(no subject)
WHO: iRatchet and iStarscream for now.
WHAT: Ratchet's still getting used to this place, and it's starting to show.
WHERE: A high-end restaurant in Zone 2
WHEN: Late evening, the day before everyone starts disappearing.
WARNINGS/NOTES: Open log.
Ratchet hadn't expected a lot of things upon appearing in the white, clean, crowded space of Central Processing.
He hadn't expected a world full of... possibilities. Without war (seemingly, at least) and with so much privilege he hardly knew what to do with himself. Energon. Supplies. Spare parts. Clinics and hospitals and doctors. Archives. Research.
Restaurants. Theatres. Entertainments.
He'd managed so far by ignoring most of it - by focusing on the new species he'd met that had broken or defied physics and medicine as he knew it. By focusing on learning everything he could about how medicine and repairs were done here - and there were cycles if information he'd yet to absorb, nevermind learn to apply - and for a while that had worked, because he honestly had not given himself time to focus on anything but that narrow worldview. But it couldn't last. Not when his fellow medics and assistants were determined to introduce the newest refugee from a wartorn universe to the finer things this nexus had to offer, especially because they knew how easy it was to get homseick the first little while you were here. (Don't worry, they'd assured, you'll get over it.)
Which was why he was sitting at the bar of a high-end restaurant, sipping at the energon cube in front of him and staring at the data pad under his free hand. They'd taken him out for a proper refuel, complete with shared stories and laughter, the outrageous bill covered by the oldest medic with a wink and a grin, and Ratchet couldn't figure out that last time he'd felt so included, or so out of place. Eventually the party ended and the rest left for their respective homes, but the red and white medic couldn't quite bring himself to leave - hence the bar and the energon cube. It was still such a thought to sit at a bar and buy energon. To relax, really relax and not once have to pause and worry when an emergency call would come, or Decepticon attack would force them to evacuate - Primus! Flatline was a Decepticon, except - as he pointed out - that just meant he cheered really loudly for the StormCrushers when they were in the Lightning Arena and he could get away for charging more because 'Decepticons were canny bastards'.
It was proving a lot to take in.
He sipped at his energon out of habit - savouring what little could be spared, even if there was plenty more where it came from - and attempted for the fifth time that evening to sketch some sort of sensible medical bay for himself. It wasn't exactly going well.
WHAT: Ratchet's still getting used to this place, and it's starting to show.
WHERE: A high-end restaurant in Zone 2
WHEN: Late evening, the day before everyone starts disappearing.
WARNINGS/NOTES: Open log.
Ratchet hadn't expected a lot of things upon appearing in the white, clean, crowded space of Central Processing.
He hadn't expected a world full of... possibilities. Without war (seemingly, at least) and with so much privilege he hardly knew what to do with himself. Energon. Supplies. Spare parts. Clinics and hospitals and doctors. Archives. Research.
Restaurants. Theatres. Entertainments.
He'd managed so far by ignoring most of it - by focusing on the new species he'd met that had broken or defied physics and medicine as he knew it. By focusing on learning everything he could about how medicine and repairs were done here - and there were cycles if information he'd yet to absorb, nevermind learn to apply - and for a while that had worked, because he honestly had not given himself time to focus on anything but that narrow worldview. But it couldn't last. Not when his fellow medics and assistants were determined to introduce the newest refugee from a wartorn universe to the finer things this nexus had to offer, especially because they knew how easy it was to get homseick the first little while you were here. (Don't worry, they'd assured, you'll get over it.)
Which was why he was sitting at the bar of a high-end restaurant, sipping at the energon cube in front of him and staring at the data pad under his free hand. They'd taken him out for a proper refuel, complete with shared stories and laughter, the outrageous bill covered by the oldest medic with a wink and a grin, and Ratchet couldn't figure out that last time he'd felt so included, or so out of place. Eventually the party ended and the rest left for their respective homes, but the red and white medic couldn't quite bring himself to leave - hence the bar and the energon cube. It was still such a thought to sit at a bar and buy energon. To relax, really relax and not once have to pause and worry when an emergency call would come, or Decepticon attack would force them to evacuate - Primus! Flatline was a Decepticon, except - as he pointed out - that just meant he cheered really loudly for the StormCrushers when they were in the Lightning Arena and he could get away for charging more because 'Decepticons were canny bastards'.
It was proving a lot to take in.
He sipped at his energon out of habit - savouring what little could be spared, even if there was plenty more where it came from - and attempted for the fifth time that evening to sketch some sort of sensible medical bay for himself. It wasn't exactly going well.