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Entry tags:
BYEDONTFOLLOWME
Who: Miranda and YOU
Where: Maccadam's
When: After this disaster
What: Miranda licking her wounds and hating robot teenagers, but also vodka.
Warnings: Questionable potato vodka and minor injuries. Standard Mass Effect functioning alcoholism.
Miranda had suffered her fair share of dives. Cerberus contacts that had her plastering on a fake smile as she talked logistics in the back of red sand dusted table in the back of a smoked out bar on Omega. Even when it was the veritable pits at least she never had the need to fallback on undergraduate biochemistry classes and distill her own alcohol.
She wanted to blame Rodimus and his attached to the hip friend with the swords. She wanted to be incensed. Instead she told herself she was happy enough not to debase herself and concentrate on her more practical pursuits. Such as re-purposing some of the machinery she found behind the massive bar in Maccadam's and putting those tubers and other consumable to use. Vodka, specifically. She lucked out and found the hardware close enough to what she recognized and could feasibly work with to make this into a time pisser that actually let her think; to do something with her hands. There was even a clear concoction behind the bar that came up on her omni-tool as being isopropyl in all but name. Everything a girl could hope for.
"Shit."
Sitting on the counter top of the Maccadam's bar, Miranda hissed when she brought a wad of torn synthetic fabric soaked in rubbing alcohol up to her lacerated and swollen face where she bore the brunt of that fight. Had to take care of the superficial wounds before she wasted her medi-gel. Rubbing alcohol in one hand, she also had what must be the glass for the world's smallest shot for the average Cybertronian but held like a highball glass to her filled with ice and strong vodka. Her own brew, and the way she shuddered when she took a pull, it was strong.
Where: Maccadam's
When: After this disaster
What: Miranda licking her wounds and hating robot teenagers, but also vodka.
Warnings: Questionable potato vodka and minor injuries. Standard Mass Effect functioning alcoholism.
Miranda had suffered her fair share of dives. Cerberus contacts that had her plastering on a fake smile as she talked logistics in the back of red sand dusted table in the back of a smoked out bar on Omega. Even when it was the veritable pits at least she never had the need to fallback on undergraduate biochemistry classes and distill her own alcohol.
She wanted to blame Rodimus and his attached to the hip friend with the swords. She wanted to be incensed. Instead she told herself she was happy enough not to debase herself and concentrate on her more practical pursuits. Such as re-purposing some of the machinery she found behind the massive bar in Maccadam's and putting those tubers and other consumable to use. Vodka, specifically. She lucked out and found the hardware close enough to what she recognized and could feasibly work with to make this into a time pisser that actually let her think; to do something with her hands. There was even a clear concoction behind the bar that came up on her omni-tool as being isopropyl in all but name. Everything a girl could hope for.
"Shit."
Sitting on the counter top of the Maccadam's bar, Miranda hissed when she brought a wad of torn synthetic fabric soaked in rubbing alcohol up to her lacerated and swollen face where she bore the brunt of that fight. Had to take care of the superficial wounds before she wasted her medi-gel. Rubbing alcohol in one hand, she also had what must be the glass for the world's smallest shot for the average Cybertronian but held like a highball glass to her filled with ice and strong vodka. Her own brew, and the way she shuddered when she took a pull, it was strong.
no subject
To room empty except for the human who owned the mental signature she'd been tracing. "Good lord, what happened to you?"
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Miranda supplied, voice thick as the hard and quick burn of her distilled alien tubers made her mouth water and the gash above her cheekbones stretch uncomfortably, whittling down her vocabulary.
Even without the excess of fabric herself, she knew a premeditated entrance when she saw one. Unawares that her thoughts were being broadcasted, Miranda eyed the other woman carefully. Nothing that her decided lack of a reaction beyond her the injuries meant this woman found alien planets, well, not so alien. Or had been here long enough. Miranda doubted the latter, she kept an ear to the ground to avoid surprises. Present state notwithstanding.
Regardless, friend or foe, Miranda was in no shape to exercise anything other than good graces.
"It's a bit of a climb, but pull up a chair."
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"Hmm." The locals were a good 20 feet tall, if the architecture was to be believed. And all Miranda had gotten away with was minor cosmetic damage? Interesting.
"...All right." Emma looked at the floor-to-bar distance, evaluating. No way was she making that with her dignity intact, at least not in her normal flesh-and-blood form. With a thought, she changed to diamond and hopped the now trivial distance to where Miranda was sitting, landing with a thud and more dramatic cape billowing before switching back to normal. Pretending to be a baseline served no purpose here, but maybe she'd keep quiet about telepathy for the moment.
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Pulling up a chair was not just a figure of speech, in between licking her wounds and readying chasing off the usual Maccadam's regulars if need be she did manage to find chairs that accommodated human-sized customers. Which she assumed meant the size variances in the species of natives was wider than she first thought.
"Since coming I had a sneaking suspicion whatever brought us here wasn't taking just anyone from the pool of foreign species."
Miranda would have smiled, but wounded. Instead she pours another measure of vodka over ice with a noncommittal gesture to the empty glasses set beside the bottle.
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She offered an opera-gloved hand to shake while reaching for a Cybertronian shot glass with the other. "I'm Emma Frost, by the way."
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Names both dusted over with a sheet of ice even if one was more blunt force in the imagery than the other. Miranda was quick to respond with a firm handshake, unconcerned with the bleeding smeared across one side of her face. No reason to let something so trivial get in the way of etiquette.
"The planet itself is as inorganic as the native popular and the former is...changing," She started with the rim of her glass pressed to her bottom lip, "Its reconstituted itself to support organic life and more to the point my initial fieldwork suggests this is not only unheard of but the planet started self-terraforming well before any of us showed up.
A gloved finger taps against the glass.
"We're the repopulation effort. On a plant native to a giant inorganic, and frankly grandiloquent, pieces of work calling themselves Cybertronians.
I'm not thrilled." Miranda finishes taking a long pull of her best accomplishment since being dumped on this rock.
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Emma poured herself a finger or so of alien moonshine while she listened to Miranda, looking skeptical more at the smell than the explanation.
"This might crack the top ten list of the most ludicrous things that have ever happened to me." Nothing about her life had made sense in years. Leaning back in her chair, Emma took a test sip and made the sort of face one would associate with drinking space rotgut. "This is never going to replace a Napoleon cognac."
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Miranda threw her head back with now half her glass gone, apparently immune to drinking what could be sold commercially as a paint thinner. Overcharged biotic amp and being caught in the middle of what amounted to two hormanal teeangers the size of tug boats dancing around each other. More than enough to put a layer of steel in her gut.
"If they had played a part then that scuffle outside would have ended with motor oil on the ground or whatever it is they run on."
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"And from the looks of it they can't be trusted with their own planet."
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Sometimes he likes to do more than just watch, however, and realizing he hasn't introduced himself to this particular human lady yet he decides to do so.
Jogging up to her along the bar-top, the camera-bot greets, "Hello. You are injured."
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Miranda, cagey and already two sheets to the wind, has her hand hovering around her pistol as this tiny but all the same synthetic creature wanders in too close for comfort.
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Actually, he's not sure what he'd do if she did. Even if he had a phone here, which he does not, he's pretty sure there's no 911 for humans on Cybertron...
A little lightbulb goes off in his head, thankfully metaphorical, given that Miranda might not react favorably to a camera flash at the moment. "I could get June. She is a nurse."
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"You're a bit smaller than the rest." A bit.
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He nods agreeably at Miranda's other statement, though. "I am." He sits up a little bit straighter, looking proud. "I am a camera."
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Seeing a human on Cybertron wasn't something he'd been expecting at all, so Miranda immediately caught his interest. Watching as she began treating her wounds, he leaned closer to her part of the bar with a look of concern.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Are you alright?"
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"Your species is too volatile for my taste."
More of an outward thought as she brought the rim of her glass to her lips and then, finding reason again, added- "Miranda."
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"Uh. No, can't say I've met anyone by that description, Miranda." It was going to be a very interesting conversation when he did. "My name is Optimus Prime," he continued, completing the introductions.
"I get feeling everyone is a little on edge here," he offered a little sheepishly. He was aware it wasn't a very good excuse. "Where I'm from most bots have never seen an organic, let alone spoke with a human. Did someone attack you?"
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Miranda snapped with her voice echoing inside the bottom of a now empty glass. Rodimus; the very reason she had since then stricked the color red from her primary color dependent fashion sense.
Glass slapping down on the table, she crossed her legs and leaned heavily with her chin into the open palm of her hand. Watching Optimus as more of curiosity than a potential threat.
"'Prime' implies some sort of authority figure."
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"Yes, but I don't think it translates the same across universes. I think your human equivalent would be a more like a captain. I'm guessing you've met the other Optimus Prime, then?"
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Said like a true child who had never actually been inside of one legally in his life. Sideswipe sounds way too excited about this whole thing. He barely even seems to notice there's a problem. Sorry, Miranda, this is the kind of asshole you get to enjoy for the moment.
He makes a beeline for said bar, grabbing the edge of it and leaning over the top, peering around. "Hello...? Hey! Hey! Anyone? Hello!"
It's only belatedly he notices the human on the bartop. He blinks, his eager expression suddenly clouding over.
"Wow. You look like scrap."
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"Sweet talker." Miranda said, in that sort of tone that was as good as at thumb running over the saftey release on her gun.
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Now that she was actually talking, the whole extent of the "looking like scrap" was clearer to him. He grimaced, and held up his hands in surrender.
For all of five seconds. Before chiming in again, though, this time, he ended up sounding more curious and concerned than anything.
"Hey, uh. You're a human, right?" Because he'd never seen one in shape like this. Except in a TV show one time. "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to look like that... you uh. Need repairs or something?"
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Then, after a moment of awkward silence, Miranda motioned to the back of the bar with a jerking hand motion.
"Engex is in the back." She shrugged. "Pour you one if you can give me a ride home."
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He laughs, a bit awkwardly, holding up his hands. Because wow that name sounds like something that would make it so he couldn't drive anywhere.
Because guess who never actually had any before.
"How about we cut to the chase and I just play good Autobot? With the ride home part, I mean. I can come back."
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Miranda cocked her head to the side - both curious as to what he meant by 'Autobot' but also to make it easier to essentially hold her face together with a few strips of bandage tape. Anyone else would have needed stitches, but that was genetic tailoring for you.
"I'm already in the unfortunate position of actually needing help." She conceded, even if it was backhanded. "If you know how I can get a ride back it would be appreciated."
Don't look a gift shithead in the mouth.
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He even gestured to the emblem on his chest. Beaming. Like she would understand this was something to be proud of. Or like she'd even care. He assumes she would -- because who wouldn't?
"Right, right. Okay. So... where to?"
He even lowered a hand for her.