IC Time on Earth: Mon Sep 16 10:27:42 2024

The Apocolypse

Walking into the bar, its immediately apparent that the party never ends here. Life forms of all kinds, although mostly Cybertronian, stumble out drunk only to be replaced by new patrons. Loud, electronic music blares from the 'jukebox', although there is a 'band' onstage that plays intermittently. Waitress's work their way in and out of the crowd bringing drinks. Chairs, tables, and booths line the walls of the club and surround a dancefloor. All around the walls are pictures of disasters in various cultures, and on the ceiling is a disco ball which hangs down and spins, covering the room in moving prisms.

Contents:

Waitress

Catechism walks down the stone steps and opens the door to enter the bar.

There's a... trick, for those who know it. A kind of poor-mech's cloaking device. It doesn't call for any special equipment, and the only 'skill' involved is knowing the trick itself, and practicing it. It's all a head thing. Convince yourself that you're not really worth noticing, that you're not really worth paying attention, and people rarely pay attention to you. You don't have to believe that deep down inside, but on the surface levels, the attitude must be there. Of course, it works even better if you happen to have a body type shared by thousands, but in a model known for their sense of self-importance, Fleet has instead worked on mastering the /trick/. And thus he sits in a corner seat nursing a small mug of energon. He's pastel yellow. He just got a promotion, putting him technically a rung above many the gumbies that inhabit this room. And he's almost entirely unnoticeable, unless someone happens to be looking specifically for him.

Catechism doesn't make any effort to fit in. She's a blunt instrument, as she was made. The cloudy Seeker saves all paltry pretenses of stealth for combat and pre-combat. She could probably stand to pay more attention to where she's going, as she keeps nicking her wings on people and furnature as she slogs through the crowd.

Fleet glances up at the blunt instrument as amusement flickers across his expression. He even shakes his head slightly. He has his reasons for keeping a low profile. They're listed in his +finger and +bg, after all, but then, there are other reasons as well. He's come under scrutiny of late, and while he knows full well his act will not fool those who have been scrutinizing him, it doesn't hurt. If anything, it could be very dangerous to suddenly go into a standard Seeker mindset now. It's probably thoughts like these that occupy him as he takes a long, slow sip of his drink. If Catechism, who does know him, doesn't spot him soon, he might say something.

Catechism does have some little problems with reality and perceiving what is true. Her bigger problem at the moment is finding a place to sit where she won't get walked into every five astroseconds. After all, she's supposed to recovering from that scouting practice/target practice mission. It says something about her that she thinks such a place is a suitable spot for recuperation.

Fleet puts down his drink and picks up a small chunk of metal, too large to be a chip, too small to be much else. He studies it for a moment as though considering it. How did it get there? From the looks of things, it was probably knocked out of one of the tables or chairs... or patrons. Whatever, it would do. He chunks the chunk in Catechism's direction, aiming for her big pointy head.

Clink!

Oh, *now* Catechism notices Fleet. Her immediate reaction is to cue up her combat systems. Her secondary reaction, upon consideration of the situation, is to look for something to throw back at Fleet. She settles on grabbing the drink of someone who looks too drunk to notice if it's gone and chucking that.

Fleet just tilts his head to the side, letting the drink fly by him and smash into the wall behind his head. He shoots the conehead an amused look and raises a hand, giving her a sort of 'come here' gesture.

Meanwhile, the barfly sitting next to Catechism is looking around in confusion, not realizing where his drink has gone, nor connecting its absence with the conehead. A few others around the bar do take notice of the antics, however, effectively nullifying Fleet's poor-mech-cloak.

Catechism mock sighs and pushes away from the bar. She saunters over to Fleet, smirking a little. The conehead asks teasingly, "No celebrating, huh?" If she can't hit him, she can at least poke at him verbally.

Fleet shakes his head as he leans back in his seat, not quite far enough to touch the energon dripping down the wall behind him, now serious. "No, not really. Just getting used to being back home. I have no intention of getting over-charged tonight." He looks up at Catechism. "So... what's your excuse?"

Catechism waves airily and glances up at the ceiling, grinning a little. She shrugs and asks, "I need an excuse?" Then, the conehead chuckles, sweeps a hand through the air, and explains, "I need to recover from that... patrol."

Fleet raises a hand. After all, he is the one who just got a promotion, which means he's buying at least one round. "What'll you have, Catechism?" He seems to be in a fairly... mellow mood, for him. Almost as if he was pleased with himself for having managed to go so long 'under the radar' in there. And for landing that chunk of metal on Catechism's noggin.

Catechism looks torn. By some odd train (train? more like a labyrinth) of thought, accepting a drink would be equivalent to admitting defeat. However, it's also very Decepticon to be opportunistic, and if he's paying, that means she can save her own resources for other purposes. Quirking an optic ridge, she says, "Well... I was thinking a Hexane Hex."

Fleet raises a ridge of his own. No, not that one! He doesn't have one of those anyway! An optic ridge. "Intending to get trashed tonight, I take it?" He shrugs and shakes his head. If that's what she wants, then fine. He raises his hand and calls the waitress over.

The waitress nods and walks to the bar to prepare your drink.

The waitress brings Fleet his Hexane Hex as ordered. She looks at Fleet and smiles. "When you need another just ask."

The waitress winks and walks away.

Catechism looks innocent and shrugs nonchalantly. She smiles and says coolly, "Oh, I can hold my energon; no worries." The conehead looks at her hands and adds slyly, "Besides, I'm no good for combat at the moment, anyway."

Fleet, for his part, still can't get what happened the last time he got overcharged out of his head. He pushes the drink over to Catechism before once more turning inward, his optics losing focus for a bit as he thinks. Finally he shakes his head sharply and puts on a slight smiles. "Eh. If we were actually attacked, I daresay you could still defend yourself now, at least. But that's neither here nor there. Sorry if I'm a bit of a wet blanket at the moment."

Catechism takes a sip of her drink and swishes it around. After a moment of judgment, she pronounces, "That's hexane all right. Takes the paint right off you if you're not careful..." Then she gives Fleet a funny look for two reasons. He just said something that makes no sense, for one. 'wet blanket'? Whu? For the other, if she was that badly hurt, she wouldn't have admitted it. Only reveal the weaknesses that don't matter. It provides something to occupy the attention foes and friends while concealing what's really wrong. She frowns a little, takes another sip, and says, "Of course I can defend myself. Just not allowed out on combat duty at the moment, which makes this a perfect time for a Hexane Hex."

Of course, the question is, at what point the Hexane Hex would make the other unable to defend themselves. But Fleet does not pursue the matter... he argued the opposite tact not too long ago, after all. The fact that he just used a terran idiom hasn't even hit him. The strange, slight smile still plays on his expression as he nods his head. "Right, right." Finally he says, "I guess I just don't want to go too far out of it because I'll be back on the duty roster tomorrow. Finally! I actually look forward to it. /This/ is the environment I was made for!" The smile gets a little wider.

"Oh, I'll be over this in a tick," Catechism says, perhaps over optimistically, indicating her drink. Then again, she does have that bucket trick. She tilts her head to one side and asks absently, "You don't look forwards to it always?" No, Catechism, that would be you. Bad conehead.

"It depends on what I'm doing," answers the yellow seeker. "And where I'm doing it, too. I mean, the patrols on Earth could get interesting... they have good storms, after all. But they also have birds." Yes. The birds make for an excellent excuse. And allow Fleet to avoid going into the fact that, while being in the sky for a dance always appealed, patrols, where they're expected to pay close attention to what's around them as the traverse miles and miles of organic landscape... actually, the thought makes Fleet shudder, his wingtips vibrating a bit with the motion.

"Sandstorms, too," Catechism adds absently, staring into her drink. Hexane is a solvent, right? So it should make her really clean inside, and cleanliness is good, yeah? Except it doesn't actually work that way. Pity. Vaguely noting that Fleet's wingtips are vibrating, she wonders if hasn't had more than he thinks he has.

They don't continue to vibrate for very long, silly Conehead! It's just the... after-motion of the shudder, is all. "Yeah. Sandstorms." Which certainly looked uncomfortable enough, but Fleet still felt it wasn't as bad as birds. "Of course, we've got our acid..." which is also still not as bad as birds. But Fleet does not voice this part of his comment.

Catechism laughs and gestures grandly, almost knocking over her drink. Her optics glow an almost unhealthy red, and she insists, "Oh, the acid's just refreshing, is all." Yeah, because everything's better back home.

Fleet tilts his head back out of the way of Catechism's *grand* gesture. "/Right/," he answers dubiously. He eyes the conehead for a moment, expression still amused, as he takes another long sip, finishing his drink. "At least, if you're into that sort of thing, anyway." A brief smirk flitters through so quickly it might just be a figment of the imagination.

Looking a little more off kilter now than before, Catechism finishes the Hexane Hex and again gives Fleet an odd look, although one must wonder if the Hex is preventing her from accomplishing a normal one. She says slowly, "Thought you liked storm flying..."

Fleet stands to leave, and smirks. "Depends on the type of storm, and if I can come into it prepared. I don't like having the outer layers of my paint stripped off painfully and unnecessarily." He nods a farewell to the other seeker. "Well, enjoy your night off. I think I'll turn in early." While not yet at full operational status, he thought he was probably good enough to get a session or two in on the training rooms, and he did have that program to work through... With that, he turns and leaves.