Nexus. A bench near a stone arch. A different take on things

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Threnody is unaware of the symphony of bird song occurring over her head and all around her. She's paying no mind to the local rodent population, though there's a squirrel sitting on her foot right at this moment. She has no attention to spare for the bright forms of the flowers that are scattered throughout the undergrowth and the grass of the little forest glade she's found. Most of her attention is focused on the tiny construction of paper and various colouring chemicals that she holds between her fingertips.

Cyclonus would be non-plussed, and Scourge would be quietly and uncomprehendingly supportive if they found her now, but she's used to those reactions when her friends find her with a book.

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Her own voice is as quiet as she continues to look toward the clearing. "It's why so many have left." Then her brow quirks. "Do you know the meaning of the word 'threnody'?"

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"No..." Scourge looks at her, mystified.

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She still looks away. "A threnody is a song or hymn of mourning composed or performed as a memorial to a dead person."

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Scourge's arms relax ever so slightly. "I'm...not quite sure I understand."

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"I am Galvatron's threnody."

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"What?" Scourge looked her over again--this short, female form with a soft voice and a kind spark willing to help a total stranger who'd practically tripped over her was a dedication to Galvatron. "You can't be serious."

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"I'm told she wrote the song herself." Her mouth twists wryly.

Not completely true; no one would tell anyone anything but the official story. But her early cycles of spying from the ventilation had earned her a few snippits she might not have picked up otherwise.

"But we were speaking of Galvatron."

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"You're...what?" Scourge covers his face with his hand, trying to piece this meaningless nonsense together. "How could you represent Galvatron?"