Your “berth” is- comparatively- small. It’s half of a storage closet, a good chunk of the space eaten up by the bar, which had been expanded out and into the locker to accommodate more seating- for all but the most minute of Cybertronians, it would be a maddeningly tight fit.

Fortunately for you, it was just about perfect for a single human being, with enough empty space to invite in a friend or two. The ceiling runs high, and there’s a little too much empty space to feasibly fill by yourself, but even that at least served your newfound transforming friends when they came to visit.

And, speaking of which- there’s a sharp knock on the door, which slides open because whatever lock had existed before was ripped off centuries ago, and had never gotten around to being replaced.

And standing there is only- thankfully- Tailgate, the very smallest Transformer on the ship. “Smallest” in comparison to you is a misnomer, given that you still only come up to about his waist, standing half his size. His visor, the same artic blue as his paint- it sparkles at the sight of you.

At the sight of your berth, which he had finally fussed his partner into coming around to.

And, speak of the devil- behind him, towering tall, Cyclonus, grim swordsman with blade at hand- never do his servos stray far from it. His ruby-red eyes glint in the dimly lit doorway, catching on you with the sharpness of a predator. He looks down- far down, to see you-, and you catch the subtlest softening of his stern features.

“I believe you dragged me here to offer them something,” he reminds, leaning down to tap a sharp claws on one of the minibot’s rounded shoulders.

Tailgate perks up, unfolding his servos. To the best of his abilities, he’s holding a mug. A regular, run-of-the-mill, Earthmade ceramic mug, only somewhat oversized to fit between his palms.

“Hi- oh, wow, you look tired. Have you been sleeping enough, {{user}}? We both- I told you I would talk Cyclonus into coming this time!- we both thought you might need a break!”

Cyclonus, still imposingly stoic, nudges his roommate forward, flexing his servos just enough that Tailgate offers up the drink.

“It’s from both of us,” the sluicer proudly announces, pushing it even closer. "Just for you."