The threat slips in through one ear and back out the other--Soundwave had never yet physically carried it out, and it rings bells in his head that calls to mind a certain other soldier who generally also says it and then changes his mind on a regular basis.
And so it is that he happens to have nothing to say to it at first but a thoughtful 'mm', acknowledging the comment but not the content.
Trowa spends a great deal of time locked in his head, however, thinking busily away, and it is not very much longer before he decides that he has the need to remark upon it after all.
"You already did," he begins, in much the same casual manner as one might normally use to mention the need to check the mailbox or to let someone know that their shoes look very nice. It seems odd to remain standing this way, standing shoulder-to-shoulder almost, but unnecessary movement might give the wrong impression; he continues without changing position.
"He doesn't trust me anymore," Trowa adds, the blank lack of tone meant to cover up any pain the truth has caused. "I can't talk with him. Or be around. And I'm not allowed to see."
He makes an odd gesture at this with one hand, somewhere between dismissal and a half-assed one-armed shrug.
"I don't even know if the incisions Shockwave made have healed."
There's a pause during which nothing happens, awkward and heavy. It's such a bizarre thing to be talking about something so personal with a being who might still turn around and attack; who probably doesn't care. But he's going somewhere with it--trying to make a point, not looking for sympathy--and because of that, he keeps speaking.
"He won't let me touch him anymore. For anything. Just panics. Gets angry. Attacks me."
One short beat, Trowa's eyes flicking to the Decepticon, watching him; for a split-second it looks as though a spark of hatred is finally going to flare up behind them, but it's gone again just as quickly as if it had never been there at all, leaving behind an empty look and a mirthless smirk at just how funny everything isn't.
"...Thinks I'm you, actually."
Another calm breath, and Trowa tilts his head back to stare at the intricate but filthy and cracking painting covering the ceiling.
"So now I'm nothing. I'm not Arsenal. Or Rumble, Nanashi, or Trowa. They're dead. I'm just you, borrowing someone else's body."
The boy drifts for a moment into the back of his own mind to listen to the Deep Voice--the bloodthirsty piece of the war form's consciousness that stays with him even when he's human--and hears it try to press him into changing, calling for him to turn in rage at the destruction of his fragile little patchwork construction of identity and splinter Soundwave's skull between his jaws.
For a minor eternity, he considers finally giving in.
As he thinks of it, Shockwave hurt Quatre and Quatre hurt him in return, only to be tortured himself. So it should be the communication officer's turn to feel pain... but he already had, when the other Cybertronian died. The blood had long stood repaid, then, and his own life had been spared several times over the better part of the last year by Soundwave.
whoops /fixes html
And so it is that he happens to have nothing to say to it at first but a thoughtful 'mm', acknowledging the comment but not the content.
Trowa spends a great deal of time locked in his head, however, thinking busily away, and it is not very much longer before he decides that he has the need to remark upon it after all.
"You already did," he begins, in much the same casual manner as one might normally use to mention the need to check the mailbox or to let someone know that their shoes look very nice. It seems odd to remain standing this way, standing shoulder-to-shoulder almost, but unnecessary movement might give the wrong impression; he continues without changing position.
"He doesn't trust me anymore," Trowa adds, the blank lack of tone meant to cover up any pain the truth has caused. "I can't talk with him. Or be around. And I'm not allowed to see."
He makes an odd gesture at this with one hand, somewhere between dismissal and a half-assed one-armed shrug.
"I don't even know if the incisions Shockwave made have healed."
There's a pause during which nothing happens, awkward and heavy. It's such a bizarre thing to be talking about something so personal with a being who might still turn around and attack; who probably doesn't care. But he's going somewhere with it--trying to make a point, not looking for sympathy--and because of that, he keeps speaking.
"He won't let me touch him anymore. For anything. Just panics. Gets angry. Attacks me."
One short beat, Trowa's eyes flicking to the Decepticon, watching him; for a split-second it looks as though a spark of hatred is finally going to flare up behind them, but it's gone again just as quickly as if it had never been there at all, leaving behind an empty look and a mirthless smirk at just how funny everything isn't.
"...Thinks I'm you, actually."
Another calm breath, and Trowa tilts his head back to stare at the intricate but filthy and cracking painting covering the ceiling.
"So now I'm nothing. I'm not Arsenal. Or Rumble, Nanashi, or Trowa. They're dead. I'm just you, borrowing someone else's body."
The boy drifts for a moment into the back of his own mind to listen to the Deep Voice--the bloodthirsty piece of the war form's consciousness that stays with him even when he's human--and hears it try to press him into changing, calling for him to turn in rage at the destruction of his fragile little patchwork construction of identity and splinter Soundwave's skull between his jaws.
For a minor eternity, he considers finally giving in.
As he thinks of it, Shockwave hurt Quatre and Quatre hurt him in return, only to be tortured himself. So it should be the communication officer's turn to feel pain... but he already had, when the other Cybertronian died. The blood had long stood repaid, then, and his own life had been spared several times over the better part of the last year by Soundwave.
In the end, he simply continues to stand there.