robothell | ROOOOOBOT PROOOOM

[OPTION 1]
What the hell is Prom even? He's never heard of it, but it seems like there's a party. And parties are always good. Sideswipe would never turn down a party in a million years. You know, if he was a million years old.

Which he wasn't.

In fact, he's peering into the apparently spiked punch, trying to determine what exactly he's looking at. Can he drink it? Is it for the humans? What's all this about, exactly?

Someone should clearly explain. And interrupt.

[OPTION 2]
Well.

Somehow, this idiot got his hands on something alcoholic. Because he has somehow managed to flop his way onto the dance floor, and, despite the cobbled-together music, is grooving like a maniac. He always did like music, and this is no exception. Severely intoxicated, or just tipsy and excited, who knows?

He might just grab the nearest bot and spin them off in a ridiculous dance.

Be careful.

[OPTION 1]
This planet really couldn't get much worse. It's pretty bad. Not only are there two versions of Shockwave here, but apparently he's missed an entire war and... well. Suffice it to say the big guy isn't having a good time lately. So he'd left his sulk seat, and ventured out into the land of Being Social, in hopes of shaking off the funk he'd fallen into.

So far? No dice.

Instead of being entertained, he's more or less slunk onto the wall, arms folded over that broad chest, watching the going's on with a more or less tired look. Man... this would be a lot better if there were a bar.

Or no guilt to deal with. That'd be great.

[OPTION 2]
Okay, so, whatever alcoholic beverages were in this place? They've either been confiscated or consumed by the huge bot, and there's a pleasant buzz in all his systems. He's got still another drink in his hand, and his expression has turned from sour to jovial like that.

Now he's making rounds between people, looking for familiar faces, occasionally offering a dance or two... just generally being a lot more upbeat. Amazing what drinking to the point of forgetting your guilt can do.

The last time he was at a party, he got shot. And woke up on a desolate, decrepit Cybertron infested with bugs. Alone. Confused. And then Alpha Trion happened...

So, needless to say, Ironhide isn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of attending another party. But he shows up, all the same. Someone has to keep an eye on Prime, Ratchet, Hot R--Rodimus, the others. If he doesn't, who will? It's hard to fall out of the bodyguard in his nature. Too hard.

And who knows? Maybe it'll come in handy somehow. Some way.

Ironhide isn't exactly partying, so much as he is weaving his way through party-goers. His expression is neutral, and there's the occasional smile for those he knows. But he's determined to stay distant. Vigilant.

No dying, this time.

Mayday spends most of the party glued to Pipes's side. He finds social occasions with lots of people a bit overwhelming and he's pretty sure that he's going to nerd to hole up in his ship for a week and intensely groom his deer collection to recover from this. But he had to come because Pipes invited him and gosh this was basically like a second date and he's definitely never had one if those before!

Occasionally, though, Pipes wants to dance with other people, and when that happens Mayday retreats to the bleachers with a cup of punch. He even sits on the bleachers after carefully wiping a space clean for himself.

He sits and sips and jitters because he hasn't realized yet that the punch is spiked, and he's starting to worry that the increasing fuzziness in his processors is Type B Neural Decay.

Edited 2015-05-11 23:49 (UTC)

A party!

It has been hundreds of years since Knock Out has been to a proper party, but the sounds of revelry drew him in like an Insecticon to chaos, and here, here! Here are more bots-- more real bots, not those throwaway Vehicons and Insecticons, who all had the same faces and sculpts and completely boring and/or offensive personalities-- than he'd seen in one place for decades and decades.

Never mind that he isn't waxed to glowing, and never mind that his rotary buffer is somewhere on some other Cybertron; he is still going to be the most gorgeous person here, and he holds his head high and smiling and mingles. He loves parties. After all, what better way to score allies and intelligence and kisses than a party where everyone else is drinking the punch?

Option 1

Optimus has staked out a spot near the dance floor, but so far hasn't really engaged in any prom activities aside from getting himself a glass of punch. He hasn't been avoiding talking to anyone, necessarily, but he's not much of a party goer and knows hardly anyone here.

So he's standing off to the side with his drink, watching the rest of the party and looking quite a bit more relaxed than he has his whole time planetside so far.

Option 2

After a while the party is starting to get a little more crazy as it becomes evident that the punch was spiked. Optimus is even starting to feel a little buzzed, and has since left the drinking to the more enthusiastic bots. But he's getting swept into the mood, smiling and laughing at some of the escapades happening.

He's currently chilling on the bleachers, sitting in the most comfortable position he could find considering bleachers are kind of terrible for that.

This was definitely not a very good idea. It wasn't a terrible idea yet, but it was definitely not one of his better ideas. It wasn't even really his idea necessarily, but it wasn't the kind of idea a model Phase Six super solider was supposed to let themselves indulge in.

You know, ignoring all those time Black Shadow and Overlord disregarded the whole 'model Phase Six super soldier' thing and partied with the lower ranks anyways.

Sixshot has crammed himself into the darkest corner of the forum that he could find, curled up in wolf mode. He's mass shifted down to the smallest sized he could go and is generally trying to avoid detection.

Edited 2015-05-11 23:22 (UTC)

Pipes could not be happier. Having a prom was one thing, being one of the prom monarchs was another! He never thought he was that popular.

Regardless, he doesn't make a big show of entering with Mayday, just decides instead to mill around, autograph anything anyone wants (no-one will want that) and say hi to people he hasn't met already.

If you're a wallflower, he'll be targeting you especially. Socialise, you giant shitbabies.

Sentinel isn't interested in the gathering or anyone present. He may have finally admitted to himself he's starting to get kinda lonely and is sick of sleeping in a dumpster, but he still really hates everyone here. Especially you, Megatron.

He might have gone on the off chance one of his henchmen might have shown up. He might have gone because there's ample supply of booze. Either way, he grabbed the biggest glass he could find and several refills and decided to sit at the bottom of one of the bleachers. On the floor. Because it started creaking under his fat ass.

Wonderful.

Slipstream was late to the party, having not been informed about the party, but she's grinning pretty widely as she strolls in (towering over a good chunk of the other promgoers), and her wings are adorned with makeshift and rather ugly bumper stickers over her Decepticon insignias.

They read "Honk If You Hate Starscream", though, and she considers that beautiful enough to be worth putting on her wings.

She heads straight for the punch, downs a couple glasses (it's not oil, dammit, but it sets a pleasant running through her sensors), and proceeds to hassle people from the outskirts, jeering and mocking people for their dancing, their faces, and for getting offended by her hassling.

But if anyone reads her wings and honks for her, they'll be treated to a great big grin and thumbs up, and she might well strike up a conversation on the topic of How Terrible Starscream Is.

Ah, a gathering! After so many hours of flying around and seeing the same landscape over and over again, Megatron was glad for a reason to entertain himself for a while. Does the fact that everyone present is mostly autobots half his size? No! Such things would never bother a gladiator of Kaon. He's so unbothered by it that he doesn't even talk to anyone at first, he checks out the refreshments with interest. Goodness, a chance to get drunk! Well, who is he to ignore such an opportunity?

He grins and swipes a cube of high-grade. It'll take a lot of these before he gets anywhere, but he imagines there will be plenty to entertain him in the meantime.

Ultra Magnus is chaperoning the party, of course. She's hunkered down in a chair in the corner, nursing an energon spritzer and glaring suspiciously at everyone.
Someone should probably come over and distract her so that Rodimus and Drift can sneak off under the bleachers.

Social events and Optimus Prime are like oil and vinegar. Often side by side but usually never mixing, and if they do, it's trying its hardest to separate again. But Shockwave had convinced him to come to this get together. And by not even entering the competition he'd somehow won Prom King. Yeah...you figure that one out. In celebration, there's a small crown that didn't quite fit on his head, so it's looped around one of his giant blue ears for the evening.

This was going to be a long night.

Option 1:

You can find him chaperoning against the wall, making sure that everything is going at least somewhat peacefully--people are having fun, dances are being had. Things like that. Optimus dancing, though? That's asking far too much from the Autobot leader. Not only does he openly claim he has two left feet...

But maybe he just doesn't know how.

Probably a bit of both.

Option 2:

He's standing outside to get some fresh air (you don't breathe, dingus) from all the bustle.

What a party animal.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time tonight, with dancing taking place and arguments ensuing over whether or not the punch was spiked. Various shouts of 'Rodimus' and 'Brainstorm' ring through the air as the event folds out, everyone either on the dance floor or hugging the wall like wallflowers. It was a mix.

Speaking of wallflowers, Trailcutter's just going to occupy one of the corners, holding a drink in his hand as he watches the hustle and bustle of everyone having a good time. This was usually the time that the alcohol started kicking in. The sudden lack of fitting that into social gatherings was still so new to him, that he keeps swirling the drink, only taking a sip once every so often.

All he had to do was wait for the party to die down, and then he could slip out unnoticed. Not like anyone WOULD, right? He wasn't as loud or (possibly drunk) as some of the others.

Boy, don't you look like a sore thumb, Impactor. Parties? Those were for the higher ups--and whatever miners celebrated was certainly not as high end or classy as this. Drinking at a bar, maybe. But a full on party? Totally out of his element. But Megatron'd asked him to come, and it really sucks when you just can't say no to that face. Honestly, he's tried.

But that didn't stop him from sulking around (it's his default face, okay) as others tend to part like minnows to a shark. It honestly doesn't bother him all too much--whoever wants to avoid him can gladly do so.

It doesn't really make him much of a partier though. Because...it's not like it was obvious to start.

Cyclonus isn't here to have fun. Cyclonus is here to have a drink and help out if something - almost inevitably - goes wrong.

He stands silently near the bleachers with a cup of punch in one hand, watching the revelers and listening to the music.

If it was a bad idea to enter Maccadam’s, despite its garish and poorly written sign, then who can really say what Tarn was thinking when he arrived at the party. the Autobot’s party, to be precise. Uninvited. With Pharma (probably the person the Autobots hated second only to Tarn and perhaps the fabled 'Megatron with the pointy teeth') in tow; lured with the promise of free energon.

Really, one can only stand Spinister’s home distilled energon for so long.

As he enters the forum, Tarn spots Sixshot laying in the corner. He gives the Phase Sixer a slight nod in acknowledgement, before making a beeline for the punch bowl.

Like hell he’s going to let anyone get in the way of him and (what he thinks is) proper sustenance.

Someone didn't intend to be here at all. Someone was just trying to hide out from the world and crazy scrubbing medics and sulk. But, unfortunately, while he'd been dozing, the party had rolled in.

At some point, the ninja bot eases down a wall, slipping out of an air vent to do so.

Which is probably not as stealthy as he's hoping for, given the room full of bots. But, hey, he's trying.

OTA.

Rodimus is grinning widely, making his way around and chatting people he knows and maybe a few he doesn't. The punch seems to have gone down well, and he's got a cup of it in his hand. The green color is throwing him off, but he's realized that eventually - if not already - he's gonna start bleeding that color.

Weird.

But tonight isn't about that. It's about throwing a party and having fun! Which is why he's easily approached and smiling at everyone who comes in five feet of him.

CLOSED TO ~~THE BAE~~ DRIFT.

After a certain point in the night, Rodimus has decided he's spent enough time away from Drift. Which means invading his personal space, coming up to nudge him in the side with an elbow. He's put away his multiple punch cups and decided that they are going to do something. They are going to sneak out behind the the rubble and make out. That is absolutely on his list now that they can do it.

But there's something they need to do beforehand.

"Hey Drift," he says in an approximation of smooth and suave. "Wanna dance?"

Ultra Magnus is trying. It isn't so much that he's bad at public appearances – in fact, he had to get rather good at them rather quickly when he took command – so much as that he feels awkward and out of place here. Most of these Autobots, and even the Decepticons, don't seem to share much in common with him or the reality he knows. They do, however, seem to know one another to some degree.

But they've been welcoming to him so far. So he's trying.

He doesn't manage much better than milling on the outskirts of the party, and though he clearly wants to participate – if the hesitant looks he gives several conversations and clusters of robots now and again are any indication – he is also keenly aware of how little he has to contribute.

Maybe he could try a little harder.

Could Brainstorm be more awkward?

He tended to avoid Swerve's when it was busy, and he could have been in his workshop coming up with his next scientific breakthrough, but he heard a thing or two about getting out and how it was good for creativity.

It had nothing to do with the fact Nautica was there, of course.

And it had nothing to do with staring at any of Nautica's dance partners with an acid glare.

He trusted you, Skids.

Nope, he's just going to mingle -- close to the edge of the party -- and feed engex into the fuel slot in his wrist.

The fact that Pharma is even here isn't the most embarrassing part. No, the most embarrassing part is that he's technically here with Tarn. He isn't stupid, he knows how this is going to look, especially with people here that know his history. But perhaps it's better that he come back out to make his presence more secured in this place. The free energon was a bonus, too.

But he is still trying to keep as much distance from his 'date' as possible, settling around with a drink in hand and just sort of examining the group that has congregated so far.

As one of the members of the Prom Committee, Drift is of course in attendance. He is in charge of confetti.

Although he'll spend a considerable portion of the evening making out with Rodimus in some dark corner, Drift is otherwise hanging around, enjoying the drinks and watching everyone have a good time. There's a good vibe in the air tonight, and it's coming from the heart of the party. This is what Cybertron wants, isn't it? Somehow, Drift gets that sense, and it makes him buoyant. He might even dance a little, although he's mostly hanging back serenely.

Rampage is late. And he's not so much at the prom as vaguely haunting the edges of it. He doesn't want the punch, his doesn't like the music, he has no interest in dancing, and his spark is itching from being close to so many people with so many different emotions.

He wouldn't be here at all but he's feeling... unsettled this evening and doesn't quite feel like being alone. So here he is, sitting mostly in the shadows and generally resenting every single person here.

Prom had gone from a nice evening with free engex, to a spinning hellscape of inescapable embarrassment and pain, far more quickly than one may have hoped. Tarn would like it to end now please.

As it stands, he has found a mostly secluded corner behind the bleachers to spend his time until he is sober enough to stumble home. In the meantime, he has plenty of opportunity to mull over the events of the night, wretching on his intoxication. His frame shudders in misery as he purges the engex from his tanks for the third time in under an hour.

An argument could be made that the pathetic noise that escapes him was a sob. Tarn would disagree of course.

He’s too distracted by his suffering to hear anyone approach.

OTA

OTA

OTA

OTA

ota

no subject

OTA

points at eyes, points at literally everyone present