhide's large and scarred hands in her own, resting her other across his wrist. "Thanks, sincerely. For helping, and for caring so much as to do it so well. I owe you."
Ironhide's ventilation caught, his fingers closing without conscious thought as he leaned forward, pressing his helm lightly against hers for the pulse of a spark rotation before he drew back. "Yer welcome," he rumbled softly. "Freedom... Prahm likes t' talk about freedom. Ah'm just glad some of yeh are out there still doin' it.'