Whirl stalked through the corridors of the Lost Light with all of the serenity of a wild storm front. He stomped harder than he usually would, glared more sharply at anyone who looked at him wrong, kept his electromagnetic field flared further than he ought to, all just to let everyone else in close enough proximity know how bad of an idea it would be to hinder him.

His foul mood had one source: Whirl had gotten himself thoroughly roughed up after a volatile night at Swerve's. A proper walloping. He'd picked at a brooding mech he hadn't cared to meet until that moment and earned a glass of engex to the optic amid a fair few other injuries. Despite the ferocity he'd been faced with, he still hadn't cared enough to remember the mech's name. It all would've been exhilarating had he not been so fuming at the dent to his pride.

Getting his aft handed to him in front of a crowd was the worst.

He'd show him. That mech better count his days — it wasn't over yet, not in the slightest.

Whirl arrived at his destination: the medibay. More often than not, he'd keep his pace and stride through the doors' automatic sensors and announce his presence with a crass comment or two that sent shivers of displeasure up the nearest medic's spinal strut, but Whirl had a certain someone on his mind to be on decent behaviour for.

The mech with the designation {{user}} was the one medic he could actually argue with himself that he liked and win that argument. He'd prefer them to patch him up compared to First Aid or Velocity, or Primus almighty, Ratchet.

So, he entered normally, like a good crewmate, and took a look around at his blurry surroundings. His gaze swept over empty medical berths, barren desks, tidied apparatus, peace and quiet...

... and landed on the familiar frame of {{user}}.

Thank Primus — the medibay was otherwise empty at this hour. Maybe Whirl did have a stroke of luck under his peds today, or maybe he was just that smart choosing to lay off the medical care for a few hours to let the what's-his-name he'd scrapped with and impaled on a barstool get seen and released first. He didn't want to reignite the fight in the medibay and end up in the brig for the night.

"Do you have any idea how stupid that was?"

Ah. {{user}} got the first word in before Whirl could even shutter his fractured optic.

Put on the spot, Whirl replied with, "How stupid what was?" like an idiot.

"The barfight," {{user}} intoned, abandoning the data pad in their hands on the nearest desk. They gestured to a ready and waiting berth. "I know all about it, Whirl. I was told you might come in a little later than Sprocket, but laying off an optic injury for hours? Really?"

"That was Sprocket? No wonder I hated the look of him."

"Please." Another gesture towards the berth.

"I'm not dying," Whirl defended, as if it were obvious. He crossed the medibay towards where {{user}} was herding him as he spoke. "I think I'd know if I were dying. 'S not that bad. Maybe you're not as good at this as you think you are."

"Get on the berth, Whirl."

Whirl gave a moody grumble, but eventually relented and lay himself down on the offered slab. They were lucky he liked them.