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scrap_lord
03 April 2008 @ 06:26 am
27 March 2008 @ 11:40 am
Mixmaster: Now that the journals are secure once again, it is time we talk about that project I hinted at before.
25 February 2008 @ 01:57 pm
31 January 2008 @ 12:31 pm
08 January 2008 @ 10:56 am
*He's been by himself, locked away in his private room, for days.
He hates the room. It's too small--he deserves something a little bigger, he should think--and the berth is foreign and univiting to him, and it's riddled with small scratches and other imperfections.
He has taken to using his new quarters as a makeshift workshop. Instead of personal possessions or customary features for his room, demolitions paraphenelia is piled on the floors and on top of his workbench, at which he now sits. His fingers move with acute skill as he slowly builds yet another perfect bomb. He's done this so many times over the millenia it's as relaxing as any other hobby. Several other finished projects rest in a free corner or under his berth.
There is no danger--he knows what he's doing. And so far this is the only way to keep his mind off things. He pours all of his inner confusion and festering turmoil into the devices, transfering the dangerous heat from himself into his work and trapping it there. His bombs won't blow up without a controlled environment and his expressed permission--neither will he.*
He hates the room. It's too small--he deserves something a little bigger, he should think--and the berth is foreign and univiting to him, and it's riddled with small scratches and other imperfections.
He has taken to using his new quarters as a makeshift workshop. Instead of personal possessions or customary features for his room, demolitions paraphenelia is piled on the floors and on top of his workbench, at which he now sits. His fingers move with acute skill as he slowly builds yet another perfect bomb. He's done this so many times over the millenia it's as relaxing as any other hobby. Several other finished projects rest in a free corner or under his berth.
There is no danger--he knows what he's doing. And so far this is the only way to keep his mind off things. He pours all of his inner confusion and festering turmoil into the devices, transfering the dangerous heat from himself into his work and trapping it there. His bombs won't blow up without a controlled environment and his expressed permission--neither will he.*
03 January 2008 @ 10:18 am
I've been thinking about this for a few days, and I suppose I have no choice.
( LONGHAUL )
( HOOK )
( The rest of you )
31 December 2007 @ 03:01 pm
* He arrives at the base, treads kicking up dry dust. As he approaches, he notes, with a strange feeling of surrealness, a large, lifeless dune buggy outside.
::Primus and Unicron fucking on a gas giant, it smells of Autobot here...:: he mutters.*
::Constructicons, report.::
::Lord Megatron, Decepticon Scrapper has arrived at Earth base.::
[[OOC: unfortunate typo fixed D8]]
30 December 2007 @ 08:50 pm
::I've landed on Earth and have claimed an alt form native to the planet to disguise myself (one as close to my Cybertronian alt form as I could manage). I need coordinates to the Decepticon base immediately. I also demand to know how many of the Constructicons are on base at this time.
Scrapper out.::
Scrapper out.::