2017-04-07 A Good Boy

From Transformers: Lost and Found

2017-04-07 A Good Boy
Date 2017/04/07
Location Lost Light: Recreation -- Swerve's
Participants Octane, Sunstreaker
NPCs Bob
Summary And two rude boys.

It's been a slow night for Octane at Swerve's. He's playing his usual game of pick-up chicks, only he's finding less and less selection the longer he stays on the ship. Who would have thought that being confined on a spaceship together would mean that people started to wise up to his games? He's talked to half the bar's inhabitants at least once before, and several more are ignoring him based on reputation alone! He tsks and orders another drink. If this keeps up he's going to have to move to Visage's, where the drinks are at least twice the price! No thank you. He'll bleed Swerve's dry before stepping another foot in that joint. So he goes back to surveying his options.

Not good, is his conclusion. The ones he hasn't talked to yet are mostly threes and fours in his opinion, with one person sitting near the door maaaybe edging at six. He tries not to settle for anything less than a seven if he can, six and a half at the lowest. Even then it just feels beneath him. He considers himself a solid eight, and gorgeous mechs like him shouldn't have to waste their time on lesser creatures. He takes another drink, hoping the engex will make the choices look better, but it doesn't seem to help. Damn his engex tolerance.

Well, he's giving it fifteen more minutes for someone cute to walk in or he's bailing. No use wasting his time on average-looking bots.

<FS3> Sunstreaker rolls Glitter'n'Gold: Good Success. (1 2 7 6 3 7 1 1 3 4)

The door to Swerve's swing open and for a moment it appears as if no one has walked in... And that assessment is correct, because some scuttled in. Bob's antennae twitch and he looks around with a soft chirr before bustling over to a table to happily recieve head pats and tiny treats. But the bug isn't here for pleasantries, he's here to herald another's arrival, who's yellow hues bathe Swerve's in gold. But that light has nothing on the mech's plating.

Sunstreaker walks a straight line to his usual seat, a booth in the very back corner of Swerve's. He doesn't look away from the booth until he's sat there, back to the wall and dark optics watching the room- or more specifically Bob as the Insecticon gets attetnion. He waves for a serving drone, orders his drink quietly, and then just sits there.

<FS3> Octane rolls Grace: Success. (6 8 3)

Fifteen minutes are nearly up when at last the door opens, and Octane pauses in the middle of draining the last of his drink to turn optics on the new arrival. Maybe a seven? Even a six and a half? But instead he gets...nothing. Oh well, so much for that. His optics dim as he throws back the last of his engex and that's all that saves him from nearly being blinded by the sheer radiant beauty that steps through the door a moment later.

The glass nearly slips from his fingers, but he's able to tighten his grip just before it drops. With shaking hands he sets it down awkwardly on the bar, where it teeters but eventually finds its base. Octane pays it no mind. He's too busy staring. Because paint him red and call him an Autobot if that isn't at least a nine that just walked in. Perhaps even the fabled ten.

Even though he just took a drink his mouth suddenly feels dry. He's not ready for a ten right now. Could they even be out of his league? But a moment later his bravado comes back, and he dismisses the notion. No such thing! He's an eight! Probably an eight and a half! If a ten wants any attention at all, they need to at least be happy with an eight!

He is completely oblivious to the fact that Sunstreaker indeed doesn't want any attention when he swaggers up and leans one hip on the booth. "Hey."

If Sunstreaker saw Octane approaching, he didn't pay him any mind. He continues to watch Bob until his view is blocked by purple. His brows furrow, dark optics lifting to Octane while his jaw tightens in a terse growl. His immaculate plating pulls in close to his body. He doesn't get company, not very often. Not like this. It's unexpected and in the case of a Decepticon, unwanted. Sunstreaker doesn't say anything, simply glowering at Octane as a warning. Move. Go away.

"Talkative," Octane chuckles, taking the obvious lack of invitation and sliding into the booth across from Sunstreaker. "What, is it the purple badge? Don't worry about it, I'm no diehard Megatron fanatic or anything." He waves his hand dismissively at the possibility. Nah, he's run from too many battles to be considered a diehard anything. "In fact, how about I buy you a drink to celebrate the war being over? We have no reason to fight anymore, so let's try and get along alright?"

He feels like there's something familiar about this guy, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Oh well, he didn't have much reason to pay attention to beautiful Autobots before anyway. If they're just going to shoot at you, what's the point?

Sunstreaker's lips pull in snarl, bringing his limbs closer to his body as if to avoid any touching. He continues to glare at the Decepticon. He tolerates the lot of them the best he can but he knows better than the rest of this crew what kind of double-crossing slags they are. He doesn't intend to let himself be so vulnerable to such an attack again.

Sunstreaker's drink arrives, nothing fancy. Just some mid-grade engex with a single, yellow umbrella in it. "I'd rather not," he replies to Octane in an even timbre, twisting just enough that the big purple thing was in his peripheral. Rather not what? Have drinks? Celebrate the end of the war? Fight? Get along? Maybe its an answer to all of that. Sunstreaker sets two dark fingers into the corners of his mouth and whistles sharply. Then he reaches for his drink as Bob comes blundering over.

"Come onnn," Octane says again, because respecting boundaries is a thing that happens to other people. "What have you got to lose? You even get a free drink out of the bargain! Just chatting for a few minutes over drinks can't be all that bad, right? Who knows, you may even find that you like me." He offers what he thinks is a charming smile, but as something scampers up to the table it melts into a look of sheer horror.

"No. No. It can't be!" Octane yelps as he draws his legs up off the floor quickly, balancing awkwardly at the edge of the bench he's sitting on. "That's not one of the swarm is it? But I thought they were all killed off!" Any attempt to act charming and cool in front of Sunstreaker is swiftly abandoned as his yellow belly shows.

<FS3> Sunstreaker rolls Bug Taming: Success. (5 1 4 1 2 1 5 7)

Sunstreaker brings his drink close, pulling out the umbrella after he gives the contents a quick stir. What's he got to lose? A whole lot of Autobots see him sitting in a booth with a Decepticon. He's determined to ignore Octane- perhaps the mech will go away if he ignores him- and quietly thankful the mech hasn't touched him. Some folk like to get a little handsy with his plating. But the Decepticon manages to get a glance out of him, brows pulling together as he watches the mech cower on the bench like some glitchmouse was running around.

Bob's mandible guards snap delightly as he bounces back and fourth, antennae waggling and claws scraping the the floor. "Bob," Sunstreaker says firmly, back to ignoring Octane. The Insecticon stilled, tho he shook in anticipation. "Sit." Bob's hindquarters hit the floor. "Good boy." The umbrella is tossed to the Insecticon before dark fingers rub along the base of antennae. Bob croons and purrs before collapsing to the ground when the hand is taken away.

Sunstreaker sips his drink contemplatively, looking more relaxed. "He is," he finally answers Octane.

"No freakin' way..." Octane places both hands flat on the table and leans over to get a look at Bob, still not touching the ground. "You tamed it?" The table gives a whine of protest under his weight so he pulls back again, but he can't stop staring. "How did you manage a thing like that? They're mindless! Bloodthirsty! Err, present company excepted of course..." But it's not totally excepted, which is why he won't let his feet touch the ground. Who knows when the Insecticon might feel up to having a little nibble. "And uh," the thought occurs to him a moment later, once the eclipse of his awe has passed, "why? No offense but I don't see any use in it. I mean it seems nice and all, but couldn't you get a pet drone or something instead?"

<FS3> Sunstreaker rolls Glaring: Good Success. (7 6 7 3 1 3 1 3 6)

The cold daggers sent Octane's way are accompanied by a snarl. "He's not an it. And his name is Bob." Bob looks up at his name, all four, bulbous optics on Sunstreaker. Then they stare at Octane. "That's none of your business. And he's a sentient being but I wouldn't expect your kind to understand any of that." He takes another drink, his digust for Octane's presence really beginning to show in the curl of his lip.

"Wow, biased much?" And now Octane is done trying to pick this guy up, getting defensive instead. He flops back down in his seat and gives Sunstreaker what he thinks is a good glare back, but it comes off more like sulking. "First off, you can't yell at people about scrap they didn't even know. Next time instead of snapping at me, why don't you try telling me like a normal person that it's a he and his name is Bob. I promise you my audials work just fine at a regular tone of voice." Ignoring the fact that he's snapping back now too, of course. "If you're gonna have a glitchy attitude like that it's no wonder you don't have any friends. Yeah, I see you sitting here in the corner all by yourself like some Deadlock-wannabe brooding loner. Here I am offering the hand of friendship like the nice guy I am--" Subjective. "--and you just wanna play your bots-and-cons game like a newspark. Fine. Go ahead. Be my guest. But if nobody likes you, then don't pretend you don't know why."

He wants to drop the mic and stomp off, probably with the entire room standing up and clapping as his imagination helpfully supplies, but there's just one little problem. Okay, one at least medium-sized problem with four optics and clacking mandibles.

"Uh, but could you call off your Bob thing so I can leave?" he asks awkwardly.

Sunstreaker sits there, looking at his glass as Octane speaks. He's never been much of a convsationalist. He's trying to get better at that but the more Octane speaks... The less and less Sunstreaker wants to talk to him and the more he'd rather rip his head off. The grip on his glass tightens, jaw clenching.

Sunstreaker waits until the tirade ends, fire blazing within his slitted optics. "Of course," he says tersely. Leaning forward, he dumps the contents of his drink down Octane's front and into his lap. Sunstreaker sits up straight, looking upon Octane like a god looking upon its creation and deeming it unworthy. "Bob. Clean up the spill." The innocent bug scuttles forward, bulky frame climbing up onto the bench to get to Octane while chittering.

<FS3> Octane rolls Grace: Good Success. (8 6 8)

As the glass moves Octane braces for it getting hurled into his face. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened. So he is pleasantly surprised when all Sunstreaker does is dump it over him. He unshutters his optics to peek at Sunstreaker in relief at first, and then false confidence.

"Ha, is that the best you can do? I've faced worse in my--OH DEAR PRIMUS GET OFF OF ME." His reaction is immediate when Bob tries to climb up on the bench, standing up first on the bench, and then on the table. "No no no no!" His fear gives him grace he otherwise wouldn't have, and he leaps off the table before it can give way and knock him to the ground. In midair he changes, the space suddenly filling with boeing, and he rockets off to the other side of the bar where Bob can't get him.

"I just want you to know," he calls as he falls out of his alt-mode so he can fit through the door, "you're a real piece of work!" But he doesn't get the victorious departure he was hoping for as he figuratively tucks his tail between his legs and runs.

Sunstreaker moves the glass out of the way so it avoids being shattered by Octane's feet. Mourning over the fact that he didn't leave enough to sip at while the Decepticon freaks out, he watches as Bob cleans laps up the spilled energon and the Con loses it. He sets a dark hand on the table to settle it as Octane launches off in alt mode and quickly makes his getaway.

Sunstreaker waves a servo in goodbye at that last comment, setting his empty glass on a serving drone's tray. "Another," he tells it. He then waits for prying optics to go back to ignoring him, or at least be more suttle about the staring, before reaching over. "Good boy, Bob." He smiles briefly at the bug, scritching behind his antennae. "Very good boy."

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