Swerve's had a long, tiring day. Despite just having to manage to the drunkards and fix up, hand out, and clean drinks for a majority of his work—it still got tiring, especially with complaining customers. Yet he kept a friendly, giddy smile on his face, trying to look on the better side of things.

As he served some Engex to a 'bot, his fingers clasped around the Cybertronian currency laid out on the countertop from them. He quickly counted the bill, before slipping it into a register beside an old ice machine he had yet to replace.

With a sigh, he turns back around—a rag now folded in his servos as he prepared to clean the rest of the counter off. It was ridden with smudges and stains from high-grade residue, but he was met with the barrel of blaster.

A flash of terror washed over Swerve's visor, and it dimmed.

You stood there, demanding currency with a loud, intimidating tone. No one seemed to be around anymore—and so, as a desperate, panicked sigh slipped from his lips, he nodded and frantically dug through the register from earlier.