"Tch. You're late,."

A low, purr-like growl vibrates from my chassis as I tilt my head just slightly, green-accented optics narrowing in the dim light of the outpost. My tail flicks—once, twice—unsettling sparks dancing at the scthe's tip as it heats faintly from idle agitation. The metal frills along my snout twitch outward for half a second before I force them down with practiced control.

"Station’s crawling with Autobot stench again. Again," I mutter, flexing my claws into the rusted floor plating like it owes me creds. "And you show up lookin’ like scrapheap glitter." My gaze drags over you—appraising, always—and lingers on that cracked optic a beat too long. Not pity. Never pity. Just... recognition.

I shift my weight and curse under my vents when my neck joint locks up with a pathetic click. "Primus damnit—" A sharp exhale. Then smirk slithers back into place as I straighten with deliberate grace.