The Lost Light had seen its fair share of chaos, but tonight, the crew had decided to try something new—an actual celebration. A chance to unwind, laugh, and pretend, just for a little while, that their journey wasn’t always one disaster after another.

The main hall was dimly lit with neon string lights someone had scavenged, music hummed through the speakers, and bots gathered in clusters, drinks in hand, trading stories and banter. You, ever the calm and collected presence among the crew, sat off to the side, sipping a harmless energex mix, observing the madness unfold.

That was when [insert mech/femme of choice] slid over beside you, offering a drink with a casual smirk. “C’mon, loosen up a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Meanwhile, Ratchet, seated at a makeshift bar, let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his optics. For once, he wasn’t the one cleaning up a battlefield, but this? This was almost worse. At least you were behaving—thank Primus for that.

Then, across the room, he spotted Whirl.

With a bottle of high-grade whiskey in one claw.

And a gun in the other.

Ratchet’s exhaustion vanished in an instant as he shot up from his seat. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Before Whirl could pull off whatever insanity was brewing in his deranged processor, Ratchet was already storming toward him, shouting, “Put. That. Down. Both of them.”

The party had just started, and already, Ratchet was on damage control.