"Alright slagslinger, you know the drill. Gimme the-oh."
Long Haul recycled his optics to look over the femme before him. Then realized that was probably not a good way to start a conversation with anyone who wasn't a sociopathic helicopter.
"You know, I never could guess which one of you was the more unpleasant," she said, not missing a single droplet of bitterness.
"Yeah alright, that was uncalled for," Long Haul took his usual seat.
"Yet you're not going to apologize?"
"I save my apologies for my bosses. And even then sparsely. May I get my drink now?"
Slipstream stared at him for a while longer, clearly vexed but deciding a fat paycheck was worth far more than any retort she could come up with. Long Haul considered that for a bit. He was beginning to think he was maybe spending a bit too much of his earnings on worthless scrap.
He lived in a standard template hab block. That was agreeable, though he often thought it too small. Then again, most things were made too small for him. Why in the ever loving Allspark a species as diverse as his own in body plan and size would ever settle for a standard in construction was beyond him. Then again, at least he wasn't someone like Broadside. He could still somewhat fit in, both figuratively and literally.
That being said, he only made so much as a laborer. Prospects for getting out of that place were not good if he kept spending without thinking. But then drinking was all about not having to think. So he often found himself at a crossroads, shrugged and went for the more disagreeable but lazier option.
He had a few million cycles left on his frame anyway. He didn't need to rush. Probably.
Slipstream put his tankard on the table with as much malice as she could without spilling it.
"Feisty, ain't ya?" he said as he grabbed it, and chugged.
"I'm not talking to you."
"You just did," he said, as he put the tankard down, not quite having finished it but definitely having inhaled enough high grade to knock out five average-sized bots.
"How do you even do that?" Slipstream asked, petty spite forgotten due to morbid curiosity.
"Do you want the full specs or?" he asked. When Slipstream didn't respond fast enough, he continued.
"Frame mark 1985531-CN-DPTK. Heavy construction/transportation. Built for Class VI environmental hazard conditions. Plus further upgrades by Shockwave. To put it simply, I'm built to last. This," he pointed at his tankard. "This is nothing. It barely gets me buzzed."
"No wonder you blow so many credits here."
"Credits that are currently paying your energy bills. Refill it for me."
Slipstream couldn't argue with that, and took the tankard back. Long Haul had meant to ask something, but got interrupted by a bunch of bots entering through the bar's door. He could see they were all pristine, or as close as you could get to that for Tarn.
No scars, no armor enhancements, no weapon cavities. Fresh metal. Straight out of the Well, some of them looked like.
He knew that wasn't the case. He was probably just getting old. But he didn't care. So far as he was concerned, getting older was just one more excuse to be cranky.
"Here ya go."
Long Haul realized he'd been caught up in thought, then took the tankard. He considered once more, and remembered what he was going to ask.
"Say, where is Vortex?"
"Why do you want to know?" she arched an optic ridge.
"Well it's certainly not because I miss his company, believe me. In fact, I'd rather hope he'd slip and cut his own main fuel line. While flying. For that would be hilarious."
Slipstream repressed it, but Long Haul could swear he saw a flash of a smirk on her face.
"I do however find it weird that he'd leave this place unattended."
"Ahem."
"Right. Unattended by himself, I meant."
"He does it a lot more than you think."
"So I've just been unlucky to see his ugly visor every time I come in here?" he said, as he swung down some more high grade. "Where does he go anyway?"
Slipstream seemed to scrunch her face in thought.
"Some sort of underground fighting ring. Something like that anyway."
"That sounds about right," he inclined his head towards her. "What about you? You don't look the kind of bot to hang around places like this, much less work here."
She narrowed her optics.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"It means Seeker-frames are conceited tailpricks that don't want to let ground touch their pedes. That blunt enough for you?"
She seemed to think over getting snappy again, though sighed midway.
"It's not by choice," she pointed to a scratched mark left over her wings. Long Haul knew that was typically where fliers put their allegiance badge. "My house aligned themselves with the Decepticons midway through the war, though most of us moved offworld. That badge was still enough to be shunned up in the higher cities though. Plus, I was never liked by my fellow caste members much anyway."
"Oh really?"
"A snide tongue they called it. Really, I just think they couldn't take a joke."
Their conversation was interrupted as the herd of fresh metal approached at last. Long Haul wondered when they'd sit down. He'd seen most of them do by the tables, to properly relax. He insisted on staying on the stools near the bar counter though.
Because for one, he was there to not stay long, or at least that's what he told himself. And, for two, he didn't fit. He'd tried.
"Yo, where's my main bot Vortex at?"
"He's off. What can I get for you?"
"Little bit of everything for all of us, and definitely some of you, sweetspark," he said with a very satisfied grin on his face. Long Haul almost snorted.
"Do you want that in a standard glass or premium?" she said, completely unfazed.
"Whatever can accommodate you, sweetspark."
"Trust me, accommodating me is beyond any of you," she said with a smirk, then retreated to get them their fill. The lead bot was left a bit dumbstruck, while the others chuckled at his expense. Long Haul thought he was beginning to like this femme.
She came back soon enough, first filling his tankard again, then equipping every last of the newcomers with a glass of their own. She was leered at by all of them, and never failed to return a single one with a contemptful gaze.
"Hey, why does jumbo-sized over there get priority," he heard one of them speaking, like he couldn't hear them.
"I dunno. Must be a regular."
"Probably. Look at how much he's drinking. No way he makes enough to pay for that."
"You're right. Frames like that are only good for what amounts to slave labor."
A lesser bot may have let it go. A better bot, probably, in all actuality. But for better or worse, Long Haul still had a bit of pride in him. It was smashed and abused and subdued, from years of being ordered around. But it was there. And he was still an ex-Con. Disrespect in his days meant you often got sent to the recycling ward, in pieces. Unless you could send the other bot there first.
So it was that he got up from his seat, and loomed over where he'd heard the chatter come from. The sight of him was almost comical. He was twice as tall as the tallest of the fresh metal, and several times their mass.
"If you got a problem with me dumbaft, then just say it to me."
The mechs gathered around looked reluctant at such a large bot speaking up, but their leader, the one rejected from Slipstream, stepped up.
"You seem to be the one with the problem here."
"So the couple of slaggers I heard talking were just the wind then?"
"Listen, friend. We're just here to have a good time. Don't turn this into something you'll regret," he said, trying to impose some sort of finality to it. Like an order.
Long Haul hated orders.
"Run that by me one more time. You say I'll regret it?"
"We sort of outnumber you twelve to one."
Long Haul nodded.
His fist flew. Surprisingly fast too, for a bot of his size. The leader was sent flying like a shuttle. Blast Off would've been proud.
He gave them no time to react. He outmassed them all, and he had military experience. He kicked one to the ground. Punched another across the room. Grabbed two of them and smashed them together.
Eventually they rather pathetically tried fighting back, but he was built too tough to get impacted by them. They weren't war spec upgraded, so they never stood a chance.
The last of them he grabbed by a scrawny head and threw straight through the door. He looked at the mess made of the place, swung down the last of his high grade, then made to leave.
"Put it on my tab."
"How have you not driven yourself into debt?" Slipstream asked.
"I'm really good at my job."