Thundercracker grabbed at the ration of energon offered to him. He did not speak, turning away with a small but unmistakable twitch of his proud wings.
"What's gotten into him?" someone muttered.
Thundercracker heard someone else shush the one who'd spoken. His sensitive audio receptors caught a low, raspy whisper: "He's just like that. You get used to it."
Thundercracker scowled. His engines roared, as loud as he could make them. But he didn't turn to watch the rude one wince.
It should have amused him. Blasting out the audio receptors of anyone who talked scrap to him usually did. But today, he guessed, was just another bad day.
He didn't know why. Skywarp had made him laugh the other day. The Decepticons had been converting oil to proper fuel, and the Autobots had shown up to stop them, as usual. Skywarp had punctured one of the barrels so that one Autobot slipped on the oil and knocked over the one behind him, which knocked over the one behind him, which... ultimately left about five Autobots flat on their backs, flailing and struggling to right themselves.
It was all a bit ridiculous, and nowhere near as useful as just killing them would have been, but he had to admit that it had amused him. And later that night, seeing him pleased, Skywarp had been wonderfully enthusiastic. He chuckled once, remembering.
But somehow this morning the gloom was in his circuitry again. It was almost like the precipitation here, how it slid into his transformation seams and made everything all wet and cold and, if there was too much of it, maybe even glitchy.
I'm sorry, Skywarp, he thought, taking his seat next to his trine-mate and sipping his energon in silence.
Maybe I'll feel better later.