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2015-05-29 Drinking Contest

From Transformers: Lost and Found

Drinking Contest
Date 2015/05/29
Location Lost Light: Recreation -- Swerve's
Participants Rodimus, Blast Off, Mercy, Whirl, Breakdown, Riptide, Tailgate
NPCs Swerve
Summary Rodimus decides to have a drinking contest. What follows may be inevitable.

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.


There have probably been worse ideas in the grand history of life, the universe, and everything, but this ranks pretty high up there:

Shortly after entering Swerve's, and despite the frantic negating handwaves from said minibot, Rodimus says, "Fifty shanix--" Fifty of /Drift's/ shanix, mind you. "--says any Autobot here can beat any Decepticon in this room in a drinking contest."

Chromia would be so proud of him. Look at him. Team-building. Making sure the two different sides bond. ...by setting them against each other, yes. What a great idea.

Rodimus advances toward the bar with a credit chip held over his head. "Who's in?" he asks with a smile sent round the room.

This all sounds like a very, very bad idea... which is exactly why Whirl is the first one to raise his arm up in the air as soon as Rodimus issues his challenge. Sure, he's already been sitting at the bar drinking for who knows how long (certainly not him) but he's sure he can handle it.

"Yooo! Do you even gotta ask?" Whirl rises from his seat and stands tall, puffing his chest out. "I can outdrink anyone and anything in here, Decepticon or otherwise!" To prove his point, he downs the rest of his drink and slams the container onto the bartop. "BRING IT ON!"

Not often in Swerve's, usually having other things that distract her before she reaches the door even when she does intend to visit the bar, Mercy is seated on one of the stools at one of the tables just off to the side from the bar. And then the GREAT IDEA is announced...and she perks up. "That sounds like a game!" A pause. "And a really bad idea.I am not cleaning up whatever mess you make, but...can I play?"

"Yes! That's what I like to see!" Rodimus throws his arms up in the air, too, but he's not volunteering: he's celebrating Whirl, then going for a high-five. High...claw. Whatever. "You, there." He points at a chair at a table in the center. Jackpot, the table's lone occupant, clears the space. It's not that he's not sticking around, mind you. He just hears bets being made, so he needs to go place some of his own, and handle the side action. That leave the table open for Whirl, Rodimus, and -- "Yes, you. Good. It probably will end up in messes," says Rodimus with an easy grin as he leans up against the newly cleared table. "Especially if there aren't any Decepticons in here," he adds all raised voice and pointed looks, "who are brave enough to take the challenge! Important social bonding time. I'm pretty sure this practically counts as work credit, here."

Whirl wasn't going for a high-five but he's not going to leave Rodimus hanging, so he makes sure to give his hand the hardest slap he can possibly give before plopping himself down at the designated table.

"Decepticons? Brave?" Whirl laughs at that, like it was the funniest thing he's ever heard in his life. "We all know those two words don't go together, come on. You might as well just give me the money now, no one has the struts to face me in a challenge!"

"As long as you clean up the messes," Mercy repeats before hopping off of her stool and practically skipping over to climb up onto a new seat at the newly cleared table. Elbows promptly placed on the table, she reaches over to prod at Whirl's knee with her foot. "Be nice! We're supposed to get -along-!"

Rodimus turns away from Whirl so that he can't see the words he hisses soundless in dismay. They are very rude. He shakes his hand out once, metal just slightly dented. When he turns back around, he's smiling (but he's also holding his palm in his other hand). "What? This is us getting along. Friendly competition. Or -- well, competition. Here. Whirl and I will start, right? Nice and friendly. Show the cons how it's done." He smiles, with a sharp edge that suggests he probably wants to cheat. "Something simple. First to down three shots, yeah?"

"What the frag are you drinkin' that you think you gotta show us how it's done, sss... sir?" Scraping his heavy pauldron off the door to the bar that he's been leaning against rather than immediately wading in, Breakdown finally thumps forward a few paces without accidentally overcorrecting and winging off anybody. It is clear that 'sir' is not what he was originally going to say, and that he's not very good at correcting himself mid-sentence, but he's behaving himself well enough to give it the old college try. He's out of the brig, but the ravages of recent days are still as plain as the black eyepatch riveted in stark metal to his face. The grin is a little ugly, too, but he prefers it that way, generally speaking.

Blast Off is sitting off in a corner as he is want to do, trying to just ignore everyone and hoping they'll ignore him. He is both trying to look as if he's ignoring Whirl, while at the same time keeping a watch on him in the corner of his optics. This time he has managed to get a bottle of wine and his hand has tightly clasped both the bottle and the glass the whole evening- he's determined no Autobot is going to get between him and his wine.... not this time. Then Rodimus walks in and announces THAT.

The shuttleformer turns to stare at the Autobot Captain, muttering, "...You have GOT to be kidding me." Then Whirl disparages Decepticon bravery (such surprise) and the Combaticon turns his head to glare at the cyclops. "You mistake cowardice for *intelligence*. Decepticons /are/ courageous. We just do not rush headlong into stupid situations without thinking twice."

Breakdown turns his head sidelong to sideglance Blast Off from his single remaining eye and chooses not to comment on that one.

Well, that's a familiar voice! Mercy's head swivells in Blast Off's direction as she hears his stuffy speech, and sits up a little straighter on her stool. "I looked for you last cycle! I wanted to see that pretty rock, the Soul Stone...but..." She pauses, shoulders slumpig slightly. "You yelled out your door you weren't there. That wasn't very nice, since you clearly -were- there." she chastises the larger Combaticon before her optics swing back around to Rodimus, and then to Breakdown.

"I /am/ playing nice," Whirl scoffs at Mercy, moving his leg away to spare himself more prodding. "Trust me, I am."

Whirl is about to take Rodimus up on his challenge and down as many shots as he needs to one-up the Captain, but Breakdown has to come in in distract him. "Heheheh, hey, check it out. Looks like I'm not the only one-eyed freak on this ship, eh?" He mentally pats himself on the back for that HILARIOUS observation.

Then he's distracted from the task at hand once more when Blast Off speaks up. Whirl is a bit surprised, he didn't even notice the Combaticon was here. "Well, well, well, look who it is. The shuttle nerd is back. Haven't you gotten the hint that no one likes you yet? Why are you even out here? You should be hiding in your room so I don't have to look at your stupid face."

"So maybe that's why you lost!" Rodimus slaps the table and then calls, "Swerve!"

Without enthusiasm, the bartender comes out with a bottle of engex and a tray of glasses. "You /are/ paying, right?" asks Swerve.

"Sure," says Rodimus, taking the bottle and sweeping the tray onto the table. He doesn't pay. He'll pay ... later. Look, it's /his/ ship, right? Right. Pointing the still-sealed bottle at Breakdown, Rodimus says, "Over here! Sit! It's going to be teams. You and Blast Off versus Whirl and -- the medic." He gives Mercy a long look. Medic is a given. Crosses, right there. Name? --he obviously forgot. What a guy. LOOK THERE ARE SEVERAL HUNDRED PEOPLE. It takes him a bit!! "I'll be neutral or something. Come on, sit down, everyone settle in and fifty shanix for the winners. Who better be the Autobots."

"I ain't wagerin' against beatin' a tiny medic at drinkin'," Breakdown says after a brief, summing sweep of his glance across the potential opposition, but he does clomp forward on heavy stompy clanks toward the action, because hey, that's where the action is. "You play--" He points at Rodimus. "--She judges. Look at her. I could bounce her off your head." He frowns, and adds conscientiously, "'Cept that would be against regs or ... somethin'."

Blast Off looks over and catches sight of Mercy now. He stares at her as she chastises him, then blinks. "....I am a Combaticon and space warrior, I am not particularly concerned with appearing "nice". I simply wished to be /left alone/." He emphasises the last two words, hint hint.

Tightening his grip on his wine glass, he turns to gaze haughtily at Whirl. "...At least *I* have one..." He mutters. Rodimus' suggestion causes another stare. "....Why? Why should I particpate in something as common as a *drinking game*?" Yes, he sure knows how to win friends, uh huh.

"Hey!" Mercy takes afront at the comments about her size, and she puffs up her chest as best she can to increase her size. Which isn't much. She -is- a smaller than average 'bot, but she's not -tiny-! And then Blast Off rehashes th conversation they'd had not long ago, and she jumps down off of her stool. "Come play and be social or....or..." She trails off, trying to think of a suitable threat. And then her optics brighten. "Or I will come give you a HUG, Mr. Grumpy Con!" Yup, that's the best the Medic can come up with.

"What, you don't think she can do it?" Rodimus goes to clasp Mercy on the shoulder, but his hand falls right past as she jumps off her stool. Well, nevermind. He plays it off and tries to act cool. He was just -- going to lean on the table. Yeah. "Sounds like you're being sizist. Sounds like /you/ know you'll lose." Glancing from Breakdown to Blast Off and then to Whirl, Rodimus shakes his head. "Decepticons, am I right?"

"Sorry, Mercy," Breakdown mutters. It's not a very convincing apology, but it might be surprising in that it exists. Also, he knows the names of everyone in the entire medical staff. For some reason.

He turns the weight of his one-eyed stare on Whirl. At least Whirl's head looks like it was designed for one eye and doesn't require him to accidentally overbalance himself all the time. Breakdown scowls about this. Or, well, he scowls. It's unclear if Whirl's relative handsomeness is the reason or not. "What a load of scrap," he says. He jerks a sneerish look at Whirl -- he's not quite as good at sneers as Blast Off, but you know, he shows willing -- and goes: "Our fearless Autobot leader is scared to take a drink and needs you to be his champion or whatnot."

"Whoa. WHOA. I'm not scared! Who said I'm scared? I'll do it. I'll take you BOTH on. I'll take ALL of you on," Rodimus immediately insists.

"WHAT!?" Whirl jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process, and levels Blast Off with the nastiest glare he can muster. "Did you just say what I think you said? Did you just /make fun of me/ for my hideous deformity? You're an asshole!"

He reaches over and snatches the bottle out of Rodimus' hands, popping the top off it with a flick of his claw. "I have to drink, like, RIGHT NOW." He pours the engex into the various glasses set on the table before them though he does a very poor job at it; he ends up spilling most of it all over the tray. "EVERYONE SHUT UP AND DRINK. THIS CONTEST STARTS NOW."

Whirl double-fists (double-claws?) two glasses and knocks them back. "Ugh! That was terrible. Everything Swerve brews here is terrible." Nevertheless, he's already pouring himself another round.

Blast Off blinks again at Mercy's threat, and it does seem to be one the Combaticon is NOT used to receiving. His head snaps back a little as if trying to decide if she's serious. If so, TEH HORROR. Then he looks at Whirl, his expression changing a little into something far icier... and maybe just a bit smug. Just a smidge. He brushes away an imaginary speck of dust off his arm's heat shields. "...Make fun of? No. State fact to someone acting rather boorishly towards me? Yes." Haughty sniff.

Then he narrows his optics at Rodimus. "....Fine." Getting up, the Combaticon makes his way towards the others- wine bottle and glass still in his hands. "I am not afraid to meet a challenge."

Apparently satisfied that Blast Off is going to be social, Mercy re-takes her spot on the stool...and pokes at Rodimus' elbow to encourage it out of her way (being that he'd recovered from his missed pat on her shoulder by leaning). She seems thrilled at being included with the bigger bots, after countless years being kept in the back, being told she was too small and might get hurt (and do you know how hard it is to be an effective combat medic from the BACK!).

"Is it a race?" Mercy wonders as she looks towards Whirl after his first two shots, reaching for one of the glasses herself. "Or do you just think you need a little extra practice?"

Grin cracking his face, or what's left of his face, Breakdown says, "All right, boss. Let's go." He follows Whirl's example by scooping a drink in either hand. He pounds them each back and then pounds the glasses back onto the table with a little too much force. Luckily, the glass -- and the table -- are sturdy enough to bear it, for the moment. "Hah, practice," he chortles.

Rodimus is there. He's SO there. When Whirl says go, he goes: he reaches for one, but seeing Whirl grabbing two, he immediately grabs a second. Conveniently, this clears Mercy's space so that she can sit. He straightens away with a grin down at her, and lifts one of his glasses in a toast before slamming them both down with no further hesitation. "Come on, what /isn't/ a race?" says the guy with the giant spoiler and flames on his chest. "This is just the warmup, though."

Blast Off watches the others and finds himself smirking just a little under his faceplate. Heh. These other mechs and femmes think they can outdrink HIM? The Combaticon is no lush, but he DOES appreciate a glass of fine enerwine- or other engex if that's not available. He takes the wine glass, makes sure it's full- and proceeds to..... sip it. Because sure, he'll do this.... but he'll do it RIGHT, darn it all.

Mercy ohs and takes up one of the cups herself and pours it back. It's a solid two swallows for her, rather than the single it was for Whirl and Rodimus, and the medic apparently decides that's enough. Swallowing again, she stiffles a cough. "Yum," she mutters, voice slightly rougher than normal.

Reaching for the bottle, Breakdown has to correct when he gets the angle slightly wrong, but it has very little to do with already being inebriated. "It's a warmup, huh?" he says, revving in place like the obnoxious racer he used to be in his halcyon days, and sloshes a few more shots into his emptied glasses.

"Blast Off. /Blast Off/. Come on." Reaching to take the bottle after Whirl to pour for the others, Rodimus pauses first to point. "Drink for drink, or it doesn't count. /Chug/." Then he pours. "Uhm, rules. What are the rules. What was I doing. Okay. First to tap-or-pass out gets nothing. Last one in gets fifty. Everyone in between gets -- something. I don't know. We'll figure it out later. For now--." He lifts his next glass and holds it up in a salute. "Good luck, Cons. You're gonna need it."

Round and round the bottle(s) go: Blast Off ends up being first to call out, and Rodimus is loudest in derisive catcalls, so naturally he suffers the indignity of being the next one out. He's still sulking when Breakdown, Mercy, and Whirl face off over their rounds. It's a near thing, but Breakdown and Mercy make their break together before Whirl seems anywhere close to stopping, which leaves Whirl to claim his victory, the shanix, and the cheers of those who've gathered to watch.

Rodimus watches Whirl walk off. He is sitting-slash-lying on the table, face to metal. "Not fair," he whines.

Mercy is slouched against the table, arm bent to cradle her head as she watches Whirl sashay out. She might not have won, but she held her own. MOre than that, she out drank Rodimus AND Blast Off! Her feet swing back and forth above the rung on the stool before she giggles (yup, the medic actually giggles) and lifts her head. "Blast Off....I wanna see another pretty stone!"

"Boss. Gotta be fair. Nothin' to hit." Breakdown, the provider of this amazing logic, is sitting on the floor. It's not entirely clear how he ended up on the floor. There's engex splattered down across his shoulder pauldron and he's got his head propped against the edge of the table, eyepatch side scraping the metal, his other eye turned outward to survey the bar, ruins of the battlefield style. Since he's on the floor, this puts him roughly at Mercy's height, right? Well, give or take. He squints. "Rocks?"

Blast Off simply refused to do anything other than sip slowly at his wine. Because it's wine, it's limited quantity and he's NOT going to guzzle it down. "Wine should be /savored/, enjoyed... not *squandered*. It's a *limited resource*." And thus he was disqualified, alas.

Now he finds himself still sipping slowly, enjoying his wine DARN IT ALL. He glances over as Whirl leaves (about time!) and Mercy giggles at him. He stares at her. "...I do not exist solely to provide for your amusement..."

He takes another sip, then seems to think a bit more about it. "....Though ....yes, it is a beautiful stone, is it not?" He glances down at Breakdown. "...Soul Stone. I got it on a planet I visited once. The locals claim you can see your soul if you stare hard enough at it."

"Lame. /Lame/." Rodimus finger guns across the table at Blast Off and says, "Lamest. You're okay, though," he tells the top of Breakdown's head. "And /Mercy/. Ha ha. Mercy, Mercy: good job representing for the medics. Carrying on a fine tradition. You know, I heard that Ratchet can process anything you give him. Doesn't matter what. Weapons-grade nucleon. He used to be wild. Wild!"

When the talk turns to 'soul stones', Rodimus scoffs. "Surprise you keep it around, if that's the case," he says in what is pretty clearly another crack at them for being Decepticons.

Shifting upright in her seat at the praise from Rodimus, the medic nearly falls off of the stool, having to grab at the edge of the table...and...Wait...Blast Off isn't there to keep Mercy amused?! Say it ain't so! Instead of telling Blast that he's here precisely for that reason, currently, the tiny bit of undrunk circuitry in her head tells her to keep her mouth shut on that topic and change her attention to Breakdown. "Yup, rocks. He has a preeety Soul Stone, all black an' shiney. Oh! AND he said there's a whole planet that sparkles like a DIAMOND!" And what fem wouldn't like that?

"Whaddaya want to see that for?" Breakdown sneers a little and turns his head, scraping heavily against the table. "Already know what's in my spark. Soul. Spark. Thingy. 'Seasy. Easy question. Don't need a shiny rock. Ow." His boot scrapes in a noisey grate along the table leg as he shifts. "Good job medicking. Medic-drinking. Hahah. Hah."

Blast Off's optics narrow at Rodimus and for the briefest of seconds he finds himself wishing for the good old days where he could shoot an Autobot who was sassing him...but Rodimus is the Captain here and can throw his aft in jail and ...yeah, it would be a really bad idea to return to finger gun with an actual one, tempting as it might be. Especially after the Autobot makes that *crack* at him. He *really* has to work at not letting his trigger finger twitch because...oooo, so tempting. "There are probably a *number* of things that would surprise you about me and my... fellows, if you ever cared to *learn*."

Mercy and Breakdown get his attention next. "It's simply ...well, poetic, I suppose. A sentimental tale told by the locals to explain some natural phenomena and, perhaps, something lacking in their lives... or perhaps importtant to it." He shrugs. "I don't know." Then he nods. "And yes, there is a planet made up of diamond. Quite stunning, actually."

"That wasn't funny," Rodimus tells Breakdown very seriously. He shifts so that he's resting his head on the table, nose first, but this is not comfortable at all and scarcely lasts. He sits up, wobbles, over-corrects, and then flattens back against the table again. He takes up far more space than it seems he should, elbows all poking into everyone's business. And he has /very/ pointy elbows. Everything is pointy. "What, exactly, do you think I could learn about Decepticons, huh? Come on. I'm listening. Enlighten me."

Flowing down off her stool, much like a liquid flowing off the edge of a table, Mercy stumbles as her feet hit the floor, grabbing to hug her stool to stablize herself. "I wanna see it...Roooooodimus, pleeeeease?" she whines, pushing unsteadily off the stool to take oh-so-careful steps towards the Captain. "I tolded you. Blash...Blast Ho..Off's got pretty rocks!

Breakdown lifts his head, squinting toward Rodimus from the floor and reaching up to give his near elbow a poke. In slow motion. With one pointed finger. Poooooke. "Just jealous of my jokes," he says. Then he squints again, looks down, looks up. His head rolls a little to the side as he tracks Mercy's progress, one-eyed. (Ofc.) "What... whaddaya wanna know?"

Rodimus' question causes Blast Off to tilt his head thoughtfully. He gazes at the other mech, studying him... and he seems to be serious. "....A great deal many things." He hesitates bringing up the fact that the Autobot Captain seems to have a certain *prejudice * against his kind, instead trying to blanket it into something more palatable. And less likely to get him brigged.

He tries not to sound *too* sarcastic. "... For instance, we do not all operate from a position of evil or debauchery. Some of us have reasons for doing what we do, that you might actually even be able to relate to. Some of us even have *personal qualities* such as courage or..." he pauses, looking a little more dubious if this applies to Rodimus, "...intelligence that you might admire as well, if you got to know one of us better."

"Sure." Rodimus is agreeable. He's friendly. So he agrees with Mercy without even really registering what she's asking. He just agrees. Yep. "I'm with Breakdown on rocks, though. Maybe not his jokes. But the whole -- soul thing." He pauses to eloquently frame his thoughts. he says, "Nah."

Regarding Blast Off with an uncertain narrowing of his gaze, Rodimus says, "Yeah, okay, maybe you aren't all totally, irredeemably evil, but you guys make a lot of excuses for some pretty awful stuff. Like you don't care it was awful. I mean if something's bad, at least know it was bad, you know?"

"You never done anythin' bad, eh, boss?" Breakdown chortles the chortle of an inebriated Decepticon who knows for sure that isn't true. But how insubordinate can he be when he's drunk on the floor and calling you boss?

The squeal of joy that erupts from Mercy is just an octive below ear shattering as she flings herself (unsteadily) towards Rodimus for what appears likely to be a hug (if the outstretched arms and look of drunk joy on her face is any indication). Except - she trips over one of his outstretched limbs, and promptly ends up giving Blast Off a wide-armed hug...if he doesn't react quickly enough to get out of the way.

Blast Off looks at Rodimus. What he says is true, but so is what Breakdown says. He glances towards the other Decepticon. "Indeed. I think *both* sides have certain... things they are not proud of. And perhaps *people* they are not proud of. But..." he glances around the bar, "...the war is over now. I thought we were supposed to be putting all this behind us? Looking forward, not backwards?" He takes another measured sip of wine.

His calm and measured and OH SO REFINED sip of wine is rudely interrupted, however, as he suddenly finds Mercy tripping INTO HIS LAP, GIVING HIM a HUG! His reaction sends the glass flinging up out of his hand and across the room in startled surprise, though he somehow keeps hold of the bottle. "I-you-Get OFF of me!!"...is his wide opticed wail, as the shuttleformer tries to scoot away and yet NOT spill the wine bottle.

"I call that rude," Breakdown sighs from the floor.

"That's not what I said," says Rodimus, quiet and low and hardly carrying. Breakdown's words smother his fires quite neatly.

It's unlikely Rodimus'd add more, but Mercy's reaction certainly cuts off anything he might say to /change the subject/. Startled, Rodimus very nearly onlines his weapons. Belatedly, he places the warning siren as a squeal of delight, and that Mercy is going in for a hug and not an attack. Insults aren't the only reflexes built in over a few million years. "There you go! Mercy's looking forward! Come on, Blast Off! A fine example!"

Rodimus slaps the table and pushes himself upright. "Next person who walks through that door!" He points. "I'm doing it!" Doing what? He doesn't say. He's seated at a table with Breakdown (who is actually on the floor), Blast Off, and Mercy. There are a couple of empty bottles and too many empty glasses. /They look very drunk/. Swerve's is busy, but no one's been shot.

It can also be noted that Mercy looks like she's just face-planted into Blast-Off's chest in a hug-like position.

And just who is it that's next through the door? Why, it's Riptide, of course! The poor mech is looking a tad weary, which is all thanks to Whirl causing yet more trouble for him. This time it was spilling energon all over his berth, which is better than bullet holes through his computer, to be honest.

But right now he's eager for a drink, though he pauses once inside when noting the well sized, drunken crowd that has gathered. "Did uh.. Did I miss an invite or somethin'?"

With the 'encouragement', not to mention the rapid back-peddling of Blast Off, Mercy finds herself tumbling face first onto the floor of the bar. "S'just a huuuug!" she protests as the medic oh-so-carefully pushes up to her hands and knees before reaching for the support of a seat to get to her feet. "An' Rodimus said we can see the Diamon' Planet! You gotta tell him where t' go!" Single minded in her goal of this imagined beauty, she swings her head round to the man who had given the promised agreement. "Now?"

"Nah. It was impromptu. Morale building. Trust exercise," Rodimus says more or less at random. He considers the distance between himself and Riptide. For all that he's pushed himself upright, getting to his feet takes some ... doing. Standing is a challenge, and untangling giant puppy feet to get them /pointed/ in the right direction and /working together/ leaves him entirely distracted from the others. When he finally masters the challenge, he launches himself at Riptide.

Oh dear.

Grabbing Riptide by the shoulders, Rodimus hauls him and plants one. Right there. Weaponized smooches.

"Bet he made it up," Breakdown mutters from the floor. He's at a very muttery stage of inebriation. Scraping backwards a little with the scrape of his shoulder against the table, head lifting.

"...That ain't a trust exercise."

Swerve's is happenin'! It's the place to be! It's where the--

Tailgate's entrance is ill-timed; he comes through the door, hands bobbing up in surprise when he bears full witness. "Primus--" Is the initial shout of surprise, quickly followed up by a squeak of panic. "/Sparkeater/!"

Mercy finally removes herself from Blast Off, and the flustered shuttleformer has to let out a few cycling huffs of air from his ventilation system as he calms again. Though.... really, it wasn't sooo bad. Wait, no. It was terrible. Autobot COOTIES. Ew, ew ewww. The Combaticon shakes his head and flexes his hands, looking over at his fallen wine glass with a sigh. "If you want to get to... know me better, I'd suggest remaining *seated* first. Try some *wine*... and try not to *spill* it." He frowns under his faceplate.

Then he stops to stare as Rodimus goes and does... *that*. And stare. Then look at his wine bottle like he's wondering if he drank more than he remembers. Then look up again. Then... wait, what did Breakdown say? "Was that directed at *me*? Of course I didn't, the planet is called 55 Cancrie. Rather volcanic, though the locals have adapted to it and mine the rich ore. It does have its charms, though be prepared for some heat, obviously." He looks at Rodimus again, dubiously. "...And wait, he said we could visit it? Well... I mean, if he DID, I do have the coordinates, but..." Another pause. "...He looks sort of busy at the moment."

Then Tailgate appears and ...*what?* Blast Off turns to stare at him next. Then move to grab his wine glass because- looks like he's gonna need it soon.

Riptide perks up when he notices Rodimus looking to him and standing and, being the clueless mech he is, gives him a lazy little salute. "Oh, hey there, Captain. Wasn't expecting you to--Mmh!" Everything suddenly stops to a griding halt the moment Rodimus dramatically grabs up the somewhat tall mech and pulls him down into a forceful meeting of lips.

This can't be real.. Can it? Yellow optics are wide and bright as ever in a mix of surprise and fingers are twitching uncertainly as his already purple face turns several shades darker. There's a.. a split second when he brain tries to urge him to reciprocate, but this is all too much for his simple mind. And so, once Rodimus releases him, Riptide stands there with a blank expression and starry optics before promptly falling backwards and passing out.

Well, that's enough for Mercy. She has -got- to be seeing things, so it is clearly time to find her bunk! Except, to get to her bunk, she has to go through the door, and in the door...why, there's a robot-pile of cuddling mechs! Her people...er...bots! THAT is where she should be! And so she makes to join and, this time, her trajectory takes her right towards Rodimus' back. And then Riptide falls, and the little medic gives her path the slightest adjustment. "I'll save you!" she cries half trips onto her knees and skids to a stop as she bumps into Riptide's side.

Sparkeater?! Breakdown lurches to his feet so quickly he crashes into the table with enough force to jerk it partway out of the floor where it was /riveted down/. Then he goes, "--Ow."

It's Tailgate's panicked squeak that causes Rodimus to release Riptide -- and certainly not anything like /common sense/ or /dignity/ or /propriety/. "What? Where!"

Then Riptide collapses.

Rodimus startles back with the weapons on his arms glowing hot. "Mercy! Something--." He breaks off as she's already in motion, and then lifts his arms with a somewhat unsteady wobble looking for whatever it was that took out Riptide. THE SPARK-EATER, MAYBE. He looks right over Tailgate like he isn't even there. Poor little thing.

Blast Off gets the wine glass and stops to stare at the circus going on over at the door there. Then his hand reaches up and- he facepalms. That accomplished, he pours himself another glass of wine and starts drinking it- faster this time.

Tailgate's breath whistles sharply inward as Riptide parts from Rodimus... and collapses on the floor, the medbay's littlest bot attempting to -save him-. Visor wide, Tailgate raises his fists and more or less switches into Fight Mode. Sparkeater be damned! "/You killed him/!" The shouting/screeching comes at the same time that Tailgate attempts to tackle Rodimus. This will end well.

It /does/ end well: Rodimus goes down. Already unsteady on his feet, he stumbles, trips over his own foot, and then falls flat on his aft. He doesn't entirely flatten, but rather catches Tailgate up in his arms when he launches at him. "Whoa, whoa! Not me, tiny! Not guilty!" Tailgate's tackle is good for one thing: he turns his weapons back off again.

Mercy leans in to press the right side of her head to Riptide's chestplates, listening for....wait, now is a bad time for a nap. She's got saving to do! "Wake up...c'mon!" Lifting back up, she shakes her patient as she leans over his chest and head. "There's no sparkeater, you don't gotta be scared! I'm savin' you!"

It takes a bit for Riptide's systems to reboot after being overloaded like that. With a soft groan he opens his dim optics to find Mercy hanging over him and shaking him with drunken vigor. "Sparkeater.. what? ..H-Hey!" He eventually catches sight of Tailgate tackling Rodimus and instantly sits up. "Tailgate, knock it off, I'm alright! Rodimus didn't do anything!" Well.. he kinda did, but he's too embarrassed to repeat it!

Breakdown veers a little wildly in his trajectory across the room, almost overbalancing himself in one of his turn with a waggle of one foot in mid air. Then it thunks to the floor as he looms over the two pairs of bots that are both on the floor. He turns his head blearily this way and that, trying to watch both sets at once with only one eye that works. "As terrifyin' as that was," he begins, but he's not sure the end of the sentence, and stops.

Blast Off stares at the Autobots- then he stares at Breakdown... breaking things. He takes yet another loooong drink from that wine glass, finishing it and pouring himself another. Shaking his head, he returns ...not to the now overturned table but sits down next to it, glancing at Breakdown. "....Are they *always* like this?"

On his backside is close enough-- Tailgate's fists rattle against Rodimus' chestplate for a couple knocks, and he's about to go for the face when the bigger mech starts speaking. Sparkeaters don't really do that. Or proclaim their guilt. And their victims don't usually rise from the dead like this one does. Tailgate ceases all tackling and attempts at retribution, head turning when Riptide wakes up.

"Oh. Oh! /Oh/." One can almost sense the progression of reactions. Tailgate looks back to Rodimus, suddenly very self-aware. "I'm sorry! I thought--" Everyone knows what you thought, Tailgate.

Mercy huffs a sigh of relief as she leans back from the now awake Riptide. "I said I was saving you, an I did!" she proclaims to the room at large, proudly before scrambling unsteadily to her feet. "I'm gonna get my stuff so I can check an' make sure you're reaaaally good!" Whether or not Riptide needs the checking, it seems. Toddling off unsteadily, Mercy heads in the general direction of the medical facilities.

Doing his best to hold Tailgate at bay, Rodimus leans to look around him as Riptide stirs. When his VICTIM sits bolt upright, Rodimus smirks. "Hey. Don't worry." He talks over and around the flail of Tailgate's fists. He just -- tries to collect them. Settle him down. He seems remarkably chill about being attacked by a punch-slinging minibot. "It's cool. I get that all the time." (No, he doesn't.) "Natural reaction."

Worse yet, Rodimus /winks/.

"You're the one dodgin' hugs like they're scraplets or somethin', mech." Breakdown teeters on his next step. Then he stands straight and turns his head, eyeing Rodimus. "Changed my mind," he slurs. "I'm not drunk enough for this."

Why, Rodimus? Why did you have to WINK. All poor Riptide can do is stare, completly unsure if this is yet more of Rodimus' cocky behavior at work or something.. more. What he /is/ sure about, however, is that he can feel his cheeks heating up again as well as the rest of him, starting to run hot. "I.. I..I.." He stammers dumbly until finally forcing himself to lean so he can see Swerve behind the counter and utter his way with three fingers raised. "..I need a drink.. strong one, and make it a double." It's fair to say he can't really count correctly right now.

Blast Off wasn't expecting THAT answer. He HUFFs at Breakdown. "I BEG your pardon, she was falling all over me. Rather ..." He glances as she scurries away, about to say *uncouth* but deciding against it. "Well.... just /not/ what I was expecting. Especially from an *Autobot*." Because, you know... they /could/ have scraplets or something, casting aside old prejudices -or not. He rolls his shoulders as if to absolve himself of it before sipping at his wine again. Riptide over there gets a glance, his optic ridge raised, but he says nothing.

The lights behind Tailgate's visor slim down in a fair mimic of looks Rodimus must get all the time too. He makes am effort to disengage from his current state in Rodimus' grasp, sighing very loudly. For effect. He's not even going to dignify that part with a proper response.

Leaving Tailgate to slip away, Rodimus sits alone, drunk and confused. He looks at Breakdown in drunken confusion and then Tailgate in utter innocence. What? WHAT'D HE DO?

From his spot on the floor, Rodimus declares, "Total success!"

Breakdown stares. "At /what/?"

"Don't confuse me with your questions," Rodimus mutters. "Help me up." He holds up a hand.

"DRINK, PLEASE." Riptide speaks up a bit louder after Rodimus' exclaimation, already ambling quickly to the bar to get his engex. Oh how he hopes it's Nightmare Fuel.

The problem with having Swerve as a bartender is that not only does Riptide get his double, but he gets an /avalanche/ of questions: "So looked pretty wild over there at the door, huh? Knocked you right over, right? So you and Rodimus--?" Better run. Swerve's not gonna stop.

"Yeah all right." Breakdown mutters as he hauls Rodimus unsteadily up by his pointy-fingered grip on his forearm. It's very interfaction cooperative. Better not smooch him.

Blast Off is just going to do his best to IGNORE EVERYONE and DRINK HIS WINE. Because that ALWAYS works.

Tailgate sidles up to the bar, face peering over the edge and one hand slapping down on the countertop. His eyes are still somewhat narrowed. "The usual, please." He's the smooth operator around here now. Nothing weird just happened. He kind of pretends Riptide isn't getting grilled. The captain is not losing his mind, either.

No more smooches. Save that one for sometime Knock Out's around to clench-fist shatter a glass. Rodimus just takes the help up, slaps Breakdown on the shoulder, and grins at him. "See? Success," he repeats, sounding satisfied, and almost clear-headed. Almost.

Riptide just sort of.. sulks at the counter as Swerve can't contain himself and breaks out into full motormouth mode. Thankfully Riptide is busy nursing his drink, though he quickly downs it and croaks out an order of nightmare fuel. Should it be delivered, he'll pound it back and promptly fall back out of his chair, following through the motion in one swift move as he instantly gets knocked out cold. Sweet, blissful relief.. Time to regret this tomorrow, not right now.

Breakdown answers the clap on his shoulder with a companionable whack on the back that, in his current state of balance and intoxication, is a little harder than he means it. "Good night, boss," he says, and thumps off toward the door. He crashes really hard into the wall with about half his body on the way out, too.

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