He'd never admit it in a million years, but he hadn't felt relief like he was feeling -- after seeing Barricade transform just now -- for a very, very long time. Qilby was about to say something about how he was sorry for doubting his partner (but certainly not sorry enough to sound like he meant it) but then he noticed just what he had transformed into.
There was no room for him to be picky, he knew that-- and he wasn't about to cause a big deal after all the blood and tears it took to get this far along... But that was his Weapon form? Really? After all this time he'd gone without wielding someone, the very first Weapon he happens upon turns into a hand? Either this universe was trying to throw him a bone, or was making fun of him. Qilby was more inclined to believe the latter. The obvious (and entirely tasteless) jokes about being lent a hand could be made later, however-- it sounded as if he was about to have more pressing matters to deal with.
"You make it look so easy," he quipped, tone light. Odds were looking up; he had the luxury of levity here. There was another moment's hesitation -- like the one earlier -- before he could bring himself to lay a hand on Barricade, but it was either resoluteness or desperation that finally made him take the plunge. He hoped this wasn't simply another way for the robot to bite off his good hand, or something.
With contact came the first sense of the other's soul wavelength: a faint, insistent presence like the Madness, but this was more alien, less welcoming. But this wasn't something he could fight or hope to control-- all of his theory, all of his research told him it was something he merely had to immerse himself in. Like drifting in the ocean, letting the currents carry him where he wanted to go. His own soul was old, like a tree with its deep-running roots planted firmly in the earth-- but even the most solid of trees had to bend so as not to shatter in a storm. Qilby knew what he wanted, and he'd do anything to achieve it, even if it meant quashing his ego to work with someone else. And what he wanted right this very second was not to die... That was all the motivation he needed to slip his only hand in the claw-like gauntlet, flexing a few fingers tentatively once it (he?) fit snugly.
"If it feels this strange for me, I can't even imagine what it's like for you," he muttered, marking this momentous occasion with a completely unnecessary comment.
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There was no room for him to be picky, he knew that-- and he wasn't about to cause a big deal after all the blood and tears it took to get this far along... But that was his Weapon form? Really? After all this time he'd gone without wielding someone, the very first Weapon he happens upon turns into a hand? Either this universe was trying to throw him a bone, or was making fun of him. Qilby was more inclined to believe the latter. The obvious (and entirely tasteless) jokes about being lent a hand could be made later, however-- it sounded as if he was about to have more pressing matters to deal with.
"You make it look so easy," he quipped, tone light. Odds were looking up; he had the luxury of levity here. There was another moment's hesitation -- like the one earlier -- before he could bring himself to lay a hand on Barricade, but it was either resoluteness or desperation that finally made him take the plunge. He hoped this wasn't simply another way for the robot to bite off his good hand, or something.
With contact came the first sense of the other's soul wavelength: a faint, insistent presence like the Madness, but this was more alien, less welcoming. But this wasn't something he could fight or hope to control-- all of his theory, all of his research told him it was something he merely had to immerse himself in. Like drifting in the ocean, letting the currents carry him where he wanted to go. His own soul was old, like a tree with its deep-running roots planted firmly in the earth-- but even the most solid of trees had to bend so as not to shatter in a storm. Qilby knew what he wanted, and he'd do anything to achieve it, even if it meant quashing his ego to work with someone else. And what he wanted right this very second was not to die... That was all the motivation he needed to slip his only hand in the claw-like gauntlet, flexing a few fingers tentatively once it (he?) fit snugly.
"If it feels this strange for me, I can't even imagine what it's like for you," he muttered, marking this momentous occasion with a completely unnecessary comment.