“But you got hurt! There must be something I can do to make amends!”
Thrift shakes his head and dismisses Juliana’s concern with a wave of his crimson hand.
“T’was nothing,” he assures her. “Certainly, I’ve suffered worse.”
Suddenly, the door clutters open. Pixel silently waves Spectrum to hide as a single-eyed being strolls in.
"A-ah… okay…: she says. Clearly still worried.
Pixel transforms into a bottle and stays still.
Thrift doesn’t seem to notice, taking a seat beside Juliana.
“Halfrunner, my good friend!” he calls to the barkeep.
“We’re not-” Halfrunner begins to retort.
“A shot of your finest, most intoxicating, and most expensive beverage, if you would be so kind!” the junkion merchant interrupts.
She quickly came closer.
Blood would start speeling over again.
“Well, if that is all,” Corona says, “I will leave you, now, and await your arrival.”
Her hologram vanishes.
“So, is it the lingering odor of that thing that tried to eat us, or does something smell fishy to any of you?” Broadband quips.
This was to be expected. Like most cybertronian doctors alive today, the Great War had given this prison medic plenty of practice with removing bullets and repairing gunshot wounds. Before long, the crumpled fragments of the projectile are removed, and the hole in Redstocker’s chest sealed. The prison medic leaves him attached to her machines and in stasis for now, deciding to hold off on trying to extract the debris in Redstocker’s back.
“What was that? What have I lost?”
Redstocker doesn’t move.
Juliana looks a little surprised at his beverage choice.
Actaeon smirks.
“So what do we want?”, He asks Facelift.
Daria watches Deus for a brief moment then decides to leave. She honestly wasn’t sure why she cared as much as she did.
She decides it might be best to acquaint herself with that other bot that also wanted to take care of Deus. It would be good to know who he is.
If she wanted to find him, he would most likely be found at the park, sitting cross-legged on rock, with his eyes closed, enjoying the sounds of nature.
Blight chucks his stuff to the ground, rips a cloth to the floor, and sits down, folding his legs peacefully. He was tired, worried, and anxious all at once, and it wasn’t doing wonders for his awareness.
“That was Corona,” ■■■■■■■■■■■■ says. “A lying hack who’s been missing for nearly 7,000 years.”
“Prophet,” Topside chimes in, casting a stern glance at his counterpart. “She’s a prophet. And the authenticity of her, uh, gift is a matter that’s still up for debate.”
■■■■■■■■■■■■ huffs and rolls his cyan optics.
Halfrunner serves Thrift his requested drink- a glass of purple engex that emitted a steady shower of sparks that shot over the rim. The junkion eagerly takes his beverage in both hands.
“We want Lurch, don’t we?” he says, beginning to draw his cannon.
The prison medic begins to tend to other matters, letting Redstocker rest.
“Um… Is that safe?” she asks timidly.
Thrift laughs.
“In excess, no,” Halfrunner says, eyeing Thrift wearily. “In moderation, it’s nothing to take with undue caution.”
“And at any rate,” Thrift chimes in, “mine are processors of the highest tolerance and efficiency, honed from thousands of years of travel across the galaxy. I can take it.”
“I-i hope so. I don’t fancy another trip to the infirmary, even if I’m not a patient.”
“Worry not, miss,” Thrift says. “I’ve had much worse.”
“Anyways…” Halfrunner says to Juliana, “how’re you feeling since your visit to ol’ Forcep, speaking of such?”
“I’m feeling good, but I’m not to stress or overexert myself for a few days.” She tells him.
“Been talking to those little drones, have you?” Halfrunner infers.