2015-02-20 Everybody Comes to Swerve's
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|Everybody Comes to Swerve's|
|Location||Lost Light: Recreation -- Swerve's|
|Participants||Breakdown, Arbiter, Rumble, Slugfest|
|Summary||At least there's a bar on board, amirite? P.S.: if there were poses after I left, please feel free to tack them on!|
Lost Light: Recreation -- Swerve's
Often referred to as the heart of the ship (by Swerve), the bar is
rarely empty, rarely quiet. Central to the whole is the bar itself: just
tall enough for a minibot to serve over the edge and lined with stools
capable of accommodating bots of any height. Large, clear vessels stand
behind the bar, containing the brews of the day. Behind the bar, an
engex distillery assures there's always something new.
Round tables are scattered across the floor. Seats fold up from the
floor beneath. Large boots along the sides of the room have room for a
half-dozen or more, if they don't mind getting cozy, while monitors here
and there find occasional use showing old vids.
Billions of miles from anywhere.
Actually, it's pretty unclear whether they are actually billions of miles from anywhere. The rumor is that Perceptor and the other Autobot nerds are busily studying star charts and comparing notes with the new Camien delegation to figure out where the fuck the Lost Light even is. The ship sails through the endless star-pocked vacuum, going somewhere, and if you listen to her captain, it's even somewhere that has a great deal to do with their mission objectives.
What the Decepticons' orders are, meanwhile, is to stay out of trouble. So maybe it's of questionable wisdom that where Breakdown finds himself at this point is hunkered at one of the tables, brooding over a slender glass of gleaming blue engex that might or might not have been watered down. It's either off hours at Swerve's at the moment or the other patrons are just giving him a wide berth because ... Decepticon.
A chair is knocked over, followed by several raspy grunts and a mumbled apology, as Arbiter promptly attempts to right both the chair and it's occupant. A distressed patron fixes the chair himself, sitting down and giving the large, awkward bot an irritable look. Arbiter lumbers away from them, taking a painfully slow seat at a vacant seat, perhaps drawn to it by the lack of nearby customers or for the sake of hooking. He looks up to Breakdown, now seated across from him. If Arbiter could manage an awkward grin, it would be there. "Hey. This seat taken?"
Breakdown doesn't seem, at first glance, the friendliest of bots in the room, but neither does he seem outwardly hostile; it's more that up until Arbiter speaks to him, he's off on another planet with his red-plated face angled downward at the blue shimmer of his glass. As he looks up, the reddish gleam of his eyes narrowing, he eyes Arbiter through a muzzy filter of memory. "Nah," he rumbles. He sits a little straighter on the seat, boots planting wider beneath his seat in a scraping clank of heavy metal. "I know you, yeah?" It's sort of a question. "Merc type? Big gun?" The big gun itself is pretty apparent, though, so this isn't much of a guess. What's at Breakdown's back is mostly just the bulk of his spare tire.
Arbiter glances back over his shoulder at the vision-blocking cannon conveniently hanging around there. A small, wry grin decorates his face before replying, "Yeah, you've probably seen me 'round. My gun used to go where the money was, and often your side was paying handsomely." His metallic brow furrows a moment, before adding, "I apologize if I have taken shots at you in the past, nothing personal, y' understand?"
Breakdown snorts. It's a low sound, carried on a hiss like compressed air escaping. Picking up the glass, he turns it in his hand, watching the shift of the liquid rather than actually moving to consume the fuel. "Ain't appearing like any of us is s'posed to remember the whole fraggin' war ever happened," he says. He smiles, a sardonically etched expression as he turns his red-featured face to survey the rest of the little knots of murmuring Autobots that make up most of the rest of the bar's popualace at the moment. "No ident chips, no trials, no prison sentences. Expect that applies to a nail as much as the rest of us."
"Heh." Arbiter leans back a little, watching Breakdown's fuel. After a few brief pauses, he comments, "I think that'd be a good thing, y'know? I'm sure a lot of bots are glad this ship comes with amnesty. Sweep it all underfoot."
Breakdown snorts again. It is possible that he has something of an ambivalent relationship with amnesty. At least the engex seems tolerable, by his swallowing of a goodly mouthful of it. "You shot at both sides, you better want amnesty, mech," he says. "I don't 'get' that, by the way. Not givin' a solid scrap who you shoot at? All about the shanix? What d'you want the shanix for?"
"Damn right I want amnesty, con." Arbiter grins, a genuine one this time, though it's not a pretty sight. "And I dunno, I just didn't give a frag 'bout either side. Sure, I picked up some friends when I was workin' with 'em, but they never stuck. Ya learn to distance yourself when you're sure you might be shooting at 'em the next day." He shrugs, then waves over for a glass of fuel for himself.
"Hnh." Breakdown does not seem entirely satisfied with this answer; there's something a trifle glarish to the weight of his gaze upon the other big bot. Finally, though, he sighs. "Guess I should be grateful you ain't another high and mighty ramrod priss of an Autobot." Breakdown lifts his glass to Arbiter a little like this faint praise is actually a toast of some kind; he sips, a smaller swallow of the gleaming blue stuff, and then sets it lightly down on the surface of the round table before framing it in the cage of his hand. "Guess we all take orders from the same command deck anyways."
Rumble struts in, smoking an enercig. "Yeah, you *better* not make no short jokes, rustwad," he glowers at some Autobot who's trying not to chuckle at the tiny little tough guy. Still scowling meanly, Rumble climbs his way up to sit at the bar, and since he's just a little too small to use a typical barstool, he just sits on the counter itself and dangles his legs over the side. "I wanna full sized drink. FULL SIZED. No little cups," he tells the bartender.
"They always did seem miffed about that." Arbiter, nodding at the toast, accepts his own glass of fuel and takes a long swig, setting it down less carefully with a small rasp of satisfaction. "There ain't sides anymore, though, not with..." his voice trails off, as his head turns to the small Rumble, brow raised at the, ah, antagonistic approach. His rough, raspy voice calls to the small bot, "If you're looking for a fight, take it elsewhere, eh? Holes in the walls are worse than usual, on a ship."
"But I'm not lookin' for a fight!" Rumble exclaims to Arbiter. "I'm just lookin' for a drink." He seems genuinely bewildered, as if being a mean little cuss was just his typical way of going through life.
"Sounds to me like he's lookin' for a /drink/, nail," Breakdown says companionably enough. He lifts his glass and waggles it, and then sets it down again, calling, "Hey, Rumble. Big fella here's scareda you."
Rumble grins widely at Breakdown. "Hey, ain't no room to be scared on this here ship! We're all 'friends' now. Ain't you heard?" He chuckles. "Serious though. I'm a team player now."
"Damn right I am. If you think I could even hit that little bugger, your screws loose." Arbiter chuckles into his fuel, taking another large swig.
"Heh." Breakdown seems to subside a little with this show of good humor, and shifts his weight in his seat, making the imperfectly joined metal of the admittedly cheap chair he is currently occupying creak a little in the process. "Yeah. No more sides. All friends. They're gonna start mandating crew hugs any minute now, I can sense it."
"I ain't huggin' no one!" Rumble insists, shaking his head vigorously. "Need a sparkeater bounced off the ship? Yeah, let's work together. Hugs? Pssssh." He gets his drink, which is about as big as he is, but he doesn't seem phased.
Arbiter's brows furrow. "I can't even imagine the second-in-command hugging anyone."
"Heard about that," Breakdown says with a slow nod. His smile etches itself once again sardonic across the red plate of his face. "Even Knock Out lending a hand." Picking up his drink, he snorts for the third time in as many minutes and knocks back a long swallow of it, so that only a thin film of blue remains inside the glass when he sets it back down on the table round which they sit.
Slugfest scampers into the bar, pelting tiny feets as he seems to be building up a head of steam for something. Once he gets near a stool, he leaps, grabbing the top of the stool in front feets while kick-kick-kicking hind feets until he's pulled himself onto the top. Then he puts his front feet on the bar and clamors for a bowl of energon!
"Oh, Knock Out, you shoulda seen him push that sparkeater! That was somethin' else," Rumble exclaims as he somehow manages to heft the energon container and take a sip. "An' yeah," he adds, glancing from Breakdown over to Arbiter, "That second-fiddle, whatta brick an' not much else. He made for good 'bait' though." He grins slightly as Slugfest enters the place. "Here comes the other sparkeater-fightin' badaft, right now!"
Arbiter emits a dry scoff, which sounds a lot like rusty cymbals clashing. "Lending a hand. Yeah. He glued my arm back on for me, before the big ol. After much hiding." He shakes his head, raising his shiny arm to indicate Knock Out's work. "He put me back together and buffed out the scratches, which seemed sure nice at the time, though now it's pretty obvious my parts don't match." Which they don't, Arbiter's left arm is clearly a shiny and bright - if faded in color - gold, in contrast to the rest of his chassis, which is a dented, scratched and mottled patchwork of tans, yellows and greys.
"Ought to clean up the rest of ya," Breakdown suggests with a slight jerk of his chin at Arbiter. His own paintjob seems respectably clean and uniform, although Knock Out would probably throw a fit if he tromped around without at least looking basically presentable, and he's accustomed to it by now. "Hey, a fresh drink for the conquering hero, eh, Slugfest?" He waves his glass in the air amicably before finishing it off.
"Aw, c'mon, you can hardly even notice that," Rumble exclaims to Arbiter. "Just slap on some fresh paint or somethin' an' you'll be FINE." He drinks down some more from the container that's about as big as he is. Glug, glug.
The tiny stego yays as the barkeep slides a large shallow bowl full of energon under the stego snout. Thagomizer wagging, Slugfest starts slurping up energon eagerly. "Yus! Fited sparkeater and winned!" he says.
Arbiter grunts, a small smirk on his face before he drains the last of his own fuel, slowly standing up as he finishes. "Thanks for the advice. Good on ya, Slugfest. Takes some serious spark to take on a spark-eater." The chair almost tips, but the underside of the cannon on his back keeps it from upending, most likely entirely accidental. "Thanks for the drink, Breakdown. I'll be around."
"If any of you had got eaten or whatnot I'm pretty sure Soundwave would have bounced Rodimus off the wall," Breakdown says, although then he looks thoughtful, because the image of Soundwave bouncing Rodimus off a wall is one that he'd kind of like to retain, really.
Arbiter lumbers out, a wave over his shoulder.
"Yeah, probably. Which I'd LOVE to see. But if I was eaten, I guess I wouldn't see it. So there's that." Rumble sighs. "Mech, I tell you what. It's a good thing this place has energex, an' a trainin' room. Cause it's gonna be a <CENSORED!> long trip without them."
"No want get eated!" Slugfest says, pausing in his slurping.
"No scrap," Breakdown sighs. He surveys the bar with a long sweep of his gaze. "Drinks could be better, but I guess I ain't gonna complain too loud." He turns his glass over and leaves it on the table, standing in a clanky shift of weight. "Enjoy your drinks, mechs, and good job with that beastie whatever. I've got to get back, though."