Pen and Sword
It was always interesting to look at the reports at the end of the day.
Optimus picked up a strip of metal that Ratchet had written his requisition list on. The triangular glyphs of the dialect Ratchet used were crabbed and close together, requiring a fair bit of concentration to decipher. Wheeljack's annotations scribbled around his latest design were almost as bad. One would think that with the extremely refined hand control that both mechs required, it would mean that their handwriting would be at least legible.
The Prime doubted however, that Prowl even knew how to scribble. His handwritten notes and reports were always neatly printed, even if it was just a couple of words in the margin. By comparison, Jazz's script was so fluid it could only be described as cursive. Hound's style was almost a dialect on it's own, a mish-mash of Cybertronian glyphs and English grammar with some phonics from both languages thrown in for good measure. It took a little deciphering, but once you were used to it, it wasn't that bad.
Then there was the twins. Prime picked up their reports on their last mission, studying the graceful calligraphy carefully. Anything the twins wrote, be it an official report, a memo stuck to a monitor, or graffiti in the Common Room was always written in perfect Iaconic calligraphy.
It always was a strange dichotomy to see the foulest of slurs, insults and swear words elegantly traced on the walls, and a startling parallel to the twins themselves. The brutal strength and killing instinct wrapped up in two of the most aesthetically pleasing frames to be found amongst the Autobots
Once again, it was confirmed to the Prime the uniqueness of the mechs that he had the privilege of commanding. For the most part they were not soldiers but ordinary civilians who's lives had stopped in mid motion when the call to arms had sounded.
Prime absently rubbed at his chest, the spot where his first wound had been when he was an unassuming civilian. He knew the feeling of being torn from one life and thrust into another very well, perhaps more so than many for the simple fact that he didn't have a choice. It had been fight or die, and he knew he had to fight. For the sake of the life he had lost and the lives lost with it.
With a weary sigh, Prime shuffled through the various reports, sorting them out in order of importance and returning to the task of running his side of the war into which he had dragged so many of his kind.