Already four glasses of vodka of questionable origins, that almost sing song, obnoxiously youthful voice assaulted her ears like a drill bit boring a hole through the forehead. With an overcharged bio-amp and the pain stinging across her face, she was far from three sheets to the wind but the buzz dulled her reaction time when she looked back at Sideswipe when he came barging in.

"Sweet talker." Miranda said, in that sort of tone that was as good as at thumb running over the saftey release on her gun.