Ep 1.5 The Frenemy of my Frenemy {OPEN}

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Another drink studied and half gone.

Kit looked around the bar again, but this time from a different perspective. Everyone had their own personal aesthetic, their own taste on what a perfect bar would be. Fot Kit, this bar was far from perfect, but by adjusting her outlook, it was a damn nice place to just mellow. “It’s a slaggin nice place you have here, you run one back on Cybertron Layby?”

She sipped another drink, but pushed it away as soon as she set it down, amused disgust in her field.

Between drinks, Kit bounced the idea of rock parkour around. It wasn’t the first time she had been given that suggestion. Back then she had dismissed the idea as simply not good enough for her intentions. Now she gave it further thought out of desperation. Obviously she would have to adjust her style, find the right place, get permission and all that hassle, but maybe, maybe she could make it work. It couldn’t be any worse than being in a funk because Earth did not support giant robot parkour.

“I’ll be honest, I had not given fair consideration to exploring the natural terrain on this fraggle rock, but I now think I might have to at some point soon.” Kit replied nodding to Buffalo Dump just briefly, a little sheepishly, a little introspective. “You sound like you get around a bit, what else would you say this planet has to offer?”

One more drink, sipped, then gulped. Kit put it down and considered the taste. She picked up the first drink – half gone – and poured the rest into her current glass, and tasted. “Slag that is good”. Kit tapped her chin in thought then spoke to Layby “You got any Cyclo-hexane?” Kit favourite sweetener.

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Layby chuckled at Buffalo-Dump's 'confession'. "Yeh explore around all yeh want outside. DMZ perimeter's public knowledge, and yeh know not to expect me to come haulin' yer aft back if yeh get inta trouble over the border. Just inside the mine ah don't like folk snooping. Not that yeh can get far without tripping the security.

To Kit, he shook his head. "Was deployed in deep space before the Exodus, most of the time. Didn't set foot on Cybertron all that much. Cybertronian Guard - concerned with expansion and defending the borders. Only started in bars when ah started living in Neutral colonies."

The old mech watched Kit mixing the remnants of the drinks, trying to guess at how those particular cocktails might taste. Femme was going to have one glitch of a processor ache in the morning with how overclocked all those sweeteners and excessively-charged fuels were going to leave her.

Not that she seemed in any way deterred.

"Cyclo-hexane?" Layby repeated, his brows arching in surprise. That was a strong additive - a rich flavour with a fresh aftertaste. It had used to be a staple in all Cybertronian drinking spots, but that was a long time ago. "Ain't seen the genuine stuff in, oh, couple of centuries, now. Ah've made something buzzes the same, but not got a lot of it in stock, and ah'm afraid it'll cost yeh some. It's a slagging pain to synthesize here; chemical byproducts're lethal fer our human residents."

He could probably trade with Shockwave for it. It was the sort of thing the Decepticon would possess in large quantities for no discernible reason other than possession. It'd probably cost him something like a stuffed dolphin...

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"Humans make cyclohexane."

He spoke more for Layby's benefit than Kit's. The Autobrander could go and find her own goods — the Neutrals were forced to rely on scavenging and trade in competition from the other factions. It would be very, very easy for Megatron or the Prime to decree all Neutrals be denied something or shot on sight, and...well, Layby ran a good bar. B-Dump felt it was right to try and be helpful.

That being said, he was still new to the planet. While it was obvious to longer-residing folk (like Layby) that such a potent chemical would be kept hidden away on Earth, B-Dump still was adjusting to the more delicate planet. He was growing fond of it, but he was still ignorant to many of its weaknesses and shortcomings. The kind of handling cyclohexane needed amongst humans was lost to the former garbage mech.

"I coul' see if I could find some for ya," the large grounder continued, leaning on the bartop. "Wouldn't charge ya a thing for it. Jus' tell me where to drop it off and I would drop it off there, when I find it."

He grabbed his drink and promptly drained it. Unlike Kit, his processor would not be stinging to the Pit and back, unless he buggered up his eye or some such. The mech had been stabbed, infected and injected with all manner of things, and his strong systems gave him a hefty tolerance towards high-grade. The drink he was served was relatively weak.

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Kitandcaboodle stared in rapt attention as soon as layby mentioned deep space. She had barely left Vos in her lifetime before the exodus, let alone left Cybertron. She wanted to know more but thought it prudent to leave such questions for another time. In her experience, bartenders listened but rarely spoke, and she didn’t want to alienate Layby with her probing. Kit could count the number of good bars to visit on one finger.

The tiny femme’s field slumped when she realised cyclo-hex was going to be hard to come by. All those Kremzeeks and cocktails she had downed over the centuries without a second thought, to now go cold turkey? Kit couldn’t imagine life without sugar and she didn’t want any second best alternatives in the long run. Clearly her new mission in life was going to be the obtainment of a stockpile of cyclo-hexane. This was actually a far better life goal than offing Mega-aft, the supreme bucket head. Some sacrifices would be made along the way, like the fake stuff that would have to do for now.

Distracted by her thoughts, Kit picked up the next shot in the line and downed it in one. She coughed a little as the drink brought her back to reality. A note was made on the datapad regarding flavour.

“OK, you drive a hard bargain and you’ve got me in a slagging corner. How much to buy all the sweetener you have?” Kit made a motion with her right hand an inch over the bar, a small stack of shanix appearing from subspace one by one.

And then she tilted her head once more in the direction of Buffalo Dump and asked too casually “So what do ya think the natives use cyclo-hex for? Fuel for themselves, their vehicles or maybe a solvent...?” Kit had decided not to trust Buffalo Dump too much at all. The way Kit perceived it, he was giving the impression of being too friendly to the neutral, almost silent to her, and he knew so much about earth. She was currently pegging him as one of those perceptive types that were much wiser than they seemed.

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Heavy, sturdy footsteps preceded the new voice in the room by scant seconds. "Humans use it to make adipic acid and caprolactam, which are primarily used in the production of nylon."

Cleaver's distinctive silhouette momentarily graced the doorway as she came into the bar, the long rotors hanging from between her shoulders swinging behind her. Her arms were in their default configurations, blunt and severe looking blades that formed the boom of her Sea King alt. mode. She was boxy and thickly built, but carried her orange and white frame with a grace stemmed entirely in authority and confidence.

"It's not rare or difficult to produce on this planet with the right facilities," she went one, to none of them particularly. Her gaze was sweeping across the bar as if she hadn't set foot inside in some time. "You can buy it easy. I distill it out of camp stoves."

"Thanks for the lesson, love," the bartender remarked, his optics narrowed and tone dry. He picked up a glass and began polishing it roughly. "Coulda told me that a year ago when I was working at synthesizing formulas. Damn near blew my optics out more'n'once."

Cleaver's smile back was a perfect mirror of his, the wide lights of her optics flashing. "You were enjoying applying yourself, it kept you out of my field during the Decepticon negotiations, and" -she lay the thin edges of her booms against the bartop- "I hate the smell of Cyclohexane. What you were making is infinitely less offensive to the sensors."

Layby continued turning the glass around the cloth, the movement methodical and borderline violent. "Cleaver - Buffallo Dump and Kitandcaboodle. Guys, Haven founder, medic an' scourge - Cleaver."

"Pah." The scoff came from her vents, not her vocaliser. "Place stinks of High Grade, Layby."

His mouth pulled in an expression that looked pained, and Cleaver immediately looked to the branded mecha seated at the bar, assuming either spillage or purging. Her rotors relaxed back down when Layby explained, "Bertha's sprung a leak. But leave it - ah got it."

The medic had already been moving away from the bar to investigate the still, but settled back with a chuckle. "Alright, you say so. Doesn't look like it's hindering you, much."

Finally, Cleaver fixed her attention fully on Haven's visitors. The exchange between the Neutral residents had been so quick, they hadn't had a chance to chime in. Now she inclined her helm to them.

"You both settled alright? Know it's a might quieter than your respective bases."

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The arrival of the helibot femme made B-Dump turn his head. He quietly watched the back-and-forthing between her and Layby, trying to recall the name of the 'copter; he thought he'd seen her around once or twice. No more than a brief flash of her colouring or hearing her voice, but even then, he wasn't sure if that had been her or someone else. The mech wilted a little under her gaze, but snapped back quickly when Layby mentioned the smell was from the still.

"You both settled alright? Know it's a might quieter than your respective bases."

"Yes'm," said B-Dump respectively, his field reaching out as he gave a nod. Kitandcaboodle would feel twinges of greeting-affirmative-pleasure to meet you, a gentle and chivalrous wave running through it that gave a formal edge to the signal. B-Dump liked to think of himself as a decent mech, and to address the actual Commander of the base (though he'd forget that later), he would give her the same respect he'd give Lord Megatron. That respect, however, was not a front in Cleaver's case.

Taking a swig of his drink, B-Dump continued with, "It'sa pleasure to meet ya, ma'am. Y'can call me B-Dump, if you wanna — most folk do. I also appreciate the quiet you've got here, ma'am. Welcome break from the hustle an' bustle, and all the things war contains."

He gave the helibot a friendly grin, but nothing that suggested romantic overtures. He didn't want Cleaver to think he was hitting on her — that had happened before with B-Dump being nice — and it was doubly so after observing her and Layby. They seemed close, so he didn't want to risk seeming too pushy with someone's significant other.

Then again, Layby had never given any indication he'd been Conjunxed, so she could've just been a really good friend. B-Dump still didn't want her to think he was hitting on her, though, because he wasn't. Primus help him if he came across that way.

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Pffft, Nylon, was Kit’s dismissive thought. She’d found human technology to be generally primitive and their fascination with polymer hydro-carbons to be deplorable. Still, credit where credit was due too. The humans had got where they were with fantastic speed, almost terrifyingly fast actually. Kit has entertained silly ideas how the Human race would prove to be a viral plague on the rest of the galaxy, somewhat like cosmic rust.

Still, since it seemed cyclo-hex was easier to get than Layby thought, her kranix went back into subspace wallet. Kit had no idea how she would procure some from the Humans but maybe one of those kids who hung around Omega Base could help. Yes Kit was addicted to sweeteners but it was a manageable addiction.

Cleaver - Buffallo Dump and Kitandcaboodle. Guys, Haven founder, medic an' scourge - Cleaver

Hah! So the mech’s names was Buffalo Dump, at fragging last she knew it. So what was a Buffalo? The word didn’t translate so something sensible to her. Kit decided not to look it up on the datapad either right now, too rude even for her. She had also given up on trying fathoming Buffalo Dump, almost as quickly as she had decided to try in the first place. She was an engineer – sort of – and no psychologist.

Kit took a swig of the next shot in line and lifted the tumbler in Cleaver direction in greeting. “Just call me Kit”, warm friendly EMF. With the arrival of the Bar’s Matron, and the realisation her tail was still in bar stool throwing mode, she relaxed her grip and retracted the thing.

“It’s nice here, easy to settle, and I for one kinda like the peace and quiet”. And Kit kinda liked really loud music too, music she could feel in her struts. “I’m repair and maintenance type, so if you ever need some work done...” Kit looked around and let the offer lay open. She would work for drinks, it amounted to the same as working for credit which would be used for drinks, that was of course if she could get her lazy aft into gear.

“Just one thing, how can you be offended by cyclo-hex? It’s soooo good and pure and none of the aftertaste!”

And the sugar rush buzz that Kit got would have her free running on the walls and ceiling.

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Layby looked between the stocky medic and their factioned guests, drumming the blunt tips of his fingers on the bartop. He'd been anxious to leave Kit and B-Dump alone together given their... clashing personalities, but equally anxious to see the the slowly-spreading mess in the back room. Cleaver's timely entrance offered a solution to his quandary.

::Yeh mind watching these two for a few, love?:: he sent, his gaze kept on the cube in his hands.

Cleaver's arm-booms shunted and clicked into forearms and hands, folding on the bartop. ::Fine. Waiting for a program to run. Go see to Bertha.::

Layby produced a cube of normal, refined energon from the main tap, setting it in front of the helo. He bobbed his head in a gesture of apology to B-Dump and Kit.

"If yeh'll excuse me a click, it is getting ta fume up in here."

He really needed to hire some staff...

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Cleaver settled at the bar, cradling the cube in both hands, but did not bring it to her intake or take a perch on the one of the stools. She watched the frontliner retreat around the back of the bar, then returned her attention to their guests.

B-Dump's earnest courtesy was quietly appeasing, and strange to encounter coming from a Decepticon. She inclined her helm to him, mouth twitching in a smile.

Kit warranted a little more scrutiny. The Autobot had volunteered assistance with basic maintenance and turned confrontational within the same exvent, and was sat like a coiled spring upon her seat.

Cleaver couldn't decide which of the two Layby had been more reluctant to leave unsupervised. She was going to go with both of them together.

The helo took a shallow intake of fuel then set the cube back on the counter, turning it a quarter circle with her finger tips. She arched a thick optical ridge at Kit.

"Taste is fine enough, I'll grant you," she replied, rocking her helm as if weighing up her words. "But the smell when it's being made just crawls on my olfactories like grease. Lingers in the filters something chronic."

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"Taste is fine enough, I'll grant you," she replied, rocking her helm as if weighing up her words. "But the smell when it's being made just crawls on my olfactories like grease. Lingers in the filters something chronic."

"Sounds like you need a vent-scrubber."

B-Dump paused, realizing that his comment had come a little quickly. Meekly and with a slightly-wilted field, he added, "Er, something that clears your ollies in a hitch. Me an' the garbage-takers, we used to carry around one o' those nice, all pleasant-type things that's strong enough to come over every scent, and keep it in our subspace for emergencies. When ya get a whiff o' the reek, you whip it out and put a lil' 'round your olfactors an' vents, or ya drink it."

To show what he meant, B-Dump pulled out his trusty flask of Pine-Sol, which was sealed as to not offend Layby's senses. "Fer me? Pine-Sol. Good swig o' that and it stays in the vents a long time. Mighty tasty, too, so I drink it all the time — win-win. I hear humans like usin' somethin' called 'peppa-mint' and 'coff-ee'," the mech said, the quick switches from Neocybex to English producing words that crackled with static. When he spoke in the human languages, his deep baritone laced itself with interference, the accent a mash-up of General American, Microsoft Sam and a hint of whatever Layby's was. A sharp ear could catch bits of Italian influence, too.

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“Ok, you’ve gone and got me confuddled, are you talking about the smell of cyclo-hexane itself, or the smell as a bi-product of it manufacture? Cause well...” Kit paused just long enough to consider her history. “I have no idea what it smells like before ending up in one of these”. Kit held up the last full tumbler, and downed half in her now routine process.

It was when she put the half empty tumbler down, ready to consider her next move, that a piece of data went click in her processor. In the way of things, Kit had realised something when she mind was totally elsewhere. She knew, or thought she did, why she was getting mixed ideas about who Buffalo Dump was.

“Ahh Buffalo Dump is it? Anyway, about what I said earlier, requiring my permission and so on, I take it back, I’m sorry, really. I am the last person in this universe to be telling anyone what to do. I am a glitch.”

Kit’s thought were often chaotic, even to herself. And right now, she didn’t hate the Decepticon, even a bit despite his allegiance.

Speaking into the line of tumblers, empty and half empty, her tone unusually mellow, “I’m kind of sorry we met the way we did, y’know, last week.”

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Cleaver had leaned in to draw the scent of the offered Pine-Sol up through her vents, making a thoughtful sound as she did so. She'd encountered these sorts of stifling agents before, because there were some stenches in the 'verse that could make you heave no matter how strong your tanks. Smells could be a valuable indicator of ailment, and even narrow down a diagnosis, but there was no sense in suffering during an autopsy of a body saturated with septic-rust.

She'd rather run a full chemical analysis of this Pine-Sol before she thought about trying it, though. By default she was leery of any native-made chemicals on this planet, where everything was bent to favour a carbon-based, organic physiology completely alien from Cybertronian. She wondered, fleetingly, if Buffalo-Dump had performed any kind of scrutiny of the freshener before he started drinking it. And regularly, by the looks of it.

To Kit's question, Cleaver replied, "the manufacture. Needs refining from the products you can find it in here, else you'll end up needing a waste recepticla soon as you drink it. If you're lucky."

Then the Autobot was addressing Buffalo-Dump, and Cleaver was content to sit back and watch. She sipped at her cube, listening for any tell-tale signs that Layby was resorting to 'percussive maintenance' out the back.

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Buffalo Dump wasn't expecting to be addressed by the little femme. He looked down at her, field full of awkwardness as it slowly withdrew to his plates again. With the arrival of the Neutral commander, he'd become too friendly, and now the good feelings he had were rubbing off on others. Such was the problem of being a long-wave mech.

"Uh...d-don't think too much o' it," B-Dump stuttered, quickly putting his Pine-Sol back in his chest-space. "I'm, uh...we're at war. 'S'just the way the things are, catlet. Don't think too much o' anythin' until someone throws in the wrench an' ratchet."

The Decepticon looked away, glancing at the back. He could still smell spilling high grade, and the odour was pretty strong; he hoped Layby was okay. Broken stills were the worst, and if all the cracks weren't taken care of, the entire batch would turn into slurry. There was a sympathetic wince from B-Dump at the thought of such good fuel going to waste.