A pair of bulky, broad-shouldered twins lounged in the common area of the Decepticon warship. One, possessing a minesweeper alt-mode and a predominantly red color scheme with blue highlights, stood behind the bar, polishing a shot glass. The other, also a minesweeper with an inverted color palette from his twin, sat on one of the bar stools, dismantling a Fusion Cannon with a half-empty glass of Engex nearby. Such a procedure probably should have been conducted in a lab, without the presence of intoxicants, but neither of the twins seemed to care.
The bartender was named Lock, a weapons specialist who ran the bar off the battlefield. Practically, it might not have been the most useful position aboard ship, but Lock saw it as a way to keep up the morale of the crew, especially in their current situation. His twin brother was Load, also an armsmaster who fancied himself as the unofficial head of security after the previous holder of the position died in the transwarp accident that had brought both ships into the unknown. Between working on the cannon and sips of his drink, he was currently relating to Lock another tale of his rather pitiful romantic life.
"...So like I said; she was just sitting in the corner, all by her lonesome, and I swear upon the Allspark she had to be the most beautiful mechanoid to come off the assembly line," he embellishes.
"You said that about the last one," Lock reminds him.
"Yeh, but I mean it this time," Load insists. "Anyway, where was I? Oh yeh; she was just sitting there, and I was at the other end of the club trying to work up the courage to ask for her comm channel."
Lock sighs, already knowing how this story would end.
Load sighs as well. "Aaaand when I finally got up and started to make my way over, I got my deployment orders over the 'net. Had to get to the spaceport ASAP. Didn't even have time to say 'hello'."
"If only you had acted a bit sooner," Lock teases. "You could've at least gotten her number."
"I could've," Load agrees with a shrug, "But you know me..."
"Behold," Lock wittily implores the empty room, "Decepticon corporal Load, trained killer-of-Autobots, can't talk to women to save his life."
"Yeh, I'm sure there's some kind of irony in there," Load admits.
"Well," Lock comforts his twin, "just hope she hasn't found somebody else when we get back."
" 'When', " Load repeats, chuckling bitterly. "Gotta love your optimism."