If there are songs, they will be about Ultra Magnus's lack of balls.

[docbot]

WHO: Ratchet and Dead End
WHERE: The bar
WHEN Before Deaders creepers on Cliff, so ... Last night?
WHAT: Two strangers drinking together. Because Ratchet's social life revolves around high-grade, apparently.
WARNINGS: Drunkenness?



Sometimes Ratchet tries to get out and about and still ends up drinking. Because he's a mature adult and if he wants to self-medicate a bit, by god, he will self-medicate.

So here he is, at the bar, watching people flow in and out while keeping to himself and nursing a cube.

And thinking. Always the thinking.

But more high-grade will fix that...

"Hey! Hey, you with the cubes! Bring one of those over here, would you?"

Comments

[dinnerdate]

"Uh, yeah... new friends."

This is not going to end in new friends. He just wants to go back to his dark corner, but it looks so far from reach now. He barely even notices Ratchet pretty much downing his drink, far too used to that kind of thing from his job long long ago.

"Dead End. And I'm not a kid," if that'll even get through to the guy's processor. Well. It might.

Wait.

"...Ratchet? As in the Autobot medic?"

[docbot]

"Mmhm, 'course you're not, Deaders." Ratchet is used to kids telling him that they're not kids. He does not actually listen to them.

"Yup, Ratchet. Autobot medic. Doctor of doom." He wiggles his fingers a little bit at the last phrase, since he's only heard about that particular title in passing. It does amuse him, though.

[dinnerdate]

Deaders. Well if that was any indication of how the rest of this would go, it wouldn't be going well.

"I'm not... You're just overcharged." He insists again, because he's nowhere near being a kid. That was something better off calling him when he'd had his first job, long before the war and before he became a bartender. Back when he got his name. That's when kid was appropriate.

"I think you hung up on me onc- Doctor of Doom?" Well that doesn't sound ominous at all... Dead End picks up a cube and downs it. He's going to die.

[docbot]

He just loves you, Deaders. More than his nose at this point (oh wait he doesn't have one~).

"I'm not nearly overcharged yet! I haven't even felt the urge to sing yet!" Because that's a healthy way of judging whether or not you've imbibed too much.

"Mmhm. I hear that's what the Vehicons call me nowadays. Got a ring do it, doesn't it?" He sighs happily and pats Dead End on the shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll get a snappy nick name one day as well."

[dinnerdate]

Ratchet was one of those. Common enough in a bar, gets so drunk they sing, but frag he hadn't seen one in ages. Better than the life story bots for sure, a bit more fun - less depressing.

Not that he was one to judge about depressing things these days.

"You are. Not saying it's bad, as long as you know your limits... If you can even remember them at this point." Because he didn't know them and he had no idea if the bartender here did either.

"It's something... Makes you sound like a Decepticon."

Just. Putting that out there.

Dead End freezes up at the pat, eying Ratchet cautiously. He'd really rather this be a no touching night.

"I have plenty, I don't want more."

[docbot]

"Limits... pshhhh". Ratchet bangs a fist against his chest plating with a dull clank. "I'm fine. They built us to last when they drew up the blueprints for my model."

"Nah, don't think anyone could mistake me for a 'Con. Not enough dark paint on me. Too much white."

Because that makes total sense to a mech who's on his way to being blitzed.

"Already got nicknames, huh? Like what?"

[dinnerdate]

"Everyone has limits," he attempts to interject. Chances are it won't actually get through to Ratchet, but it's worth saying at least. It's not his problem.

Well, not yet.

Dead End shakes his head, "You don't have to be painted dark to be a Decepticon."

They didn't have rules saying that you could only have specific paint jobs. And if they did he didn't know about them. Half of his paint was incredibly bright, so couldn't be.

He can't help, but vent a sigh, staring at his previous seat. His nice, in a dark corner, seat. He missed it already.

"I'd rather not talk about them," he says finally, on the topic of his nicknames. They weren't exactly the nicest things out there. At least most of them weren't. And there's no way he's bringing up his diet to a drunk mech. A drunk Autobot.

[docbot]

"Yeah, but mine aren't nearly close enough."

Ratchet shrugs at that. "Maybe not, but it sure seems to help. Certainly don't see any in red and white... Not many medics on that side of the war."

For good reason. Medics don't tend to side with people who use biological weapons of warfare.

"If you can't talk about 'em, they're not real nicknames, Deaders. Unless they're the embarrassing kind, in which case, you'd better 'fess up, 'cause they'll just come out eventually. And then I'll only tease you more when I find out."

[dinnerdate]

"Right..."

It's better not to start up an argument about it with him. Next thing you know he'd go and end up getting himself shot.

And the bit about the medics...

"Yeah, can't say you're wrong there," he sighs, eyeing Ratchet. "But you get enough injuries and you can't patch yourself up, you're pretty much scrap anyway."

Couldn't fight? Then you were a dead bot walking, and it wasn't just death by the other side you had to worry about.

"It's not that they're embarrassing..." Majority of them are just insults. Actually just about all of them are, except maybe one or two.

"I don't want to talk about them," he shakes his head, ordering up himself another cube. "You can tease me all you want, that's nothing new. Everyone does it."

If he's around and not being picked on then people aren't having fun, or at least that's how they usually make it seem.

[docbot]

I guess." Ratchet shrugs because who wants to talk about sad war stories when you can drink and be merry and try to wheedle nicnkames out of yoru new pal at the bar?

"Well. If they weren't embarrassing and you don't want to use them, then they weren't real nicknames."

With that ascertained, Ratchet slams his arm around Dead End's shoulders.

"Don't worry Deaders. I'm pretty sure we'll find you some winners. Now drink up."

Here have a cube, Dead End. He's going to keep staring at you expectantly until you drink it.

[dinnerdate]

"If you say so," he shrugs, not wanting to really press the matter any further. They were nicknames, in that everyone used them when referring to him. He just wasn't fond of them, and would rather they weren't used at all. Nicknames, insults. The same fragging thing.

He stares at Ratchet a moment, not even bothering to look down at the cube, and heaves a large sigh through his vents. His life. It's come to this has it? It plans on beating him down until he can barely struggle and then when he no longer can move it will swoop in and kill him. Take his all too short life, and crush it, tossing it into the trash where he won't even be remembered.

Why can't he just have something for once in his life. Something that's good and not the scrap he gets on a daily basis. Anything.

He picks up the cube and takes a sip.

"I don't really want any new ones."

[docbot]

At another time, a more sober time, Ratchet might pester for more details. As it is, he just ponders for a moment, then reaches over and leans heavily on Dead End.

"You new nickname's Deaders. Deal with it."

And then happily noogies his new pal. Because friends do noogies. Apparently.

[dinnerdate]

That was not the something good he wad looking for, far from it in fact. Typical of life to throw him something that wasn't good at all - not that a nickname was a bad thing, he just didn't want one.

Always things he doesn't want, never things he does.

Dead End can't help but flail around the minute Ratchet grabs hold of him, squirming and pushing at the medic's arms. He's not making it out of this night alive. Bar fights were safer than this medic.

"Would you stop!"