[Wheeljack is sitting at a table in his personal room at his workshop, facing his journal. His chin is propped in one hand, and he's toying with one of the little plastic dinosaurs that the city gave him in the other. He's still in need of that washing he never got from first arriving back to the city after a week only to find that all hell had
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It was a testament to just how weary and out-of-sorts Wheeljack was feeling that he didn't register the sounds, didn't react to Jazz until he felt on hsi shoulders. He jumped, shifting around with the near arm coming up to block, to defend himself, but then he recognized his friend and he made himself relax, the tone of a grin, albeit subdued, in his voice.]
Jazz. Hey. How're ya doin'?
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I . . . I-I will be. Just . . . just tired, s'all. Frustrated an' tired.
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