#driftaid

“Yeah?” Brainstorm grins and raises his leg, nearly kicking Spinister in the face, but the mech just takes it in stride. As in, he grabs Brainstorm by the ankle. “Rate me.”

“Ten,” Spinister says immediately, optics intent on the limb he's holding on to.

“Uhh, I'm pretty sure that was a question for--”

Rodimus is drowned out by people raising their voices and flailing their legs in the air and asking to be rated on a scale of one to ten--no, fifty! A hundred! Swerve yells for everybody to calm down. Noble, but a futile effort, really. People are falling out of their seats. Misfire crawls up on the table, lays on his side, and sticks a leg straight up--he's even gesturing to it much like how a sellmech would bring attention to the aesthetic of their product.

All this because First Aid said he liked legs.

“Psh,” Drift stands, pushes everybody aside. “You're all fives. This… is a ten!”

In one smooth motion, Drift brings his leg up and slams it down on the table. Crack! It buckles and crashes onto the floor, completely broken in half, and First Aid inhales his drink. Someone yanks the straw out of his intake and catches the cube before it could spill. Rodimus is yelling. People are scrambling, chairs scraping on the floor. Misfire is being helped up. Another someone pounds him on his back.

“Just keep on coughin’! That's it!”

“My table!”

“Back off, you guys, give him some room!”

First Aid feels lightheaded by the time he expelled most of the wayward engex and tries to fend off the mechs fussing over him. “I'm fine!” He rasps, “Stop hitting!”

The booming thumps stop and there's a whole new level of woozy. First Aid swallows and gasps for air.

“Sorry. You make good sounds,” Spinister says.

First Aid does not understand. “Thanks?”

“Are you okay?” Drift appears out of nowhere, shining like a knight wreathed by the brightest of suns--no, that's just the ugly neon signs behind the bar. “You were coughing pretty hard, I didn't mean to--”