[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Snapping Point [Open]
Mar 10, 2024 19:46:56 GMT -5
Post by Onomatopoeia on Mar 10, 2024 19:46:56 GMT -5
Onomatopoeia considered the wheel spikes. Truly as minimal a weapon as they were, they were more than anything Ono could offer an enemy. Tactics on Earth necessitating continued disguise made a couple of her preferred tactics a touch more difficult to discreetly accomplish.
Oh but then there was the indignity of unintended insult!
Onomatopoeia looked down at her own hands. They were not tiny! They were oversized for her frame, so she could interact with larger equipment!
Ok yes she was overall tiny she admitted to herself. Ono sighed inwardly, she was just a jump upped minicon from the moon trying to kick bighead aft. There were moments, just like right now, she wanted to murder every single moving thing. She would love to dance on the grave of the Universe. Maybe later.
Duty called. With resolute grace, Ono accepted the immediate chore. With exemplary precision and delicacy, the biker femme cleaned erroneous ink from the face of the other. A careful dab here, a precise swipe there, and a very conscientious stroke to avoiding marring Cintra’s makeup. Onomatopoeia could sympathise with a certain degree of vanity. To be one’s best, one must feel their best, and a pleasing reflection often went a long way, and helping Cintra achieve her best was expected to be a fruitful endeavour. And if Ono was going to be honest with herself, Cintra did have a pretty face, maybe that’s what Flux saw. For a quiet minute, Ono worked deftly to clean up the splattered ink, as gentle as reasonable with just enough force to get the job done. Cintra was right now placing her trust in her, and she would earn it. Cintra would likely need a long hot soak to get every drop from every seam, but when Ono was done, almost nothing would be noticeable by anyone.
When Ono considered herself finished, she stepped back to admire her efforts. “Fantastique.” The simple word was joined by a deft nod of self agreement.
“You speak of the yellow car, this one, yes?” With a half-hearted gesture, Onomatopoeia brought up a holographic image of Bumblebee’s alt. “If you’re referring to Bumblebee, ‘e’s unlikely to be met. The more time a ‘bot spends on this wretched planet, the better they learn to blend in with the locals. It’s the newer ones who only wear a disguise but don’t yet fully mimic the be’aviour of a ‘uman vehicle whom we will most likely prey upon.” Of course this was logical theory, but reality often brought differing evidence. It was quite plausible a mentor might take out a newer arrival and guide them.
“‘Ow confident are you Cintra in spotting a bot who looks like a human car but still be’aves like a cybertronian?” The nuances were sometimes subtle, proactive suspension and ride height, wing mirrors that moved to look around, or just poor response to local traffic laws. The stupid ones wore an actual Autobot badge somewhere.
Oh but then there was the indignity of unintended insult!
Onomatopoeia looked down at her own hands. They were not tiny! They were oversized for her frame, so she could interact with larger equipment!
Ok yes she was overall tiny she admitted to herself. Ono sighed inwardly, she was just a jump upped minicon from the moon trying to kick bighead aft. There were moments, just like right now, she wanted to murder every single moving thing. She would love to dance on the grave of the Universe. Maybe later.
Duty called. With resolute grace, Ono accepted the immediate chore. With exemplary precision and delicacy, the biker femme cleaned erroneous ink from the face of the other. A careful dab here, a precise swipe there, and a very conscientious stroke to avoiding marring Cintra’s makeup. Onomatopoeia could sympathise with a certain degree of vanity. To be one’s best, one must feel their best, and a pleasing reflection often went a long way, and helping Cintra achieve her best was expected to be a fruitful endeavour. And if Ono was going to be honest with herself, Cintra did have a pretty face, maybe that’s what Flux saw. For a quiet minute, Ono worked deftly to clean up the splattered ink, as gentle as reasonable with just enough force to get the job done. Cintra was right now placing her trust in her, and she would earn it. Cintra would likely need a long hot soak to get every drop from every seam, but when Ono was done, almost nothing would be noticeable by anyone.
When Ono considered herself finished, she stepped back to admire her efforts. “Fantastique.” The simple word was joined by a deft nod of self agreement.
“You speak of the yellow car, this one, yes?” With a half-hearted gesture, Onomatopoeia brought up a holographic image of Bumblebee’s alt. “If you’re referring to Bumblebee, ‘e’s unlikely to be met. The more time a ‘bot spends on this wretched planet, the better they learn to blend in with the locals. It’s the newer ones who only wear a disguise but don’t yet fully mimic the be’aviour of a ‘uman vehicle whom we will most likely prey upon.” Of course this was logical theory, but reality often brought differing evidence. It was quite plausible a mentor might take out a newer arrival and guide them.
“‘Ow confident are you Cintra in spotting a bot who looks like a human car but still be’aves like a cybertronian?” The nuances were sometimes subtle, proactive suspension and ride height, wing mirrors that moved to look around, or just poor response to local traffic laws. The stupid ones wore an actual Autobot badge somewhere.