Silly Solarflare
Featuring Powerglide

It was definitely in there. Solarflare gently peeled back Powerglide’s armor with her talons, one optic boring a hole into the crevice.

“Ow! Careful back there, will ya, Flare?”

She merely chuckled. “I told you not to try it, but you did it anyway.”

The red jet huffed, shifting from side to side in order to get more comfortable. In the end, he crossed his legs, Buddha-style, and folded his arms petulantly. “Hey, if you had both Starscream and Thundercracker ready to make a not-so-nice contact with your afterburner, you’d do the same.”

The femme struggled to keep a straight face as the Minibot continued to defend his actions. “Well, I had Thrust and Ramjet. Hold still, Glide!”

“They’re stupid,” he groused. Flare tapped him on the top of his nosecone, then got back to digging. “OW!”

“I told you, hold still. Listen to me, will you?”

And Powerglide replied as all mechs of the Ark did when she asserted concern or displayed aggression: “You’re a damned mother hen, you know that, Flare? –YOW!”

“Mother hen this, warplane-fodder.”

“Charcoal-chicken.

“Oo, imaginative,” she laughed, waving the offending object in the jet’s face. A sorry – dead – squirrel. Powerglide’s masked face displayed the most curious reaction: it jittered in place while his blue optics widened. If it were ever possible for something that was mostly metallic.

“G-get that away!”

Flare drew her head back, crest arched high over her nasal ridge. “What?” She turned the poor carcass with her fingertips. “The Ark strutter scared of a little sky-kill?”

Powerglide rose quickly, tripping up over his bulky lower legs. “I’m not jokin’ Flare! Throw it away!”

Laughing, the grey femme got up and followed, chasing old Powerglide around the smoky glen with the dead squirrel swinging from her fist.