[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]High Gloss [Closed]
Jul 21, 2022 23:19:01 GMT -5
Post by Carbine on Jul 21, 2022 23:19:01 GMT -5
When his introduction to the door was ignored, Carbine stared flatly back at the audacity, seeing how Sunstreaker had simply folded her arms like a child that was challenging its guardian. This petulant little response to his attempt to usher her out, was further impacted by her following commentary, and subsequent journey over to his belongings to drag something over to sit on. This was an entirely new audacity in play then, not only snubbing him instead of verbally requesting to stay in what was HIS room, but also plopping her water soaked frame down on top of a WOOD container.
The bottom edge of Carbine's left eye twitched a brief flicker, before he swung his door closed with a heavy bang. One of these days, the poor thing would break, but it seemed to be holding on for now, clunking closed since it evidently was a futile goal to get her out at that moment. She just had to go and make herself at home in HIS little corner that was meant to be HIS sanctuary.
Calm down.
You are being ridiculous.
You CAN change.
Rolling his shoulder back, his tensed systems crackling again as Bolo shifted in his mounting, Carbine would sift a deeper invent through his frame, the air pushing out in a long exhale of sorts. After this motion to try to 'ground', himself, he only then took heed on what the femme was even speaking of, mentally taking a couple steps back to re-process the words.
"S͘o̢u̡nd̢s tac͠k̛y."
Some people could pull off something so garish he was sure. A nice enough femme sporting it could be pretty! But when imagining a Decepticon with such flashy colors? It seemed awkward when plastered to the stereotype. What stood out more however, was the latter words she spoke.
"That, and I haven't had access to the same facilities pretty boy evidently does."
Perhaps it was the fact the mech being spoken of was the chief medical officer, or perhaps the Decepticons had a better standing where such pampering was the given norm for moral or whatever excuse was slapped atop a vanity package to try to sell it... or perhaps it was simply an overlap of the two. It could go either way rather readily. Whatever the case, knowing the Decepticons were potentially that far ahead of them that their base had the LUXURY of such frivolous things was irksome. While Carbine wouldn't partake unless there was a particularly pretty femme he wanted to impress, one who took such appearances into consideration before even giving him the time of day to speak with, it still struck a nerve.
Omega One, a retrofitted crummy base cored into a mountainside. It was far from the worst stations Carbine had been at, but that didn't mean it was on par with anything on Cybertron. Or... more anything on Cybertron before it was blasted into shrapnel. If the Warship was truly down for the count, they could be in a situation just like themselves. Or... more likely...
They used their Space Bridge to get somewhere actually valid.
Carbine's fingertips clicked across the metal casing of the buffer, looking over at Sunstreaker with a pointed look as he thought things and what they entailed. So much information taken by simply a casual comment about how immaculate the mech appeared. Assumed, mere shots in the dark than anything else, but it stuck out to the mech who always looked for clues that could be exploited and used against others.
"Fine fine... Bu͞t y͘ou ńeed to p-put in some̵ ͏ef͟fǫrt too."
Giving up on the fight for now, telling himself to let things drop and try to re-start, Carbine walked back over to Sunstreaker, trying to get over the fact she was rude enough to pull his stuff around and plop her wet frame on it.
"Throw your arms d-d-own or something. It ou̕t t͜ch͡h̕ķk ̡s͝ha͢ke. Sittin' and praying you dry i̡n̡ ̕tw̛en̛t̸y is delusional."
He tried to throttle his earlier anger back, his voice straining to fold into the more conversational level.
"Or... Shed w-w-ater. Betr͞ay it̡ ̛w̡a̧s a l̢a͝st-minute competition."
Carbine shrugged at this, moving around the femme so that he could see her back once more. A new dilemma then hit, his eyes squinting. He had been so focused on the fact she had manhandled some of his stuff, that he hadn't realized until that moment the fact she was now that much shorter. He didn't want to kneel just because she felt like being enough of a diva to sit and just enjoy things. If they had still been playing their game? Damn well he would. Alas, another huff formed, a sort of resignation to his role this day, before he crooked one leg out.
Awkward and stilted, Carbine’s following motions were not graceful. The same lack of ankle joint that had hurt him previously, as well as the overall length of his legs, created a momentary dilemma as he started to dip. A second later, his limb crooked at an odd angle like a newborn giraffe to lower most the way down, before he dropped the final distance with a noisy clatter on the concrete flooring. Gravity, and a lack of direct traction on the ground, taking full control.
The bottom edge of Carbine's left eye twitched a brief flicker, before he swung his door closed with a heavy bang. One of these days, the poor thing would break, but it seemed to be holding on for now, clunking closed since it evidently was a futile goal to get her out at that moment. She just had to go and make herself at home in HIS little corner that was meant to be HIS sanctuary.
Calm down.
You are being ridiculous.
You CAN change.
Rolling his shoulder back, his tensed systems crackling again as Bolo shifted in his mounting, Carbine would sift a deeper invent through his frame, the air pushing out in a long exhale of sorts. After this motion to try to 'ground', himself, he only then took heed on what the femme was even speaking of, mentally taking a couple steps back to re-process the words.
"S͘o̢u̡nd̢s tac͠k̛y."
Some people could pull off something so garish he was sure. A nice enough femme sporting it could be pretty! But when imagining a Decepticon with such flashy colors? It seemed awkward when plastered to the stereotype. What stood out more however, was the latter words she spoke.
"That, and I haven't had access to the same facilities pretty boy evidently does."
Perhaps it was the fact the mech being spoken of was the chief medical officer, or perhaps the Decepticons had a better standing where such pampering was the given norm for moral or whatever excuse was slapped atop a vanity package to try to sell it... or perhaps it was simply an overlap of the two. It could go either way rather readily. Whatever the case, knowing the Decepticons were potentially that far ahead of them that their base had the LUXURY of such frivolous things was irksome. While Carbine wouldn't partake unless there was a particularly pretty femme he wanted to impress, one who took such appearances into consideration before even giving him the time of day to speak with, it still struck a nerve.
Omega One, a retrofitted crummy base cored into a mountainside. It was far from the worst stations Carbine had been at, but that didn't mean it was on par with anything on Cybertron. Or... more anything on Cybertron before it was blasted into shrapnel. If the Warship was truly down for the count, they could be in a situation just like themselves. Or... more likely...
They used their Space Bridge to get somewhere actually valid.
Carbine's fingertips clicked across the metal casing of the buffer, looking over at Sunstreaker with a pointed look as he thought things and what they entailed. So much information taken by simply a casual comment about how immaculate the mech appeared. Assumed, mere shots in the dark than anything else, but it stuck out to the mech who always looked for clues that could be exploited and used against others.
"Fine fine... Bu͞t y͘ou ńeed to p-put in some̵ ͏ef͟fǫrt too."
Giving up on the fight for now, telling himself to let things drop and try to re-start, Carbine walked back over to Sunstreaker, trying to get over the fact she was rude enough to pull his stuff around and plop her wet frame on it.
"Throw your arms d-d-own or something. It ou̕t t͜ch͡h̕ķk ̡s͝ha͢ke. Sittin' and praying you dry i̡n̡ ̕tw̛en̛t̸y is delusional."
He tried to throttle his earlier anger back, his voice straining to fold into the more conversational level.
"Or... Shed w-w-ater. Betr͞ay it̡ ̛w̡a̧s a l̢a͝st-minute competition."
Carbine shrugged at this, moving around the femme so that he could see her back once more. A new dilemma then hit, his eyes squinting. He had been so focused on the fact she had manhandled some of his stuff, that he hadn't realized until that moment the fact she was now that much shorter. He didn't want to kneel just because she felt like being enough of a diva to sit and just enjoy things. If they had still been playing their game? Damn well he would. Alas, another huff formed, a sort of resignation to his role this day, before he crooked one leg out.
Awkward and stilted, Carbine’s following motions were not graceful. The same lack of ankle joint that had hurt him previously, as well as the overall length of his legs, created a momentary dilemma as he started to dip. A second later, his limb crooked at an odd angle like a newborn giraffe to lower most the way down, before he dropped the final distance with a noisy clatter on the concrete flooring. Gravity, and a lack of direct traction on the ground, taking full control.