Ep. 1 - "Join me for Another Drunk" - (Open)

[Deleted]

OOC: Assuming that Jets got in thanks to Cat. Haven’t finished that thread but I’m sure they’ll eventually hit an impasse and someone will out-stubborn the other and the beans will be spilled. Anyone in for friendly (or grumpy) bar fun is invited to the party.

IC:
High grade.

Jetfire stood at the bar, letting the smell of it burn the dust off his olfactory sensors. It had been so long. The time he’d been in stasis seemed to pass him in a mere klik, but the time between his last sip of high grade felt longer than his mere existence. He felt like he’d been rubbing the temples of his helm since he’d awakened.

It was strong stuff, he could practically feel the heat of the acid coming from the sides of the cube. He was slightly wary of it. He’d only had a small, thin cube of high grade in his subspace when he’d originally left Cybertron on his deep space mission. There was still a little left, but it was so ancient it was starting to wear a thin hole from the flask. He’d kept it for later examination but decided he’d been through enough medical care this week to try something as stupid as that.

It had been a long time since his last indulgence, for sure. Still, he wasn’t exactly a light weight, and these cycles had been enough to turn his processors inside out and upside down. It was difficult enough to deal with the reality of the destruction of his planet. And now he also had to deal with the fact that a human being had shown him to this place at all.

Pit take him, he was going to drink. The fumes were delightfully acidic and his capacity for meditating to soothe his processors was getting weaker by the cycle. He was going to go mad, and he’d found the medicine.

He grunted, suppressing a manic smile, and took a hearty swig. His head craned back as he tilted the contents of the cube into his pipes, the high-grade slipping venomously and gloriously down into his tubes.

He slammed the container down, his head bouncing on his neckstruts. The error codes whizzed around in his vision, and the smile he was hiding curled into reality.

[Deleted]

There was a groan from behind the bar.

"Stop slamming things!" a strange voice moaned.

A moment later a pair of black hands shot up and gripped the edge of the counter. Slowly, a grey robot heaved himself to his feet. Evidently he had been lying on the floor on the other side of the bar, hidden from sight.

He stood on wobbly legs, still clutching the bar for support. He looked awful. His paint was streaked in dust and his wings were angled lopsidedly down his back. His plating was angled in different directions as vents for airflow desperately struggled to pull clean air through his toxified systems. His optics were squinted nearly shut, as if even the dim lighting of the bar was painful to look at.

He coughed up a stir stick and made a face.

"Africa," he said hoarsely. "Primus up a tree. Am I still in Africa? Oh god, I think I am. Ugh! You want a bad night? Try drinking ten shots of straight undistilled gasoline followed by four energon cubes chased down by some ethylene glycol you may have drained out of fourteen different cars in an Australian wrecking yard while a pack of rottweilers screamed at you. Allegedly. God, this is painful. I want to weep and then die."

He rubbed a hand down his face before peering at Jetfire.

"Don't think I've seen you here before," he said. "Howdy, friend. Sorry to interrupt you while you're having a drink, but you think you could do me a favour and just... I dunno, shoot me? I am in significant discomfort here. I'll wear a blindfold first, if that makes it any easier. I'll just pretend I'm taking the Pepsi Challenge."

[Deleted]

Jetfire paused to Google ‘rottweiler’ and ‘Pepsi’, but couldn't manage to spell them correctly. He threw the flickering browser out of his HUD field of vision and decided the mystery made the story all the better.

He also decided he liked him.

"I believe my weapons were all deactivated on entrance, young mech. Otherwise I'd be glad to lend a servo. Speaking of servos though... bots say I can pack a mean wallop, if you'd like that instead.” Jetfire lifted his arms and pounded his fist into his other servo, as if in demonstration. “It'd take a few hits to put you out of your misery though, by the look of that thick helm." He grinned, an ornery look in his eye. “Sounds like you’re in for the long haul. May as well add another to the tank.”

The Seeker paused to reflect on his empty container. He sloshed the last dregs of it around at the bottom before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He pounded the bar twice, setting the counter a-tremble. “Des’nation’s Jetfire.” He paused to catch the two new high-grade containers that slid expertly into his servos. He shoved one to the new mech’s side of the bar. “Best cure for a gradeover is to top it off with one last zinger. Trust me. I’m experienced.” He gave him a mocking look, like a teacher sizing up a sparkling who’d skimped on his duties. “Then when you do, you’ll tell me what brings you to mixing all manner of volatiles in that chemistry set you probably call your vitals. It sounds like a good story.”

Not bothering to wait for any protests, he lifted the container and tapped it on the bar in time. “Ready? Three… two…-!”


OOC: Feel free to play Jets drinking it up. : P

[Deleted]

The grey robot was aghast. He gawked at Jetfire.

"Drink more?!" he said.

Then he laughed.

"Well, why not?" he said, in the fastest change of heart committed to paper. He smacked the bar, bleary and delighted. "You're right. You're right! If I'm going to be miserably hungover, I might as well be miserably hungover while simultaneously being piss drunk. The two will cancel each other out, right?"

He staggered around in a circle, searching for a glass. He found a rusted cup that might have once been an oil drum, blew dirt out of it, then pulled on a tap. When Jetfire rapped on the bar, he hastily lifted his cup as if in a toast. "All right, all right! All set! Three! Two! One! Down the hatch, Edward Thatch!"

With gusto, the grey robot threw back his drink in one shot. He choked, sputtered, and set his cup back down.

"That hits the spot," he coughed, wiping his mouth. "Oh man, old timer, I've been mixing my drinks for longer than I can remember. My buddy once put me on a ten-step program to get me off the dirty habit, but I sort of backtracked after spending some time in Australia. Not a whole lot of energon just lying around out there for an unaligned mech of the world like myself. You got used to just drinking whatever you could find, so long as it wouldn't turn you blind. I'm Deuce, by the way. Good to meet you, Jetfire. Can I get you another drink while I'm back here and standing upright?"

[Deleted]

Jetfire’s processors whirled with high-grade and Deuce’s stories. It felt good.

He laughed with him, realizing this is actually exactly what he expected of a Neutral party, and not exactly displeased to be involved. He was a dedicated sort, and treated the idea of ‘Indecisives’ like lazy layabouts who were just not cut out for military life. Fortunately today he was too tired to be angry about it.

He pounded twice on the bar again, this time ready for the prompt response. The two mugs slid with only a bartender’s accuracy toward Jetfire’s open servos. One mug clipped his thumb and almost wobbled out of control, but the old mech wasn’t far enough gone for any accidents yet. He held both cups firmly, giving his new friend a mock-serious look. “Atta’bot. I’m proud of you, but let’s slow down now, Captain. I’d like to enjoy this one, thanks,” he slid a cup over with a relaxed smirk, then lifted the other to his mouth. The Seeker took a generous swig, but there was still more than half left when he put it back down. “Ah! Well, I don’t know much about Australia but I do think consistency is one of a mech’s greatest qualities. Makes you strong.” He thumped the mug on the bar, and was impressed when another mug slid in his direction. He managed to catch it just in time, this time letting out a bark of a laugh. “Know how to keep ‘em happy, don’t you barkeep?” He took a long gulp from his first drink, this time the high grade giving a visible sag to his tense shoulderplates.

He set the almost-empty mug down, clattering slightly. “You, my friend, seem consistent. Don’t let some program tell you about dirty habits.” He grinned, pesky, ornery, and ancient.

OOC: Jets is super judgemental except when he’s drinking. Who’d a thunk it.

[Deleted]

Deuce hooted.

"As consistent as the sun, brother," he said. He grinned, settling his weight onto one leg. He held his cup with one hand and planted the other on his hip. "You could set your chronometer by me. And pssh, dirty habits. You're right! What does that red a-hole know about bad habits? You should see the cab of his alt mode. It's a damn mess. It's like junkies sleep in it. And he only avoids hitting animals on the road if they're big enough to leave a dent. All habits are bad habits, when you get right down to it."

He pulled on a tap to refill his drink. Despite his scuffed paint and rather burnt-out optics he seemed hale enough, and spoke with gusto. Scars trailed across his lanky frame, his face. A nasty one cut across one of his optics. He lifted his drink at Jetfire.

"Cheers, mate," he said.

Deuce took a sip, carefully this time. He winced and touched the side of his head. "Agh. My brain. Yeah, let's slow down a bit, at least until the error messages subside from my self-dio. But hey, tell me, brother: what brings you to this neck of the woods? You're a Con, right? No worries - one of my best friends is a Decepticon."

[Deleted]

Jetfire chuckled, finishing the dregs of the one drink and sliding it away from him. “You say it like it’s a case of rust. 'Not too bad, this femme in my cohort has it, just adds a little paint every once in a while.'” The old Seeker took a moment to scan the other mech’s face, admiring the battle scars and mentally giving him a few more points in his favor. “It was one of the natives, if you’d believe. ’Cat’. She’s more stubborn than I am, if you can believe that too.” Jetfire craned his neck backwards, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of her in the corridors.

Bad idea. He swayed a little too far, servos flailing before he slammed his grip at the edge of the bar, barely saving himself from toppling. “Phew!” He rolled his optics dramatically, but under the grin spreading across his faceplate. “That last one caught me off guard, hm?” He took a hand to his helm, tapping against one of the loose components on the side. “It’s been a while.” A beat. “A long while.” He chuckled again, the high-grade coaxing the amiability out in steady waves.

[Deleted]

A native. A native. Oh!

Deuce instantly brightened at the mention of a human. He loved humans. They were the bees knees. Some of them were assholes, sure, but no species was perfect.

He laughed when the old bot nearly toppled backwards off his seat.

"Man, it must have been a while if you're about ready to hit the floor after only two drinks," he said, grinning. "Unless you were hitting the scotch long before I woke up. Here, lemme wet your glass for you, it's looking tragically empty."

Working neatly, Deuce manoeuvred Jetfire's glass beneath the tap. He eyed him curiously as he refilled it.

"So tell me," he said. "What happened to put you out of commission from drinking for so long? Only a sad state of affairs could have brought that about, brother."

[Deleted]

Jetfire took the glass gratefully and indulged himself in another swig. He swallowed loudly, feeling the high grade running down his throattube. “I suppose one good story deserves another.” His EMF was tinged with uncertainty, but the alcohol was doing a good job of smoothing the glyphs into amiable, relaxing tones. “Although it really is a ‘sad affair’, let me tell you.

“I’m a surveyor, you know, maps, and minerals, and all that. A scientist of the land. I’m the one they send in to look over a rock before mining, or establishing base… or terraforming, what-have-you,” he waved a servo in a light circle, brushing the specifics away. “About…” he gave a date, it was ancient, shortly after the start of the war- “I was sent off deep space to an intriguing rock.” He paused to take a swig, the details of the story replaying a little too hard in his memory. He set the glass back down, the clattering punctuating the silence.

“Long story short, this is that rock. Damned planet sucked me in and I’ve been in stasis in the Arctic circle since Primus-knows-when,” he spat the word ‘Arctic’ as if it were the name of a lethal and particularly unpleasant disease. His vocabulator ground with static, a moment of clearing his throat. “Autobot dug me out. That was… unfortunate.” He had a feeling he would have enjoyed the company of Pistongasket, but wartime was wartime… He plunged on, avoiding the subject. “You’d think hard stasis and the ice would have preserved my… tolerance but the damn medics have cleared my tubes through and more than once besides. I swear my parts are cleaner than my assembly day.” It was an obvious joke. His plates had edges of rust and scrapes. His frame was so outdated that replacement parts needed to be remade from scratch, and the state of the Nemesis put that in low priority for a mech who wasn’t meant for the front lines. Still, he held his blemishes with the pride of battle scars. He gave Deuce a cheeky look, “So pardon me while I recover a mega cycle’s worth of tolerance, m’mech.” He held up the glass for a toast.