[The feed opens up on a couch. Next to the couch is a rather high-tech looking sort of... chair. A chair hovering over the floor. Apparently a robotic wheelchair. Its owner is sprawled on the couch, judging from the bits of yellow armor visible from over the arm of the couch. On its own, the communicator seems to peer over the arm of the couch
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You're a very good singer.
[He's not so sure about your song's content, though.]
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I certainly hope you're at least civil and appreciative to Ratchet for all the work he's doing on you.
[Or at least paying him.]
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Tch, whatever. It's not any of your business, anyway.
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You act like combat is the only thing of value.
And it is my business. Ratchet is my friend.
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No, looking good is important too.
So what? I say it's none of your business.
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Surely I am allowed to have my own thoughts?
.....Are all Autobots like you? [No wonder Ratchet is so irritable.]
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They wish they were.
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I'm sure you are a valiant soldier, and an asset to your Autobots.
[If he retreats any further, he's going to fall off something.]
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Yeah. I am. In all ways.
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...or just sorry for yourself.
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Can you feel anything? Do you like anything, want anything, feel sorry for anything or anyone? Do you feel anything other than anger and pride? Do you love? Is there anything...alive in you?
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What kind of stupid question is that? I'm Cybertronian, therefore, yeah. No scrap, I can feel.
It's just not worth the effort to feel sorry for lesser beings.
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