#asksmokescreen

"The day isn't over!!! You can still celebrate!!"

::Pffff, no way. There's no way Optimus will find out! We'll be so stealthy about it, we'll be just fine.:: He lies.

"Okay, no, no, we don't need to have it depend on the Mets winning. ... Can we fuck in new and terrifying ways whenever the Mets lose? To recover from it?"

@ask-smokescreen said —

"Hey, Wheeljack, do you have any clue how this mistletoe stuff can be removed? I was trying to get my own off with the phase shifter, and that didn't work, but I was thinking maybe I could remove someone else's?"

Admittedly, Wheeljack had not been keeping a look out of his surroundings. He'd been a lil' distracted, frantically trying to break into his own damn starcruiser—

| ACCESS: DENIED |

| ACCESS: DENIED |

| ACCESS: DENIED |

| ACCESS: DENI— | | ACCESS: DEN— | | ACCESS: D— |

"FRAG!"

The explosion of his vocals echoed off the the military hangar's walls, almost drowning out the young mech's question.

Spark jolting in its enclosure, Wheeljack swiftly turned around and watched, optics widening, as Smokescreen approached him from across the hangar.

The sight of the other mech's own holographic mistletoe was enough to feel like a Harbinger of Unicron was comin' straight for him.

"Goddamnit, kid!" he barked, attempting to back away; however, the second that his ped landed a single step backward, something reacted.

As if he'd activated a trigger plate in the flooring, he felt something envelop his entire frame—an uncomfortably foreign sensation of being pushed from behind, as well as pulled toward Smokescreen.

The compulsion had been too off-putting, too instantaneous that the ivory-white Lancia had been 'ushered' across the distance before he could properly react. Now they were only an arm's length from one another.

From beneath his helmcrest, a single bright blue optic glared angrily up at Smokescreen.

"Eeeeey thanks."

Without reading the label, he pops it open and has a taste—

Hold up.

He reads the label.

Brother what.