Mirage:

::Bonecrusher, this is Mirage. Forgive the intrusion, but are you at home?:: *somewhat strained, /especially/ for him, not that Bonecrusher knows the ins and outs of Mirage's vocal patterns*

Bonecrusher:

:: --HUH?  OH, YEAH, 'M IN.  LIKE I GOT ANYWHERE ELSE T'GO. :: *brightens* :: Y'FIND TH' HIVE?  CAN I COME BLOW IT UP NOW? ::

Mirage:

*laughs, with the tiniest overtones of hysteria* ::I found /enough./ Shall we say. I think some of them are still in pursuit; you are /perfectly/ free to have them.::

Bonecrusher:

:: --IN PURSUIT. :: *deadpan* :: LOVELY.  YEAH, 'M IN, BUT I SUGGEST TRYIN' T'LOSE 'EM 'FORE Y'GET HERE - TH' ENERGON REFINERY'S KINDA... EXPLOSIVE AN' IT'S A MIRACLE I HAVEN'T BLOWN IT SKY HIGH YET. ::

Mirage:

::Of course. I believe I've outpaced them, fortunately, but I'll - do what I can. I should be there in ten minutes. ...Make that eight.::

Bonecrusher:

:: RIGHT - TH' DOOR'S OPEN, SO JUS' GET YER AFT DOWN HERE. ::

Mirage:

::Thank you.:: *he means that from the bottom of his spark, and it shows* ::Mirage out.::

Bonecrusher:

*Primus, Bonecrusher thinks, Autobots.*

Mirage:

*Seven minutes later, one no-longer-shiny racecar skids around the corner and practically /flies/ down the corridor towards the refinery. There doesn't seem to be any pursuit, but clearly there /used/ to be, because Mirage looks like he tried to participate in a destruction derby: spoiler torn off, covered in gouges, canopy smashed, and overall clearly somewhat... chewed-on.*

Bonecrusher:

*It's too bad for Mirage, however, because Bonecrusher isn't really a medic type, and his general perscription is a few dozen cubes of energon, to take away the pain.  Then again, energon is energon, and at least he wasn't lying about the door being unlocked - though the racecar can safely assume there is going to be some questioning towards the chewmarks all over him.*

Mirage:

*As long as Bonecrusher is present, armed, and has enough energon to hopefully ensure that Mirage no longer remembers precisely what happened, then Mirage can wait for repairs. Mirage abuses his brakes terribly and skids to a stop, leaving a long trail of rubber behind him. It's a sign of his somewhat poor mental state that he only knocks once to announce himself (and avoid being shot in the face) before letting himself in, limping from the lack of his spoiler.*

Bonecrusher:

*This is Bonecrusher.  He has enough energon to knock himself out every night, after all.  Said Decepticon turns toward the door, takes one look at Mirage, then tugs a chair over, sliding it in front of him*  SIT YER AFT DOWN, AUTOBOT.  HOW MANY CUBES Y'GONNA NEED?  *He even locks and doublechecks the door - hey, he's got a healthy sense of paranoia towards those drones, after all.*

Mirage:

*Mirage obeys with uncharacteristic gratitude, wincing as he takes weight off his half-missing feet* I apologize for the intrusion; it's very kind of you to offer. Fifteen, I believe, would be a good starting point. *Someone is /quite/ rattled, watching the trembling of his own hands distantly.*

Bonecrusher:

*He eyes the other briefly, face clearly showing how he doesn't particularly believe the other can handle fifteen  - but hey, Mirage is the guest here.  So he gathers up some cubes, moving to drop them on the desk near the chair*  'S NO PROBLEM, NOT LIKE 'M GONNA TELL YA T'COME BACK LATER OR SOMETHIN'.  *Pauses, then-* WHAT TH' SLAG  DID Y'DO?

Mirage:

*Mirage gives him a look that just as clearly indicates that if he passes out before he gets there, that is /just/ fine with him. That doesn't stop him from nodding his thanks and picking up a cube, though.* '...was seen,' is the short version. The long version... I believe that the expedition went markedly downhill approximately when the first drone exploded. *He follows /that/ one up with a long pull at his drink.*

Bonecrusher:

FIRST ONE, HUH?  *He decides this is probably the best time for him to get his own drink, grabbing up a cube and taking a swig*  SO, WHAT.  Y'PISSED OFF TH' QUEEN OR WHATEVER AN' GOT USED AS A CHEW TOY?  YER PROBABLY GONNA WANNA GET THAT CHECKED OUT, BY TH' WAY.  *Waves a hand at the general vincinity of "Mirage"*

Mirage:

Oh, I certainly don't think I found the /leader./ I merely found... sufficient numbers of them. In sufficient sizes. *Mirage's hands shake enough that the energon visibly ripples, before he quells the tremors by taking another drink. Or two.* They seem to be staying in the maintenance shafts and so forth, towards the center of the ship.

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher eyes the other for a moment longer, taking another gulp and moving to sit on his berth.*  AN' HOW BIG, EXACTLY, IS SUFFICIENT SIZE?  'COS TH' ONES THAT I SEE 'ROUND TH' REFINERY BARELY GET TOO BIG.

Mirage:

Oh, approximately the size of a Seeker... /That/ one, at least, is dead, though I doubt it was the only one of that size. I found evidence otherwise. *Mirage punctuates this with a humorless smile and another long drink.*

Bonecrusher:

*He stares flatly at his cube as his processors come up with a pretty grotesque rendition of what a weevil the size of a seeker would look like, and then-*  PRIMUS, I HATE  INSECTICONS.

Mirage:

*And there was Mirage, livin' the nightmare. He raises his cube, and says with conviction,* I will drink to /that./

Bonecrusher:

*Tilts his cube at Mirage with a vaguely unamused smirk on his face*  RIGHT THEN.  *Taking a swig, he looks the other over once more, and adds*  I DON'T HAVE MUCH MEDICAL EXPERTISE, BUT I GOTTA KIT LYIN' 'ROUND HERE IF Y'WANT T'TRY AN' FIX YERSELF UP A BIT.  *Dryly*  I DON'T SUPPOSE Y'LIKE LOOKIN' LIKE THAT.

Mirage:

*Mirage takes the time to drain the cube - however rude it may be - before setting it on the table and giving Bonecrusher a somewhat unusual look combining both mild exasperation and gratitude.* I can't say as it's my favorite look, no. *He swings a leg up and looks at his mangled foot.* Though I don't intend on going to retrieve my spoiler anytime soon. Ah, well.

Bonecrusher:

*He's already digging around a discarded pile of cubes - stepping over one that's currently housing a ball of fluff - and pulls up a first aid kit.  He drops it onto the table, next to the cubes, then takes another drink*  DO Y'HAVE ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE?  'COS I DOUBT YER GETTIN' TH' ORIGINAL BACK IN ONE PIECE... MOSTLY 'COS 'M PLANNIN' ON BLOWIN' MOST EVERYTHIN' IN DRONE RANGE UP.

Mirage:

The medbay should be able to synthesize one; I'm not sure I'd /want/ it back after they were done with it. *It's said flippantly, but rest assured, Mirage means /every/ word. He picks up the first aid kit and takes out some flexsteel to patch the worst of it only to grimace at his own hands, shaking badly enough that he can't apply the stuff evenly.* ...Blast.

Bonecrusher:

THEY REALLY DID A NUMBER ON YA, DIDN'T THEY?  *And he isn't just talking physically, at this point, downing the rest of his drink and tossing the cube aside.  He moves to stand over the sitting Autobot, shaking his head*  HERE, GIMME THAT.  Y'MIGHT NOT WIN ANY CAR SHOWS, BUT Y'PROBABLY SHOULD BE MORE WORRIED 'BOUT GETTIN' LIQUORED UP, FIRST.

Mirage:

I'd thought it a better idea to handle this while I still had the dexterity, but clearly I was mistaken. *Mirage's voice is somehow still composed, even dry, as he hands up the first aid kit without protest and obediently gets another cube. It's just his luck that it's one of Bonecrusher's moonshine cubes. It's that kind of day. To his credit, though, he doesn't choke on it.*

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher chuckles as the other takes the moonshine without choking, spitting, or dying (always a good thing), he settles himself to work on doing the best patch job he can, considering the fact that he's got claws instead of fingers.  Still, it'll probably  do until Mirage gets himself to a real medic.*  'S EASIER IF Y'JUST GET DRUNK.  NEVER GOES WRONG, IN MY OPINION.  LEAVE TH' PAINFUL AN' PAINT-SCARRIN' WOUNDS T'OTHER PEOPLE.

Mirage:

*Mirage has to clear his intakes several times before he can actually speak, rather than sputter or rasp or make otherwise-undignified sounds, but he does this with only a moderately glassy-opticed look.* I am beginning to concur. *He dares, even, another try at the moonshine - it's either fear, courage, or the desire to get completely smashed that drives him.*

Bonecrusher:

*Mirage is already looking plenty smashed, in Bonecrusher's opinion, but really, the moonshine should ease all his cares away.  You know, if it doesn't kill him first.*  STILL - WHAT TH' SLAG WERE Y'DOIN'?  Y'COULDA CALLED FER BACKUP.  PROBABLY SHOULDA, IF THESE - *Taps a claw against a gouge that  looks kind of like teeth marks* - ARE ANY INDICATION.

Mirage:

*If Mirage is still putting together coherent sentences, then he's too sober for his tastes. The moonshine hasn't killed him, though, so soon it will do the trick. The way he's trying to drink it - little drinks, but a lot of them - seem to indicate that either that or death will be in his future.* ...backup's an interesting concept, isn't it? There just didn't seem to be an opportune moment...

Bonecrusher:

TH' OPPORTUNE MOMENT'S WHEN LIL' BOMBSHELLS START GNAWIN' ON YA.  *He moves back after a few more minutes, shrugging a bit at the (kind of shabby) repair job he's done*  EH, 'S NOT EXACTLY DUCT TAPE, BUT YOU'LL HOLD T'GETHER.  *He pushes himself up and goes to grab another cube*  LET THAT STUFF SET FOR A FEW.  IF Y'WANT, I GOTTA WASHRACK Y'CAN USE, AFTER THAT.  *Motions towards the door to said place*

Mirage:

Thank you. I 'preciate it. *That would be the energon kicking in, not soon enough for Mirage's liking.* And I was occ'pied. Trying to get them to stop. *That is not one of Mirage's best attempts at sounding dignified, but with a third of a cube of moonshine in him, he's not doing that bad.*

Bonecrusher:

GENERALLY, SCREAMIN' "HELP, HELP" WITH SOME COORDINATES IN AN OPEN COMM WORKS WONDERS.  *He says it dryly, mildly appreciative of the other's efforts to get wasted - been there, done that, after all.  He starts working on his new cube with ease, going back to sit on his berth*  AN' FEEL FREE T'STAY AS LONG AS Y'NEED T'GET YER BEARINGS BACK - OR, BY TH' LOOKS OF THINGS, LOSE ALL BEARIN' WHATSOEVER.

Mirage:

I think they're the same thing in this case. *This observation appears to make sense to Mirage. It's good that it makes sense to someone.* Anyway, callin' for help wouldn't have. Helped, that is.

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher, being a drunkard by nature, figures he knows what the other's talking about regarding bearings, and so he works on getting more towards Mirage's current inebriation level.*  AN' WHY WOULDN'T IT HAVE HELPED?  SLAGGIT, 'M ALWAYS READY T'BLOW UP ANYTHIN' THAT LOOKS LIKE THAT BASTARD BOLL WEEVIL.

Mirage:

And my memory'd've thanked you for it, but it wouldn't have helped /me./ *Mirage elaborates, gesturing. It doesn't stop him continuing to work through the moonshine, though.* 'Cause they had me surrounded. Twice. ...I don't think the third one counts. Anyway, it wasn't a terribly large maintenance shaft, and there were twenty-five I could /see./ M-more underneath the floor and ceiling panels... *That prompts a - no, there's no other word for it than 'swig,' the edge of the cube briefly chattering against his dental plates.*

Bonecrusher:

*He frowns slightly at that, going for what is probably his fifth cube for the night, really, optics regarding the Autobot.*  YOU OKAY THERE, MIRAGE?

Mirage:

...yes, thank you. *That's an automatic answer if ever Bonecrusher heard one. It's a complete lie, as Mirage is now holding the cube of moonshine with both hands for security's sake. About three more drinks and his hands stop shaking again.*

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher watches the Autobot drink with an almost clinical expression on his face - as clinical as a big, drunken Decepticon can look.*  ....Y'SURE?

Mirage:

Of course. *Mirage eyes the cube. Possibly it would be better to keep both hands on it in any case. That, or drain it... Ah-ha: a solution. He shall do both.* Why wouldn' I be sure?

Bonecrusher:

*He puts his drink in his lap, levelly watching Mirage, not even bothering to pretend that the Autobot had given him such an obviously fake answer.*  FER ONE, Y'LOOK LIKE YOU JUST LOCKED OPTICS TO TH' PIT.  AN' YER DRINKIN' AWFUL HARD FER A SMALLER 'BOT.  *He picks up his drink, takes a swig, and adds,*  YER ALLOWED T'TALK T'ME, Y'KNOW.

Mirage:

'm aware. I 'preciate it. Not anything to talk 'bout, though. It's self... ...self-evident. Nobody wants to see thir'y Bombshells after their spoiler. *Mirage inspects the empty cube in his hands intently; he can keep it steady, but only because he's still holding on to it with both hands.* S' an in'eresting mix. Not really refined a' all, is't...

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher chuckles, going for a new drink even before he finishes the one in hand*  YER IN TH' BOWELS OF TH' NEMESIS, BEATEN UP BY A BUNCHA BUGS, DRINKIN' MY  ENERGON.  'S ABOUT AS UNREFINED AS Y'CAN GET.  STILL.... I HAD ONE POP IN MY CHEST, AN' I DIDN'T SPARE SO MUCH ATTENTION T'MY CUBE.

Mirage:

...huh? Oh. 'S better than the alternative, though, i'n it? *Mirage finally relinquishes the empty moonshine cube, sorting with drunken carefulness through the others on the table before coming up with another one. Yes, he's /actively/ looking for another cube of moonshine. Were he sober, he would doubtless be horrified at himself, but in this case, it's medicinal.*

Bonecrusher:

WHAT ALTERNATIVE, 'BOT?  'S NOT LIKE YER DOIN' MUCH.  *Bonecrusher would probably be more pleased over the reception of his moonshine if he knew just how posh Mirage usually is, but he's glad that his perscription has, once again, worked wonders for someone injured*

Mirage:

Thinkin' about all the Bombshell clones ou'side. *Mirage's fingers squeeze his new cube tight, and he takes a deep drink to steady himself after nodding towards the door.*

Bonecrusher:

WELL.  *Shrugging his shoulders, he takes a gulp of his cube, feeling rather relaxed considering the fact that the drones don't sit well with him.*  Y'DON'T GOTTA WORRY 'BOUT THEM - CAN'T GET INTO HERE.  AN' EVEN IF THEY COULD, I CAN HOLD 'EM OFF LONG ENOUGH T'GET A DECENT GROUP OF RESCUERS T'GETHER.  SO RELAX.

Mirage:

/Am/ relaxed. More th'n I've been in /weeks./ 'm drinking, aren' I? *Mirage illustrates this by taking another drink of his new cube of moonshine: it really isn't that bad once it's burned out one's taste receptors.* No' pacin' or tryin' to listen for 'em or anythin'. I am /incre'bly/ relaxed righ' now.

Bonecrusher:

*...This is relaxed?*  WELL, 'S BETTER YER SITTIN' AROUND, IN EITHER CASE.  Y'START PACIN' AN' I'LL HAVE T'HIT YA UNTIL YA STOP.  PACIN' JUST MAKES EVERYTHIN' WORSE.

Mirage:

*Comparatively? Yes. Yes, it is. Mirage snickers as if Bonecrusher has said something particularly funny, and points at his half-missing feet.* 'Specially righ' now. 'M goin' to miss that spoiler. It was good feet.

Bonecrusher:

*He shakes his head.  Really, if he were anyone else, he might tell Mirage to slow down, but hey, if he blacks out, at least then he won't look a tinge panicky.*  THAT MUST BE ONE AWKWARD TRANSFORMATION.  SERIOUSLY, YER SPOILER  IS YER FEET.  'S KINDA WEIRD.

Mirage:

Makes perfec' sense, though. S'all about the mass. And. Where it goes. And not havin' much of it to go 'round. *Mirage is not, apparently, too drunk to defend his transformation sequence. And perhaps if he drinks enough to black out, he'll be able to recharge! That would be, at this point, a bonus.*

Bonecrusher:

I SUPPOSE.  I MEAN, Y'GOTTA WORK WITH WHAT Y'GOT.  COULD BE WORSE.  *He knows the art of conversation-changes, by the way, Mirage, so he sees you not answering his question.  He's just going to be nice for now and not press the issue.*

Mirage:

Could be /much/ worse. Had a slaggin' /Toyota Aygo/ for an alt-mode for a little while. Should've known I was being repra - reprogrammed just from /that./ Horr'ble v'hicle. *Mirage makes a disgusted face, /considerably/ more free with his expressions when drunk, and drowns the memory in a drink.*

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher looks at Mirage flatly, draining the last dregs of his cube.*  Y'DO REALIZE YER TALKIN' TO ME, RIGHT?  I KINDA GO FER FUNCTION OVER FORM.

Mirage:

The Aygo had neither, I 'ssure you. *How Mirage can manage a 'dry' tone of voice with how much and how hard he's drinking is a minor miracle.*

Bonecrusher:

BUT, DID IT HAVE TH' AWKWARD SPOILER FEET, IS MY QUESTION.  *He's already going for another cube, moving around the fluff filled one and aiming for something with a bit more... kick.*

Mirage:

*Mirage takes a moment to gather his memory and try to remember what sort of feet it had. The answer is probably not to be found in the cube of moonshine, but he checks there just in case.* The Aygo didn' have enough of a spoiler for that. Anyway, 's not awkward - comes in handy. Means you leave less of a footprin' and lets you keep track of y'r footing. Sensors. *Mirage stares dolefully into his drink for a second before taking another drink.* It was good sensors.

Bonecrusher:

*Mirage looks pretty down about the whole thing in general, especially this spoiler bit - well, as far as Bonecrusher can tell.*  Y'SAID SO YERSELF: TH' MEDBAY CAN MAKE YOU ANOTHER.  IT'LL BE FINE.  *He tosses in a shrug for emphasis, throwing back some moonshine-grade energon with barely even an optic flicker.*

Mirage:

*Mirage brightens a little.* That's true. And it had to b' done, so. *He washes down that declaration with another drink.*

Bonecrusher:

I JUS' WISH I KNEW WHAT TH' SLAG BOMBSHELL WAS THINKIN', MAKIN' ALL THESE DRONES AN' THEN JUS' RUNNIN' OFF AN' LEAVIN' 'EM T'GROW.  *Then again, is anyone supposed to understand what that crazy slagger thinks?*

Mirage:

Maybe they got out've hand. They're bigger than n- normal. *Mirage makes the observation and reinforces it with a firmer grip on his cube. Seeing that it will be easier to hold and might betray his hands less if he takes another drink, Mirage does so.*

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher barely even looks at Mirage, feigning casual when his curiosity is getting the better of him.*  YOU'VE SEEN THESE THINGS NORMAL-SIZED, THEN, I TAKE IT?  BOMBSHELL DOESN'T SEEM LIKE TH' KIND T'SHOW HIS LIL' CREATIONS OFF TO JUST ANYBODY.

Mirage:

Not the 'xperimental models, anyway... Standard ones're about two thirds the size've the Insecticon th't made them... *Mirage answers this in what's best described as a 'horrified mumble' down into his drink. Apparently moonshine dulls the trauma, though, or at least he's drinking as if it does.*

Bonecrusher:

........ *Bonecrusher never really interacted with the Insecticons before Earth, so it's not as though he has much personality to work off of, but he knows reputations well enough.*  BAD TIMES, 'M TAKIN' IT.

Mirage:

Worst vorn've my life. *In vino veritas, the saying goes, though Mirage probably could have been cajoled into admitting that one sober. He makes a valiant attempt to drain the cube of moonshine in one long pull, and to his credit /almost/ succeeds.*

Bonecrusher:

*The attempt looks less like a bold move to Bonecrusher and more like an attempt to kill himself, but the Decepticon refrains from directly saying anything.*  MAYBE Y'SHOULD SLOW DOWN A BIT.  Y'DON'T STRIKE ME AS A HEAVY DRINKER.

Mirage:

*It's either one or the other. Might be hard to tell the difference at this point.* Not nor'mly. 'S a special 'casion.

Bonecrusher:

YEAH, WEEVIL BABIES TEND T'BE CONSIDERED "SPECIAL."  I DUNNO IF THEY'RE WORTH KILLIN' YERSELF OVER THOUGH, MIRAGE.

Mirage:

*Mirage blinks.* /Kill/ mys'lf? No... 'd've done that vorns ago. 'm just going to drink 'til I c'nt reme - rem... /remember/ what h'ppend.

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher shrugs and works on draining another cube, still watching Mirage.*  HEH, 'M ASSUMIN' ME TRYIN' TALKIN' 'BOUT IT PROBABLY AIN'T HELPIN'.  FEEL FREE T'CHANGE TH' CONVERSATION, IN THAT CASE.  'M NOT EXACTLY GOOD AT TH' WHOLE... "SMALL TALK" THING.

Mirage:

S'not much to talk about, is there? 'It was horr'ble and I c'n't stan' weev'ls or recharge much anymore' isn' much conv - /con-ver-sa-tion./ 'S whining. 'S not p'lite. *Mirage nods firmly to punctuate this.*

Bonecrusher:

*The Decepticon looks levelly at the Autobot, lowering his cube from mid-swig.*  POLITE.  DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHO YER TALKIN' TO, 'BOT?  SERIOUSLY.

Mirage:

S'still whining. Don' like whining. *The Autobot seems to be paying more attention to his cube of moonshine than the Decepticon in the room, fascinated by the color and not inclined to meet anyone's gaze with even that much of an admission.*

Bonecrusher:

*Bonecrusher shrugs again, clearly unimpressed with the avoidance coming from Mirage.*  IT AIN'T WHININ' IF 'M DIRECTLY ASKIN' YA T'TALK ABOUT IT.  AIN'T GONNA EXACTLY FORCE YA TO, BUT YER NOT WHININ' SO FAR AS I'M CONCERNED.

Mirage:

S'not much to /tell./ It was horr'ble, degradin', and 'parently Bombshell /pasted a slagging sign to my back/ sayin' I was free for reprogramming any time to anyone! And /now/ I c'n't slagging step into my own /quarters/ or slagging recharge f'r more than /fifteen breems/ by mys'lf! *Mirage perhaps lifts his voice a trifle more than he would have otherwise done if he were sober, but if he were sober, he never would have said /any/ of that, so the moonshine has done its work.*

Bonecrusher:

*Running a few rough calculations and estimates through his processors, Bonecrusher takes a sip from his cube and regards Mirage in mild curiosity.*  WHEN'S TH' LAST TIME Y'EVEN RECHARGED?

Mirage:

*Mirage settles back, calming down again as his somewhat... temporarily handicapped processor runs the query through his memory banks.* Three days ago. B'hind the common room couch so's nobody would trip over me. 'd be embarassing. *And more importantly, it would indicate that there was a problem, but Mirage is somehow past that admission right now.*

Bonecrusher:

.....MIRAGE, Y'NEEDA GET REST A LIL' MORE OFTEN THAN THAT.  AN' IN TH' COMMON ROOM - PRIMUS.  *He shoves himself off of the berth and crosses his arms, looking at the Autobot in mild exasperation, tilting his head at the berth itself after a moment.*  GET SOME REST.

Mirage:

Common room's a terr'ble place. ...really? *Bonecrusher's offer takes a few seconds to sink in, but when it does, Mirage's face lights up. The blatancy of the expression is definitely from the drunkenness, but the gratitude is real enough.* /Thank/ you. *Very carefully setting down the cube of moonshine, Mirage gets up. He winces once or twice, and staggers /far/ more than that, using the table for balance as much as he can, but sets out for the berth with determination.*

Bonecrusher:

*Fairly surprised the other hadn't given him more of a fight against the idea, he moves forward to put a hand on Mirage's arm, steadying him and helping him towards the berth, going so far as to push him back onto it, though not particularly roughly.*  'M EITHER GONNA BE IN HERE OR RIGHT OUTSIDE, TAKIN' POTSHOTS AT DRONES.  YOU SLAGGIN' AUTOBOTS CAN'T TAKE CARE OF YERSELVES...  *Nevermind who's talking!*

Mirage:

*Mirage most definitely would have if he weren't drunk and actually relaxed enough /to/ recharge for the first time in weeks. However, under the circumstances... Well. He curls up on the berth without protest, optics flickering slowly as he tries to keep them and the rest of his systems onlined against the pull of recharge on a horizontal surface. * C'n take c'r m'slf jus' /fine.../ *That's a complete lie, because he's out like a light not three seconds after he says so.*