Flashback - "Congratulations!" - CLOSED

[bulkhead]

Bulkhead was a grounder frame, the epitome of the type - heavy, solid, a construction class and a function devoted to wrecking, which had amused his new team to no end and he was pretty sure he had, in the few rotations he had been with them, heard every variation of joke about it that they could come up with.

Still, the truth was in the base code, and despite being scared strutless as a new recuit with untried weapon mods (and Pit, he was never admitting that, not in a million vorn), he'd come out the other side of his first honest mission with flying colors and only one neat weld, patched by their sharply shined medic, who would have looked more at home to Bulkhead's optics in the Towers than he did on a outlying strike team unit. For all that he was a ground frame through and through, Bulkhead felt a little as though he ought to be walking in the air.

Springer - and Primus, Bulkhead had thought he was solid, but the triple-changer took it to a whole new level - had given his newest headache an approving pat on the shoulder before Bulkhead had been released from medbay. "Good work. You didn't die. Congratulations, you're a Wrecker."

Somewhere along the way somebody must have welded thrusters to his feet because yes, Bulkhead was up in the clouds.

Which might explain the whirlwind sort of daze he'd found himself in when, dismissed and left to himself, he'd been scooped up by one of his new team - Wheeljack, "-but call me 'Jackie, everybody does-" - and swept into… into… well… Bulkhead wasn't really sure what, but it seemed to involve one of the other heavy bruisers - Breaker? Breakdown? - and the slim, shiny medic, Knock Out. And high grade. Bulkhead was pretty sure it was going to involve high grade.

"Gonna take our little newbie out and get 'im broken in!" Wheeljack had declared to the team at large, before linking an arm through Bulkhead's and dragging, or trying to drag, the larger mech along. It would have been laughable, but Breakdown had taken his other side, and at that point Bulkhead hadn't had much choice.

"So, uh, guys?" he managed at last, and it was a strange feeling that elation and alarm sparked in his lines, sort of dizzy and happy all at once. "Where're we going?"

[breakdown]

Bulkhead's question was fair, given that they were dragging him off-base whether he liked it or not, but Breakdown laughed anyway. He was just in that kind of mood, after making slag of the aliens who decided their outpost looked like lunch. The Wreckers weren't always good at surviving, and this time they won and won big. They'd be going out to get themselves completely fragged even if they didn't have a new recruit to break in.

But they did.

"Out here? We're going everywhere," Breakdown said, waving his hand around at the town around them. Wheeljack was quick to agree. The town that had grown up around their colonial base may not have had anywhere as good as their usual on Cybertron, but the contractors there knew one thing: the military liked its high grade, and it came cheap and kept coming all night.

For a Wrecker, even a brand new one, Bulkhead was still being too quiet. Breakdown gave him a lighthearted shove with his shoulder, which only pushed him into Wheeljack. "Relax! The way you're looking at us, it's like we already started pouring the high grade down your intake."

[Deleted]

Knock Out had taken point. Not out of any sort of altruism (because he had precious little of that) and not because he was the best crowdbreaker (he wasn't...he just walked at the right distance to take advantage of the crowd parting in front of his noisier, larger teammates) but because, unlike said teammates, he had a PREFERENCE.

This planet was a backwater. The selection of drinking establishments was PATHETIC. Still, even among dives there was a hierarchy.

Knock Out stopped and planted himself in front of Cycle's, so that the others had to stop or run him over. He jerked a thumb at the door, out of which wafted the tantalizing scent of overcharged oblivion carried on high-energy energon fumes. "In. I refuse to go anywhere else without at least two cubes in me to dull the shame." His tone was resigned. He'd be eaten alive by scraplets before he admitted he was looking forward to some of Cycle's Rhodia's Best.

A mech had to keep up appearances, after all.

[bulkhead]

The medic said 'in', so in they all went, which made a sort of sense to Bulkhead as the LAST place anyone on a combat strike team wanted to be was on the wrong side of the team medic. Knock Out had expensive tastes to match his expensive paint job, however, and Bulkhead squirmed a little in embarrassment as Breakdown and Wheeljack hauled him through the entrance of the bar. "Um... guys? Guys, look, I appreciate this, but, well... trainees don't draw pay, y'know, and, um..."

Wheeljack nudged Bulkhead hard enough with hip and elbow to send him stumbling into Breakdown. "Cycle down, heavy wheels," the senior Wrecker suggested, laughing. "We've got an open tab here."

Which was how Bulkhead ended up at a table, squished between the other two heavy frontliners, accepting a cube of high grade from their smirking unit medic when Knock Out slid it across the table to him. He had it most of the way to his mouth when Wheeljack's hand dropped onto his shoulder like half a shuttle load, startling him.

"Here's to our newbie," Wheeljack proclaimed cheerfully, lifting his own cube in a toast, "who survived his first mission and is now a full fledged Wrecker..." Bulkhead straightened proudly in his seat as the others raised their cubes as well, "may he continue to Wreck for a good long while, because if Springer has to train up another newbie anytime in the next vorn, I'm jumpin' ship."

Bulkhead, with his first mouthful of high grade, choked. Wheeljack helpfully pounded him on the back plates. "Just keep your aft mostly in one piece," the Wrecker suggested. "I mean, come on, it's not like we're asking THAT much."

"Yeah," Bulkhead replied a little weakly, trying to unobtrusively edge towards Breakdown's side of the table. "....Thanks."

[breakdown]

Breakdown toasted, then drank up. After a few kliks had to put down his cube -- close to half empty already, he was on a mission tonight -- and laugh when he saw how nervous their new recruit still looked, edging his way closer to Breakdown like he'd give him any less of a hard time. Just maybe he would. He hadn't decided yet. He liked the kid okay.

"Don't worry about him," he told Bulkhead. "Jackie sure can talk, but who had to save his tailpipe today?" he said, sparing a glance at Knock Out. Breakdown hadn't meant to take Wheeljack's place in that thing's sights, but he took some hits that meant gravity had other ideas, and hey, today he got that lucky one in. Slagger wouldn't do much of anything with a hammer through its jaw straight through to its skull. Heh. He picked his cube back up, celebrating.

[Deleted]

Knock Out twitched his first cube up in toast, downed it, and reached for his second. "Don't look at me," he told Breakdown. "I was busy not getting my aft blown off."

His optics narrowed, finding their most explosive member. "And in that line of sight, Wheeljack: if you ever toss grenades over my head again without clearing it first, I guarantee you will NOT enjoy your next stay in my medbay and WILL come out of it knowing what a full system solvent flush actually FEELS like. Tank. And. Line."

[bulkhead]

Bulkhead choked on that mouthful of high grade too, and was gratified to find he wasn't the only one at the table who reflexively curled inwards at the threat, plates clamping and trying to physically cover his medical ports.

Wheeljack recovered quickly enough, and if Bulkhead thought the other mech was possibly insane for baiting the clearly sadistic medic, he wasn't about to say so. Instead he kept half an audio on their banter - Primus, did Wheeljack have a death wish? Or were the two fragging? He couldn't tell! - finished off his first cube, reached for another, and sidled another bit closer to Breakdown.

"Are they always like this?" he asked in an undertone.

[breakdown]

Breakdown had started on his second cube, laughing to himself at Knock Out's threat while the others panicked. A system flush was nothing to a converted gestalt frame.

He felt like laughing again when he saw Bulkhead sticking closer to him. He was still being quiet, but two cubes of high grade down and Breakdown didn't see any reason to be. "You know I'm not any better than the rest of them? And yeah, more or less," he said with a shrug. "That's Wheeljack and Knock Out for you. Sometimes it's them two. Usually it's Knock Out and me who go at it."

[Deleted]

Knock Out and Wheeljack, meanwhile, had graduated from bickering to making scathing appraisals of each others' interfacing equipment and sexual habits. Finally Wheeljack threw up his hands. "Hey! Hey, now, we swore we'd never speak of that. Besides, you're gonna scare the newbie."

Knock Out snorted into the remains of his second cube. "If he's scared by THIS, he's not going to last long in this unit." He looked over at Bulkhead. "Which might be a shame, considering he actually follows orders, unlike some I could mention." His gesture started at Wheeljack and wandered past Breakdown before flicking out at the server for another round. "Of course, this could just be because you lot haven't rubbed off on him yet."

[bulkhead]

Well... in for a half credit and a rusty gear, as the saying went. As good a plan as it was to put his best shine forward for the officers (and Primus knew the officers weren't all that shiny with this crew, Springer covered in just as many scratches, dings, welds, and repairs as his mechs, and thick in the middle of the fight on the ground), it was better to get in with the rest of the crew.

Polishing off most of his second cube in one go, Bulkhead met their gazes with his best good-to-go grin. "Why? In insubordination a unit requirement?"

[breakdown]

"That's more like it!" Breakdown slapped Bulkhead on the back when he started to get into it. So what if it made him sputter and spill some of his energon? There was plenty to go around.

They dug into the third round, comparing stories on mouthing off to Springer. By the time that died off, everyone's cubes were running dry and nobody had ordered another round.

"Get a move on?" Breakdown suggested. This place wasn't bad, but they were regulars in a couple others, and having put back three cubes? They were barely getting started.

[Deleted]

Knock Out tossed back the last of his cube. The buzz of the good cubes down his intakes, he could contemplate heading to one of the seedier bars, he supposed. He smirked at Breakdown, "I suppose you want to head to Breaker's for some of that ridiculous lithium-flavored slag? Gah. FLAVORED energon. Big sparkling."

Wheeljack snorts. "'Sparkling'. You're such a fragging Towerling, Knock Out."

Knock Out vented in exasperation, too overcharged to give a frag about Wheeljack's snarking. "Yes, yes, I know, I'm too good for you. That's all right, Wheeljack, I FORGIVE you." He stood, enjoying the rush of energon to his head. "So. Wreckers. Move out. We have some serious damage to do to the terrible drinking establishments on this base. No time like the present."

[bulkhead]

Four bars and twelve - thirteen? Fourteen? There had been that extra round at Breaker's and Breakdown, who was possibly Bulkhead's new best friend, or at least a great mech to lean up against when the bar floor was leaning the other direction, had been right and lithium added a tasty sort of sharp bite to high grade and... Ok, no, back to counting, and it had been twelve or maybe fifteen cubes of highgrade each and Bulkhead was feeling no pain, no worries, and a floating sense of good humor that had him laughing at Breakdown's jokes, laughing at at his own clumsiness, laughing at Wheeljack's stories, and laughing at Knock Out's snarking at said stories. The Wreckers were, in short, awesome, the best crew mates he could have ever asked for, and Bulkhead never wanted to be anywhere else and this night in particular was GREAT.

Or was going great right up until Knock Out - who was marginally steadier on his feet than everyone else, the medic was a marvel and great fun and a terrific ("Terrifying", Wheeljack had corrected him) mech - had come back with round whatever-slagging-number they were on, and Wheeljack had made the crack about the medic "prancing about like a two cred service mech" with some positively filthy (and sloppy) glyphs about just WHAT kind of 'service' the other might be offering. Breakdown had been looking forward to whatever comeback Knock Out was going to sling back but before the medic could deliver it someone else - someone who wasn't part of their happy cluster of good natured Wrecker-ness - intruded and dropped a heavy hand on Jackie's shoulder.

"Hey," said the mech and he was a heavy frontliner type like Breakdown and Bulkhead, towering over Jackie by a full head, with a yellow splash of paint on one shoulder that Bulkhead dimmly recognized from the regular militia units at the base, "you've got a rude mouth on you. Lay off, or take it up with somebody your own fragging class."

As one the Wreckers turned the same disbelieving optics - blue and red and yellow alike - on the intruder. Around their table you could have heard a nanochip drop. Then Jackie and Breakdown simultaneously swung around to look at Knock Out and Bulkhead followed suit, because THIS was going to be worth the watching.

[Deleted]

To understand what happened in the next klik, one needed to understand inter-Wrecker relations, something that was, in the guardsman's slight defense, not apparently obvious to normal mechs.

Snark and insults were common currency in the Wrecker ranks. They were traded for entertainment, attention, camaraderie, annoyance, and--mostly in Knock Out and Wheeljack's cases--occasional slightly-more-than-comradely interest. The other Wreckers knew not to interrupt when Knock Out and Wheeljack got into it, because the exchange usually ended in the two mechs in question disappearing into some dark corner or back alley for an indeterminate amount of time, then reappearing smug, loose-limbed, and in considerably better moods. Interference in this process usually got one's helm torn off by both mechs involved.

And so, the introduction of a complete OUTSIDER into this pattern was not welcome. Strike #1.

Also, the guardsman's position was unfortunate. No doubt in his eagerness to protect the slight medic from the belligerent frontliner, he'd stepped between Knock Out, as he'd been rounding the table back to his seat, and a seated Wheeljack. Knock Out, with fourteen cubes cheerfully being distributed through a frame that was roughly half the mass of the larger Wreckers, and not expecting a large obstacle in his way, was not ready for a frame to appear in his path. This led to him bumping into the guardsman's broad back when it inserted itself practically in front of his nose. This led to jostling the high-grade-loaded tray in Knock Out's grip. Said grip, belonging to a trained medic, did not falter. However, physics did, sending the cubes tumbling to the floor and the one that Knock Out had sampled on the way back to the table spilling all down Knock Out's side in a truly terrible and probably corrosive insult to the medic's finish.

Strike #2.

Strike #3, though, was what took the oilcake. Knock Out was, he would freely admit, the smallest Wrecker. He massed well below everyone else and massed less than half their larger members. And, everyone else would freely admit, they did pay Knock Out a fair amount of respect and deference simply because he WAS their medic, keeper of the hallowed maintenance schedules and full-body flushes, and generally the hands that put them back together rather than letting them bleed out on the battlefield.

He was also, they all were quick to follow up, the most VICIOUS fighter they had. Others might be stronger, might be more skilled, might have better ranges, but when it came to sheer, malevolent, intensely PERSONAL destruction on a pound-for-pound basis, Knock Out took the prize.

And THIS. THIS was what the guardmech had just assumed he needed to PROTECT from the scary frontliner, in glyphs that were specifically used to connotate someone being unfairly aggressive toward a harmless-unarmed-noncombatant mech.

Fourteen cubes, a tray of spilled energon, and someone calling him WEAK? Knock Out had taken off LIMBS over less.

Later, he would maintain that whipping the empty tray up to slam into the intruder's head was ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to exorcise the affront to his honor.

The fist that followed right into the guardmech's stunned face was perhaps over the top...but very satisfying nonetheless.

[breakdown]

At first, Breakdown was content to watch the show. He himself did the fighting for Knock Out often enough, but only because Knock Out was the skilled one who needed cover while he was keeping all the rest of them alive. It was never because Knock Out COULDN'T, even if he wasn't in the same class as the rest of them. Breakdown had made the mistake of pointing that out exactly once, way back when in the early days of their knowing each other when Knock Out was still piecing him back together part by part, and -- well, he'd thought earlier, there weren't many processes that could make a converted gestalt frame cringe anymore. Knock Out had found a few.

So if it was going to be a throw-down between these two, not only were his bets on Knock Out, he wanted a fresh cube to kick back with while he looked on.

Unfortunately for his plans, the guardsmech had friends, and none of them looked too happy with their table in the aftermath of Knock Out punching one of their own in the face... and they weren't too happy with Breakdown for laughing about it, either.

Breakdown's cube fell to the floor as he found himself hauled out of his chair. His reflexes weren't what they were fourteen (fifteen? sixteen?) cubes ago, and he didn't immediately ready his hammer. Turning around to size up his opponent, he wouldn't need it. The mech had mass, but they didn't put Breakdown on the front lines of the Wreckers for nothing.

"Hey, watch your--," was all he got out before Breakdown punched him in the gut, sending him flying onto another table. "Heh," Breakdown said to himself, grinning, and surveying the damage to see how the others were faring.