Nexus. Black Dog. Wrong turn.

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It's a sunny day in this part of the Nexus. So much so that there's a white and black mech stretched out on the front steps of the Black Dog, his blue optic visor barely letting out any light as he blissfully enjoys the sunrays on his shell. Draped across one of his legs is a black Transformer that looks a bit like a jaguar. The cat-like bot is just as insensate as his living couch.

Past the steps, which have a smaller set running up the side of them for human size-range beings, is a shaded porch, where assorted Transformers lean against the wall or the railing and talk in a mixture of English and different electronic dialects. To one side of the entrance is a bench, and seated here are a couple of tall mechs who look like they could be different versions of the same person with their red and blue colour scheme. The two are talking quietly, the one wearing flames' voice a deep, quiet rumble whereas the shorter one with the big chin and the armor that covers more of his wiring sounds younger.

The inside of the bar is a mystery of shadow, talk, and music, and there's a massive black Malamute with bright blue eyes and neat white paws sitting in the doorway.

Comments

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They do indeed.

"Alright." Rhinox pauses to reach back and touch one of the tiny sleepers, clicking softly as he does so, then turns to go down to the lower level and get his scotch from the stasis chest.

[1stmacleod.livejournal.com]

Connor watches all this, quietly bewildered, but curious. If he knew the booze was kept in a stasis chest he might be a little bothered by it, but what he doesn't know can't confuse him.

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The stasis chest is only to keep the open bottles fresh and unspoiled. Scotch doesn't truly need that, but Rhinox is still a relative newcomer to the art of caring for the venerable drink, and he's been tasting his own work to decide whether he likes it or not.

He's not wearing the shield on his back when he returns, though one tiny bot, the little white one, is nestled in the crook of one brawny arm as he carefully pours a serving of his whiskey and pushes it over.

[1stmacleod.livejournal.com]

Connor could give him some lessons, but ultimately he's more of an expert on drinking the stuff.

"Thanks..." He takes the tumbler and holds it up, breathing in the air over the drink subtly. "So what's the story of this stuff?"

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"A friend makes me high quality, peaty young scotch, and then I put it in the same kind of barrels as the guys who make this stuff use. Leave it there the recommended amount of time, and then bottle it. Time jumping has its uses." Rhinox quirks a brow ridge, knowing that the difference in flavor between his scotch and the original is very slight, but wondering if it'll be considered good by an expert. What he doesn't know in his inexperience is that the difference is just a hint of smoothness, a tiny but still delicious measure of extra peat. In short, he's got something good going.

[1stmacleod.livejournal.com]

Connor takes a good gulp, but holds it in his mouth a moment, then swallows slowly. He's got a discerning palate, having tasted more kinds of alcohol than he can count, over the centuries. Possibly he's tasted a little too much alcohol, really, but he'd make anyone trying to stage an intervention sorry.

"...Not bad. Not bad at all." It could be improved upon, of course.

[random_xtras]

"But..?" Rhinox looks around, and then settles in a chair and takes what looks like a sippy cup full of glowing pink stuff from his belt pouch. He tastes the contents and nods, then gently offers it to the tiny white bot he's holding, who has been looking around for the past few minutes with big blue optics.