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“well, isn’t that color just a bit too vibrant? … honestly, don’t know much about colors. in the art of engex, the more vibrant it is, the tastier it should be. i say should be because—uh—hah, never mind that,” swerve bit his lip, pure frustration and conviction pushing him to the act. it doesn’t hurt, sure, but it was a pain to try and keep his processor from making words and sentences that ran for miles and cycles long.
here’s the continued thought (he set it aside, let it continue, and fester in his processor; if he didn’t, he’s sure it would just pop out of his mouth): he said should because some engex is clear—transparent. like water. it’s like a cybertronian equivalent for vodka: a bot could be fooled into drinking engex like that rather than something so vibrant and would throw their processor into a glitching haze just as bad as it would with clear engex. and—oh, this is funny—he says should be because the bots he served liked it vibrant. swerve, himself, extracted fun from particularly light forms of engex. something that got him talking and listening rather than blow out his optics and send him into a critical-condition-induced shutdown and recharge.
“hm… i think it’s nice to have some variation some time,” the human liaison spoke softly, setting their small hands upon the glass he had set on the counter just a few seconds prior. swerve watched, an optical ridge raising above his blue and glowing visor. variation… variation!
“huh! so! you like those kinda colors? those—uh—pastels? they’re called pastels, right?” the human nodded cracking half a smile at the bot. he hooted very quick, not loud enough to to embarrass himself nor long enough to sound like a turbo wolf. “i get the appeal,” he pressed a foredigit and opposable thumb to the bottom of his face, cradling his chin in thought while staring at the drink. “but it might just look like some diluted drink—nothing like the stuff the bots that frequent the bar like. maybe megatron might appreciate it, but i don’t see him willing to be my guinea pigatron—“
“i don’t think he needs to,” they quietly cut in, raising a feeble hand to their head with a bashful smile on their face. their fingers extended and unfolded, bloomed from their palm. swerve watched it and blinked humanly. it was beautifully done—too beautifully done. his mind had been slow to process the meaning of their next words because of it: “i could. you’ve made safe enough drinks before.”
the minibot, at first, was delighted! of course he would let them try a prototype drink! he had wanted to create something visually appealing to them as well as to his other patrons. he knew he had some ideas that needed to be aired, if not to feel comfortable owning this bar then to be comfortable within the confines of his helm and loud processor. he wanted nothing more than to have the liaison try another concoction of his—it looked like the drink could be sweet. could be savory—if they so pleased. it could be brighter, more pastel, more pinky or red! it could be light purple, but he’s sure megatron would take a liking to it rather than the liaison. he wanted that but he didn’t, you know? it was for them, truthfully. even if he sells it like the proper bartender he is, he had his favorites. he had favorites like ultra magnus, the taciturn bot that liked rather light engex and preferred it mixed with a flavor additive. the bot liked to be subtle with his drinking, with his mood, and, adorably, matched moods with his drink color. before he settled for a drink, he wasn’t a drinker at all; swerve still felt like his word would fall apart because of what happened the first time he drank. the experience and the flavor, however? this was so different from megatron who, regardless of color, always wanted stronger drinks. the engex would practically have to be a radiation risk; he mixed drinks, typically downing them in small shot glasses and a loud slam. hah! he loved the hard stuff, dangerous and volatile—much like—oh.
swerve shook his helm with a force that almost rattled his entire frame. it certainly rattled his processor. “no!” he was quick to yell before he cleared his throat. “no, no, no—this drink?” the bot’s servos hovered protectively around the drink, slowly dragged it further from the human after their attempt to reach for it. “you put even a little sip of it on your little tongue and you’re exploding like a firework on new year’s,” he quickly explained. the imagery isn’t the best, but it’s the best hi processor could create upon stressful circumstances. he had forgotten, in his thoughts and fancies, that prototypes—ones that he made, anyway—were based purely on aesthetic and appearance. nothing much could be said of the taste. the last time rodimus swiped up a prototype drink, he had been expelling the engex and his own energon stores just barely after an intake cycle. they couldn’t drink this—this pretty drink! he’d work out the flavors later. he needed to know the combination of similarly colored drinks and diluters that he could use. this? this drink he shielded? it was dangerous to anyone that wasn’t megatron.
“and! wow—and—if you were to drink this!? i’d lose my mind. it’s not safe, beyond unsafe. i only used the stuff i got for bots, not for humans. i don’t want you having some sort of allergic reaction. or death. that’s the ultimate allergic reaction. and i don’t want you dying on my watch—well,” swerve barely took a moment to ventilate before he continued. the human watched as he still spoke, twitching in an urge to gesticulate. “i just don’t want you to die—ever.” the human blinked, nodding up at swerve and his enthusiasm. he liked that about them—they listened. no matter what, they listened. even if he were yelling about his studies in metallurgy or drink combinations, they listened. it wasn’t the half-assed nod or hum that other bots would give him. everyone tolerated him up until a certain point: until he hadn’t been funny or the bartender he was supposed to be. up until he had shown interest in friendship. companionship. there were ugly sides of him, but no one had been interested long enough to truly know him. all he was was a service. though, he supposed that was his job.
“i won’t drink it, then. though, i do request that you make more drinks for me to try, swerve.” they spoke his name so delicately, softly. the hiss of the start of his name and the rough blow of the end—it suited their voice. their quiet, unassuming, and soothing voice; they hadn’t spoken before, selectively mute in practice. swerve hadn’t expected them to take to him, especially when he had led the conversations he had been in—without enjoyment. he had led conversations that weren’t supposed to be led by him. he jumped into things mouth first, ideas first, and left as if he were never there or kicked out as if he were never meant to be there. they didn’t mind he did that; they went with the flow, took him in stride, kept him in a steady pace. in return, he listened to them; their rants or thoughts that suddenly stumbled form their lips--he listened to it all. even if they had rarely blown up into rambling or gossip like he did, he entertained them. swerve listened as if the whole world hung in the balance. in truth, every word they said seemed like a life or death situation to him. if swerve didn't listen or got distracted, as this was inevitable, and needed to ask them to reiterate? there was tingling--unpleasant and made him feel like he was running on empty-- at the bottom of his fuel tank, one that didn't go away until he apologized profusely and begged with pathetic enthusiasm. conversely, if swerve managed to listen to every single word without a distract that, firstly, is a big plus to him! he could finally keep focus! secondly, he knew they felt heard; he knew what it was like to be brushed to the side. their disability had put them at a disadvantage that he couldn't--wouldn't--ignore. he couldn't imagine what kept them silent, from speaking with their beautiful voice and expressing just-as-beautiful emotions but he didn't need to attempt to surmise the worst when he saw them at their best. swerve relished in their best.
“you don’t even have to request that! i’ve been thinking of drinks for you to try. just didn’t have the recipes or the time to make ‘em. it’s a difficult night every cycle—i try on my shifts but it’s kinda tedious because… well! not that making your drink would be tedious but—“
“it’s okay. you shouldn’t distract yourself from work for me,” they cut in gently, patting a small hand against his servo before they leaned over the counter. it was much wider then them and, in leaning for swerve, they had stood on the supporting beams of their barstool. it was much smaller than the other ones, made by swerve to accommodate some of the human representatives. the boy’s initial instinct is to yelp—squeak, really—and try to silence the humming of his fans or the purring of his engine. they were casual in their touches. reassuring, mostly, exciting other times. swerve found himself leaning into their soft touches, craved them when he was alone or working particularly stressful shifts. they left that in him—on him: an indelible mark.
he appreciated it. he adored it, more than anything.
“it’s a special drink. the guys around here don’t really order much else than the regular engex. all my cocktails go to waste unless i make ‘em for you. amala doesn’t even like cocktails like you.”
“amala doesn’t like sweet things.”
“she told me that! i was surprised! you’d expect her to like sweet things, but when she asked for whiskey—not on the rocks—i gasped. it was loud, like one of the gasps you hear on tv—“
“like the gasps in spanish ones? oh, those hmm…”
“yeah! those memes. those tela no velas! it was exactly like that—“ swerve blasted off once more, talking, but they listened. again. they even cut in to chat with him, created a conversation they knew the other was enamored with.
he loved tela no velas, but maybe he had a special place in his heart for soap operas. those had continuing plots, twists and turns that swerve always expected, but executed in a way that he would never have predicted. apparently, they liked the both of them equally; they’d only seen a few and saw references to “the good ones” often but hadn’t had the time to watch. being a human liaison was a lot of work and, if they could, they’d watch a lot more on their downtime. if their downtime was days upon days and hours long, swerve added. they laughed. they laughed loud and it echoed in the bar. swerve saved the reverberations, increased the sensitivity of his receptor net just to feel the mirth of their sound. it made him shudder, force a choked (forced) giggle out of him. they didn’t notice it and, if they did, they didn’t care. what did they think about watching some when they had time in his hab suite? they loved that idea! they loved it so much they set a time and date for it. swerve was so excited he couldn’t help but bring up his holo chronochart and mark the time and day all the same! they giggled, him and the human liaison, before they continued talking about something else. swerve didn’t care what—everything came out of his mouth. the differences between technologies, the limitations of swerve and the many limitations of them, what with being solely organic and all. did they know he was a metallurgist? yeah, they did, but they still wanted to hear more.
they always wanted to hear more. maybe swerve was imagining things—he usually does—but the way they looked at him is much softer than before. the voice box in him scrambled to find a sound because he was ready toast off into another tangent riddled with jokes and a history he found interesting but never spoke to him so profoundly as his current career. all he. made was a garbled noise of static. he found warmth in their eyes, their expression; it was not harried by boredom nor was there a hint of an “he’s insufferable” thought in their head. was it possible? to meet someone so involved with his processors, the way he spoke and moved through ideas and work as if it happened in a flash? someone who encouraged him, met every idea with an interest that matched his.
maybe it was. maybe it was possible, when they took his hands as he explained the sensors in his hands. their fingers danced across the dulled red of his paint job, lingering over spots he said had those sensors. they hadn’t been used in a while, but he still appreciated the fascination in him—uh!—them. them. he was appreciative and desperate for the attention they paid, in particular, to him—them! oh… what was the point? swerved liked their attention and he was considered skilled, intelligent. he could run off at the mouth at anything but when he was focused? he sure was focused. a little. just a teensy little bit distracted by a lot of things—“some things still caught your eye—uh, optic—is what you’re saying?” they said. he nodded. led him to accidents like car crashes, injuries that kinda burned the layer of his alloy and metal down to his protoform but he was fine. completely fine. after everything. did they know that he was on earth once and, during an attack, trypticon stepped on him? they didn’t question trypticon—they wouldn’t have known about that dino. honestly, swerve is glad they didn’t know about trypticon—oh. they knew? but just didn’t remember? just as good. how’d he survive?
he didn’t know how he did, but he was certain that he was glad to be alive. swerve said he was like a groundhog—poking his head out very cautiously. but he wasn’t cautious; he let himself get trodded upon. it hurt, but it’s why he doesn’t like particularly sandy places. he’s sure he’s still got some little grainy bit inches undercarriage he hadn’t been able to clean out. maybe he rolled for a saving throw and got a high number. he liked stuff like that? they asked him with large eyes and—oh, of course he did.
quests? adventures? he loved that stuff and—“i do, too. maybe we should gather up a group. for a campaign. it could be a bar past time you hold.” what an amazing idea! they always had the brighter ones.
a trill from their phone alarmed the both of them, pulling them from their conversation. swerve quieted to let them answer.
“we need you in a meeting—sorry. i know you said you wanted to spend time with swerve.”
spend time? with him? swerve couldn’t hold back a smile. it was dopey, curling in odd areas and drooping in others. the way his visor glowed—well, he couldn’t see it, but he certainly felt it; there was a heat that surged through him. everything he had been touching was warm to the touch. usually the metal and alloy in the bar was colder than him!
they glanced at him. a tingle tickled his sensory net, sending small lines of pleasant code for his neural center and logic core to interpret into data that he could either store or trash permanently. the sensation, once quickly processed in a matter of nanokliks, was stored; he requested it to be stored despite the foolishness of it. the image of their glance—seemingly nervous or guilty—was saved into his memory core. he’d play this scene over and over on his HUD if he didn’t need to watch what he was doing. if he wasn’t careful, fast enough, the data would’ve been deleted the moment it processed. it was an affectionate reaction to them, lines of code that were pink and red instead of their usual white, green, or off-turquoise. the code had made an odd desire washing over him and left him depraved, wanting more and more until he had been full of the red code. what was red? as an emotion or feeling? love? passion?
quickly, before he lost the thought amidst the many in his processor, he made one thing apparent: they wanted to spend time with him, requested it. used their time as a way of relaxing. they were stressed, stretched beyond what was possible in the realm of elasticity. swerve had been their cure. “if you need to go, i won’t hold you back. just text me when you’re coming back,” he began, shrugging as he spoke quietly and with a dopey grin on his face.
he leaned close while they directed the phone away from their ear and mouth. “i gotta make you your drink. you gotta try it—it’ll be amazing!—and you’ll be cruisin’ on good feelings the rest of the night,” he gesticulated slowly, cooly. this is the quietest he has ever spoken when not on mission. well, did he ever speak quietly on mission? did that truly matter? “for as long as i’m here, I'll make your night right. promise you on that. everyone else is pretty much unlucky. you're my bestie so they'll just have to tough it out.” that wasn't a normal sentence. before those words came out of his mouth, he was utterly disappointed with himself. primus, he could be so... yeah. he could be disappointing. no words came to him when they were radiant in their seat.
they giggled, their cheeks flushing and odd coral that he had never seen them. the bot’s own coolant system began to fail when he had attempted to be suave and profound in his desire for their presence, but he saw them. he saw their body stutter and the heat reach so far up to their face that they turned red. he liked that. he ingrained that into his memory. the minibot and the human liaison stared and stared at each other, blinking and glowing optics matching each biological urge or reaction to the same red lines of code. they weren’t pink anymore—becoming mostly varying shades of red that began to interrupt swerve’s thought pattern. them. them.
him. him.
together. together.
staring at each other in the bar after a conversation about nothing that lasted from the beginning of their waking cycle to this abrupt request of absence.
initializing then reinitializing fans and background coolant programs.
amping fan speed, quieting the roar of his engine. his spark burned past his chamber.
“you’ll see me again—sooner rather than later.” swerve nodded, leaning closer to hear their voice. a bot had entered in the midst of their staring, swerve’s slow processes to stabilize the protoform under his frame. they had quieted every time a bot entered, started swerve’s shift. the bar had to open soon and, if swerve truly had his way and wasn’t simply a servant to all the lovely bots on the lost light, he wouldn’t hesitate to shut the bar down to spend a whole day with the liaison. they slipped from the table, down to the floor. for a moment, their complete and smooth disappearance scares swerve—irrational and infantile—but he soon heard their footsteps and saw their small body. they marched towards the exit of his bar, just about to push through the swinging doors—well, slide under them, really—until they paused. they paused and swerve watched them, close to ignoring the bot that had called for “the usual”.
they paused and swerve was content enough to ignore the bot, now. he heaved a sigh in defeat. he knew he’d have to wait.
they turned. swerve watched them turn, pause before they left him in this bar by himself for a few hours. that should be such a tiny amount of time for him. it should be so short and unagonizing and free of suffering. he doesn’t know how it could feel so spark-wrenching, but it does.
they waved. they waved with a charming, bright, and reassuring smile. their arm moved slowly, as if they hadn’t been sure that they should have done this. like it would have been a mercy to leave swerve watching, never return his wonder and awe. swerve waved back, stumbling over himself and practically knocking over the drink h had made earlier. it spilled, dropped and spread all over the counter, splattered on him in its crashing fall. he didn’t care. they looked surprised, pressed their hands to their mouth quickly, but giggled soon after. swerve saved that too. he saved everything. he saved everything and the red lines of code, image descriptions, audio transcripts. he’d remember everything about them even if it killed his processor. even if his hard drive was filled to capacity, he’d continue. it could save in his backup drive for all he cared.
“have fun at the meeting. well, they’re not so fun are they,” swerve pondered aloud as he set his arms over the spilled engex. it’s like he had never spilled it. he’d be sticky and reek of the stuff if he didn’t dry himself off soon. the bar was no worse for wear, so he didn’t worry about the table. the floor. their seat. “don’t let it chew off your ear before i can. i’ll see you later! later like, later. i’ll have this seat ready and everything. no offense, but don’t bring amala. just you—your little self here. that sounds good, yeah,” he was practically yelling, voice increasing in pitch and volume at every syllable that had rolled off his glossa or escaped through his dentae.
“i will. see you, swerve.”
he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t feel their voice vibrate against the surfaces of the seats and tables in the bar, but he knew that was what they said before they disappeared. they were gone, but he didn’t decrease the sensitivity of his receptor net; maybe they’d be back sooner than he realized, ran away from the meeting to hide in one of the bar’s cupboards, or something. he wanted that. to spend more time with them. for those words—words that were practically unheard—couldn’t be the last. he knew, with his spark and with every fiber of his frame, with every ache of his alloy and metal that seemed to cave under the weight of his adoration, that they said that. that they spoke delicately with the voice that they had used before. that he remembered. that he always remembered. that he heard in his dreams and waking moments.
the bar became dark, lonely. was it always so dim in his bar? “swerve—“
“huh?” well, the bar isn’t empty, he supposes.
“you done fantasizing about them? i wanted a pint—or two. the usual.”
swerve choked. yes, he had been thinking about them. fantasizing? might be a… stretch…—yeah, he’d get back to that later. when his processor wouldn’t actively construct a virtual bar in the corner of his HUD, imagining him dancing to the music in his bar with them. when he wouldn’t imagine them, jumping and—what is it?—boogying? it was definitely bogeying. he imagined them doing the carlton dance, from the prince of bel air. that’d be a thing of beauty to see. did they ever watch the prince of bel air? ah, well—did it matter? swerve giggled. “swerve—“
right! right, he had a bar to run.
“it’s comin’, voltage. you know, patience is a virtue. that’s what i learned from them. you should be patient enough to let a bot sit and stew with his thoughts—you’re the first customer all the time and you’re always the last to leave.” swerve quickly swiped the spilled prototype from his arm before wiping down the counter with a towel. some depraved spark might lick the floors; he’s sure that there are some bots on here that are far worse for wear than he. the minibot quickly grabbed up a washed cup from his stockpile under the counter and quickly dispensed cool engex into it. he watched it fill, attuned his processor to the hum and screeching of the dispenser while he thought. in retrospect, it was terrible to consider that he had been worse for wear at all. that he could consider himself scrapping it with the others, struggling to get up—out of the barrel and into the world. “first to come, first to leave, what does it matter? i still come. still pay,” voltage chuckled. swerve didn’t care. he nodded, but he didn’t care. he couldn’t care right now. not when there is a creeping loneliness that made the edges of his frame and metal sting. it was a sticky feeling, as if it was something he would never escape from. something about them, the human liaison, that he could never escape from.
something dark, intangible, but swerve felt like he could touch it. if he pried into it enough, maybe he’d release it, unleash it on the world to study just what, exactly, it is. why it confounded him, seemed too familiar yet so impersonal and unknown; why it prompted fear in the deepest reaches of him. the minibot knew he would never have the courage to face this feeling, this… thing. was it a concept he could understand, or was it something he knew too well?
while he pondered this, he wondered if it was useful to do so at all.
still came, still left.
still left.
there would be a day where they’d leave and he wouldn’t be able to feel their absence. they would leave without a word—or maybe it’d be snuffed out—and swerve would never forget the way his frame shuddered with the force of them. he’d never forget—cybertronians rarely did—the way they pulled themselves into the chair he had built for them and ordered a drink named after them. their smile and their every conversation would replay in the corner of his HUD whenever it pleased. if cybertronians could forget, then swerve would never let himself forget. there has to be a constant: “still came, still left”.
still came. still left.
swerve knew he would never be ready. he knew his inability to do many things and so, he simply… stopped.
still came.
still left.
swerve waited. he waited and waited. when they came back, greeted him with a charming smile and silent, passionate wave, he stopped. they returned. that was all that mattered. it was all that mattered. he stopped. and that’s all that mattered.