[[Private on Decepticon frequencies only]]
Howlback here. I've arrived on this puny little planet, as per the orders I received by broadcast, with a relative minimum of difficulty.
I would greatly appreciate some accurate coordinates so I might close in on the base, as well as information on the current status of the war effort, as I have picked up signals from a distressing number of still living Autobots here on this rock.
And as it seems we communicating using this backwards organic tech, I have acquired an account on this...journal...thing, using a human 'song' ironically similar to my own translated designation as the moniker. Hush, fools: it amused me at the time.
This song...I am sure the organics are either merely obsessed with it, or they know of my arrival are already attempting psychological warfare, for it is playing over and over on that pitifully primitive 'radio station' filled with the repetitive moronic drivel they call 'music'. ...And considering my receiver controls were damaged on terrain impact, and the 'radio' is constantly playing in my data banks - I can't even change the frequency channel! - it was only a matter of time before this pink human's unending screeching brought me to my metaphorical knees.
I've never seen or heard of such an effective torture technique. (I must be sure to incorporate it into my already impressive regimen of...information gathering techniques. It could prove useful in the future, yesss... *purr~* ...So long as I remember to off line my audio receivers first, of course.)
So. Who must I kill to make the the music stop?
Lord Megatron. Your Cobalt Sentry has arrived, and am at your disposal. I am awaiting your orders most eagerly. I'm afraid I have no idea as to Garboil's current location - he did not return to our arranged meeting place and I have not seen nor heard from him since, the silly fool.
I would greatly appreciate some accurate coordinates so I might close in on the base, as well as information on the current status of the war effort, as I have picked up signals from a distressing number of still living Autobots here on this rock.
And as it seems we communicating using this backwards organic tech, I have acquired an account on this...journal...thing, using a human 'song' ironically similar to my own translated designation as the moniker. Hush, fools: it amused me at the time.
This song...I am sure the organics are either merely obsessed with it, or they know of my arrival are already attempting psychological warfare, for it is playing over and over on that pitifully primitive 'radio station' filled with the repetitive moronic drivel they call 'music'. ...And considering my receiver controls were damaged on terrain impact, and the 'radio' is constantly playing in my data banks - I can't even change the frequency channel! - it was only a matter of time before this pink human's unending screeching brought me to my metaphorical knees.
I've never seen or heard of such an effective torture technique. (I must be sure to incorporate it into my already impressive regimen of...information gathering techniques. It could prove useful in the future, yesss... *purr~* ...So long as I remember to off line my audio receivers first, of course.)
So. Who must I kill to make the the music stop?
Lord Megatron. Your Cobalt Sentry has arrived, and am at your disposal. I am awaiting your orders most eagerly. I'm afraid I have no idea as to Garboil's current location - he did not return to our arranged meeting place and I have not seen nor heard from him since, the silly fool.