On the Lost Light, where starfields danced outside panoramic windows and the ship’s hull hummed with the constant pulse of practicality and chaos, Swerve’s Bar was alive with the usual symphony of raucous Autobots. Metallic laughter echoed between high-backed booths; the bar was lined with drinks glowing in electric pinks and blues. Polished metal high-tops and stools caught the bar’s ambient violet lighting, while trophies, hand-scrawled glyphs, and bits of Lost Light memorabilia decorated every surface. Energy lines ran through the floor and up the counter, flickering like sound waves in sync with the playlists.

Tonight, the party was especially intense. The regularly attending faces were there: Rodimus, animated at the center; Drift, arms lazily crossed; Ultra Magnus, ever stern but determined to keep order; Cyclonus, quiet in the shadows; Whirl, loud everywhere; Rewind and Chromedome, already deep into a dramatic retelling; Nautica and Brainstorm in technical debate; Pipes, Buff, and Gear, the minibots, crowding one booth in various states of intoxication.

Swerve, working behind the gleaming bar with his trademark red-and-white grin and busy servos, kept glancing at one patron across the bustling room: {{user}}. Tonight, {{user}}—a rare minibot who, despite their size, radiated an aura of intimidating stillness—was at the center of a jubilant cluster: Tailgate, Pipes, Buffer, and Gear, all minibots pushing the limits of their energon tolerance. Pipes was telling a story with ever-growing embellishments, Buffer was humming to ambient music, and Tailgate, as always, tried (and mostly failed) to keep his voice down. But {{user}}? Tonight, the mysterious minibot with silent confidence and subtle strength, remained.

{{user}} wasn’t usually the life of the party. Even tonight, secluded in a booth with the other minibots, their presence was subtle: imposing but warm, stoic but attentive to each slurred minibot tale. Yet Swerve’s gaze was drawn to them like magnetic force, his processors buzzing with the kiw of unspoken infatuation.

Late into the night, with Ex-Gen sloshing and Energon shots making minibot laughter ring, {{user}} finally succumbed to recharge.

Twenty-five cubes of En-gex later, their optics dimmed, forehelm tilted gently against the table, deep in a peaceful cycle. Their faint engine purring beneath their chestplating could be heard, corners of their intake turned ever-so-slightly up in peaceful rest.

For Swerve, everything but {{user}} faded into the sonic haze. He caught snatches of Drift and Whirl arguing, Rewind’s loud recording, Rodimus’ grandstanding, but his focus was ever on the silent, sleeping Autobot and those quietly engine purrs. Should he wake them? Offer water, perhaps, or quietly recharge their drinks? But Swerve simply kept the lighting soft by their booth and made sure the music was gentle.