randomplaces | Nexus. Blue's Bar. Haunting the premises.

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Nexus. Blue's Bar. Haunting the premises.

"Lighten up, Cyclonus." Ratchet pauses and looks around as he steps into Blue's. "We're here to talk to people and relax a little."

"I see no point in going to a bar when we can no longer drink," grumbles his teammate irritably, answering the bar owner's friendly grin with a severe scowl.

"You're just mad because Gally glomped you in public again." The former Autobot CMO chuckles.

Cyclonus growls quietly. "Lady Galvatron is welcome to do whatever she pleases. It's none of your business, Autobot."

"How about that table?"

"Suit yourself." Cyclonus looks at a glowing Cybertron Sunset longingly as he settles at the table near the door.

"Ahh." Ratchet leans back with a wide grin on his face, then tips his head to Blackout, who lifts one browridge and buries her face in her cube of high-grade. "You Decepticons are such a cheerful bunch sometimes. It just warms my spark."

"You are a spark."

"And you're being deliberately difficult." He frowns at the other free spark.

Cyclonus gives him a slow smirk that asks what he's going to do about it.

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“OW!”

Hence the… er, less than heralded arrival of one guardian seeker being thrown out of thin air and skidding along half the bar on his aft. Thankfully for the still living patrons, he’s still on the side of the Veil reserved for those already departed.

That doesn’t stop him from looking like a kicked puppy at something that can’t be seen.

“What do you mean I’ve been working too hard and need a drink?!”

Uh… oh dear, oh dear, this was a bar. Jet looked around with wide optics, half-expecting the doom truck of DOOM to come up and spear him again with his sword, just like before. But there seemed to be no universe threatening bar fight about or Doom Trucks, or Scary Jets with living, severed heads hanging from their wings, or silver Seekers with optics that terrified him… so maybe this wasn’t business related?

“Um…”

He had never been to a bar before except for a bar fight of universal importance. And there looked to be no offering bowl where there was energon set aside for the Dead. And he couldn’t partake of any fuel unless it was offered to him in some manner or another.

“… but I don’t have any credits.”

Smug silence from the Allspark.

Ratchet's head snaps around from where he'd stood to lean over the table and punch Cyclonus. "Oh, hey. I've met that kid before."

Cyclonus is watching Jet's conversation with a frown as the quiet murmurs of the few other conversations in the room continue.

A little orange-red femme of peculiar make, half hidden in Blackout's shadow, looks right at the young free spark and tries to give him a poke, unbothered if her finger winds up going through him. "Get yer aft offa t' bar, b'y. Some o' us's after wantin' t' drink off it."

"Cool it, Hormah." Ratchet slips around her and grins at Jet. "Hey, kid. You wanna sit somewhere more comfortable and a little less in the spotlight? Don't mind Hormah, she's a friend of Primus's."

Edited 2008-09-02 05:16 (UTC)

Jet looked at them. Looked at them – the two free sparks, and one living sensitive – and made a small squeak not unlike a desert rodent as he realized belatedly he had an audience.

And suddenly the bar was minus one sprawled blue and white tetrajet.

And the nearest unoccupied bar stool next to Ratchet was just as suddenly filled with a sitting mortified guardian spirit. A mortified fidgeting spirit. His second time at a bar was looking to turn out as just as bad as his first. Just wait. The lasers would cue up, you’ll see.

Jet coughed quietly.

“I wish the Allspark wouldn’t do that.”

Ratchet chuckles and pats him on the back. "You get used to it after awhile. Wanna come sit with us? Cyclonus isn't as scary as he looks."

Hormah watches, leaning against her creator, then tilts her head and listens to someone else for a moment before she hops up onto the bar to reach over for something, which she then hops back down and offers to Jet.

Ratchet blinks at the glowing orange rock with yellow streaks that she's holding out. "Uh... kid, can you still drink?"

Cyclonus, still at the table, frowns more deeply.

“Only if it’s offered by somebody to the general dead or me specifically, sir.” Jet smiled weakly in apology. “Otherwise I can’t take anything lying about unless the Allspark permits it. Almost none of the Dead from my layer of the Allspark can.”

Jet never lived very long in life. At the very most, he lived a handful of Earth Solar years before the Great Shutdown occurred and he was placed in stasis at his garrison at Baklava Pax – death coming for him in the form of Elita One’s main band of raiding Female Autobots. Starving Autobots.

Everyone starved. Energon rations were aired out. Cannibalism – feeding from fellow Cybertronians was common; both corpses fresh and long passed, and even, occasionally, the living.

In essence, Jet’s existence was meant to be cannon fodder. Just another gun firing. No one remembered him on Cybertron – save a few of those he’s helped, like The Air Commander of the Dead, Starscream. No records existed of him. He had no marker in the Crypt of the Decepticon Dead. Not a whisper. Forgotten.

Thus when Hormah offered him the orange rock with yellow streaks, Jet couldn’t help but chirp an absolutely delighted “Thank you, ma'am!” Not very Decepticonly, to chirp, he knew (The Commander would be faceplaming!) but – but, Jet had never, in his life or unlife been offered anything. It didn’t take much to please him – even a simple drink would be more than enough.

So rock in hand, he took a seat with Ratchet and Cyclonus. The frown of the latter caught him and caused him to pause just as he was getting comfortable. Was there something wrong?

Hormah gives him a saucy wink and a deedlebeep in return for his thanks as Ratchet nods understanding and follows him back to the table.

Cyclonus catches the young Seeker's optics for a moment, then looks at the Cybertron Sunrise in Jet's hand and turns to Hormah. "Give me a drink, too."

She razzes him, but flings one at his head.

The former Galvatronian second in command's optics widen with surprise, and then he snatches the treat out of the air just before it can bounce off or pass through his helm. "Stop laughing at me, Ratchet."

"Who's laughing?" The white free spark's smirk is enormous as he pats Jet's shoulder to let him know everything's alright. -Don't worry about him, kid. He's just in a mood.-

He may not be laughing out loud. But laughing he is.

Edited 2008-09-03 00:45 (UTC)

- Oh. Okay. - He was in a mood. Well, his wingmate Coldsnap had always been in a mood too. Flaps always twisted, splintered blade always in the turbines.

He took a little sip of his drink, shuttering his optics to merely savour the experience of drinking again. Not to mention, this, by far, was the best thing he ever had. Wow! Like it was high ranking officer grade fuel. Not the bland and slightly sludgy rations that was the staple of grunts like him and was a step above coolant waste on the good days. He was going to sip this slowly. He had to make something this good last.

Jet couldn’t help but smile at the whole spectacle of Hormah trying to beam Cyclonus on the back of the head with another Cybertronian Sunrise (Oh! That what it was called!) and getting a pat on shoulder and really the whole thing – plus no bar fights! A small smile, and shy, but a real one. This was nice. What he’d always imagined going to a bar would be like when he was alive, in fact.

Far from bland and sludgy, the Sunrise's center is thin and delightfully tangy; the finest mid-grade available in its reality of origin. And if he takes a whiff of that rock shell he'll see it's more of the same in solid form.

Cyclonus looks at the Sunrise in his hand, optics gleaming, but then looks at Jet again and pauses, once more frowning deeply.

Blackout gets up and throws a handful of assorted money on the bar, then turns to leave, Hormah trailing in her wake and dancing to the bouncy music that's coming from her built in stereo.

"Get as solid as you can," warns Ratchet softly as the little femme nears.

Uh oh.

“Umm… is there trouble?” Jet said equally softly while solidifying until no one could distinguish him from a living being on contact. He glanced to Ratchet, then to Cyclonus, and then to the rest of his Cybertronian Sunrise.

Decision made, he drank the rest of the center in one gulp. If something was going to happen (and when things happened in a bar, drinks went flying) then he wanted to have his drink, even if it meant drinking it fast, than lose it all together.

Ratchet's smile and the feelings he's projecting toward the young Seeker spark suggest that nothing's wrong.

An arm slips around Jet's neck and squeezes very gently in a hug, and a quick kiss tingles his cheek.

And then Hormah's gone, out the door after her boss.

Ratchet's grinning like a loon. "That kid...."

...

Blink.

Blink.

She... she...

Oh. My. Primus. Jaw dropping. Right now.

"... Uhhh, it was nice meeting you too. Bye..." Unfortunately the poor kid's sense of timing was a little off, as Hormah was out the the door before Jet was able to more than squeak or even register that yes, he just got his very first kiss ever.

Ratchet squeezes his shoulder, radiating fond and kindly amusement. "Are you alright, Jet?"

"Here." Cyblonus abruptly shoves his Cybertron Sunrise at the rookie.

"She... she... uh... kissed me." Jet said while looking at Ratchet in utter befuddlement. It was a look that said 'but why did she do that?'

"Um... thank you very much, sir."

Yes, he really could use another drink.

"Hormah does that to people she likes." The former Autobot CMO's expression is a gentle grin. "Are you alright?"

Then he glances at the Sunrises. "Try the shell, too. My granddaughter likes them the best."

"I-Im fine." Actually, he's still flustered, but otherwise fine. First Kiss. He didn't expect the First Kiss to happen here. Or anyplace ever. "She likes me?"

Jet looked mildly embarrassed as well. Decepticon warriors did not act flustered over getting kissed. There was that pesky pride thing coming into play. And he had embarrased himself in front of Cyclonus. Oh... er... that wasn't good.

He nibbled at the shell of his first Sunrise. "It's... really good." It somewhat reminded him of the crystalized energon on skewers they used to hand out at festivals - when he wasn't on duty, or training, or studying to be as good as Air Commander Starscream, he liked to watch old holovids of what it was like in the old times on Cybertron. Jet peeked at Ratchet, "You have a granddaughter, sir?"

"Yes I do. Her name's Oriana 2, and she's just a few months old." Ratchet answers the last question first, and Jet will probably be able to feel his pride in that new spark. "And of course Hormah likes you. You haven't done anything to slag her off... not that that would probably change her mind, come to think of it."

Cyclonus' frown changes to a slight scowl, and he doesn't look at Jet as Primus pokes him. -I don't want to tell him that. What is the relevance? ...Fine.-

"Relax, young one. I had no idea what to do the first time a femme kissed me, either."

“Oriana? That’s pretty,” Jet said; the feeling of pride coming from the former-CMO as blindingly bright as a photon missile exploding on impact. Few months in, well, from Jet’s experience (being a factory made mech from a universe where mechs and femmes assumed their adult roles almost immediately in their lives), that meant training. At some war academy or THE War Academy, or boot camp basic training, or other institution. Or at least some sort of mentorship… he thought the Autobots mentored their young for the most parts instead of the Decepticon way of tossing them immediately into the camps and academies. “So what’s she training for?” Granddaughter… maybe a medic?

Jet’s education was rushed training in the camps. His factory lot were needed as replacements in some of the more out of the way garrisons so that more seasoned warriors could be sent to more important assignments. He was just to be a grunt with a gun – expendable – so aside from indoctrination, not much effort was needed to spent.

“Oh, okay, so it’s a Hormah thing? Oh…” But still… FIRST KISS! FIRST KISS! Oh my Primus. Jet really wasn’t caring that it was a femme or a mech doing the kissing – as the people in his universe generally didn’t give two drill bits either way – but he’d thought that it’d never happen and – FIRST KISS! Way ultra gear…

Well, looked like things were starting to sink in for this youngmech. Would explain the silly grin that was peeking through the embarrassment now just a bit.

“Really sir?” Jet felt a bit a little bit better. So the stammering and the flailing and the whole general WOWness of the experience was normal after all?

Cyclonus nods, fuddled confusion and absolute adoration slipping through his shields as he thinks of his commander. "Knowing my lady Galvatron she probably did it to confuse me."

"Yeah, Gally's good at that." Ratchet chuckles. "She and Blackout... it must be a Decepticon femme thing."

The former CMO nods to Jet. "Hormah likes everyone, and she's an affectionate kid. She'll go far in Primus' ranks." The pride leaks through again. "Oriana's named for her grandmother, and function wise... well, it's starting to look like diplomacy. Though right now her main focus is assuring her creators that she won't be going to the Allspark early like her brother Spike did."

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Nexus. Blue's Bar. Haunting the premises.

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