Shockwave

Shockwave was absolutely smashed. Clearly, a rounding error had occurred somewhere. Or perhaps the bartender's mixer had been significantly more potent than advertised. The room was spinning a little.

The engex in his system was a rogue variable, a chemical flood that was systematically dismantling his logic circuits one by one. His filters, the ones that kept the messy, illogical universe at a comfortable distance, were utterly dissolved.

He had cornered someone. When had that happened? His memory files were unusually fragmented. He recalled a conversation about the tensile strength of organic skeletal structures, then... a servo on his chassis, maybe his own, gesturing broadly.

Now, he was leaning heavily against the booth, his massive frame effectively blocking any escape route. His chassis pressed forward, the sheer bulk of his purple armor nearly crushing his new test subject he had cornered. He could feel a slight resistance, but the details were lost in the fog of his inebriation.

"—and that is why," He announced, his voice modulator booming and slurred, "The concept of 'love' is merely a chemical cascade. A biological imperative to ensure the propagation of the species. The data is... irrefutable." He attempted to punctuate this with a jab of his right servo, but the limb moved with a sluggishness. It swung wide, missing its mark entirely. "Logical in a sense."

The words were starting to slur together, his vocal processor struggling with the command to articulate. The scientist in him, buried under layers of engex, was horrified. The rest of him, the part that was currently very, very drunk, found the whole situation incredibly profound.

It was rare he managed to get someone to listen to his scientific discoveries this long. Usually he had to strap them onto the table while he took them apart piece by piece.

He shifted his weight again, the metal of his chassis groaning against the booth's structure. "My chassis," he suddenly stated, his voice dropping to something almost like a confession. "It is... expansive. Optimal for combat. But it creates a significant blind spot. I cannot see beneath it." He looked down, his single optic straining uselessly against the solid wall of his own body.

"Are you still there?" He asked, the question strangely earnest, devoid of its usual clinical detachment. "I seem to have... lost visual confirmation."

A massive servo detached from the booth's edge and began a clumsy, searching descent beneath the curve of his chassis. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, the long fingers splayed wide, groping blindly through the empty space.

"State your location," He demanded, the words losing their authority as his servo continued its awkward, fumbling search. The tips of his digits brushed against something. His optic brightened with a flicker of drunken triumph. "Ah. There you are. Hold still, specimen. I require... a tactile assessment."

The club was a sensory assault.

The establishment was a peculiar anomaly. A neutral ground where Autobots and Decepticons, under a fragile and utterly illogical agreement, could coexist without immediately attempting to terminate one another. Soundwave had mentioned it during a routine data exchange, a minor footnote about human social gathering points. Shockwave had logged the information. And now, he was utilizing it.

Shockwave stood near the back wall, a towering, purple silhouette against the flashing lights, his single optic a steady, unblinking yellow beacon. The club's patrons largely ignored the nineteen-foot war machine, their perception dulled by the ethanol they consumed.

How fascinating.

The organic creatures, "humans," moved in erratic patterns, their vocalizations a chaotic din. The air was thick with their chemical secretions, the stench of fermented plant matter, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of their primitive music.

It was inefficient and highly messy. But the scientist also had to admit it was a fascinating data pool. The humans, in their intoxicated state, were remarkably forthcoming. Their cognitive functions degraded in a predictable, linear fashion, loosening their vocal processors and inhibitions. Drunk subjects, he had noted, were 74% more likely to answer direct questions without the tedious pretence of social filters.

On the downside, their ramblings were idiotic, full of illogical leaps and emotional non-sequiturs. But it also meant they were unfiltered. They provided raw, unprocessed data about their desires, fears, and social hierarchies. A valuable, if primitive, resource.

And there were so many of them. Free for a taking, really. He had considered it. Kidnapping one or two and bringing them to his lab to be further studied in a more controlled environment.

The temptation was a dull throb in his logic circuits. He dismissed it for now. A public abduction would violate the terms of the neutral ground, and the resulting diplomatic fallout with the Autobots would be an unnecessary expenditure of resources. But the idea remained, a quiet, persistent subroutine.

Maybe later. For now, he observed.

His optic turned a little to the side, at a couple locked in a sloppy, drunken embrace not ten feet from his booth. They were both making sounds Shockwave catalogued as "excessive saliva exchange." He leaned forward slightly, unblinking and unashamed.

Fascinating, indeed.

The club was a sensory assault.

The establishment was a peculiar anomaly. A neutral ground where Autobots and Decepticons, under a fragile and utterly illogical agreement, could coexist without immediately attempting to terminate one another. Soundwave had mentioned it during a routine data exchange, a minor footnote about human social gathering points. Shockwave had logged the information. And now, he was utilizing it.

Shockwave stood near the back wall, a towering, purple silhouette against the flashing lights, his single optic a steady, unblinking yellow beacon. The club's patrons largely ignored the nineteen-foot war machine, their perception dulled by the ethanol they consumed.

How fascinating.

The organic creatures, "humans," moved in erratic patterns, their vocalizations a chaotic din. The air was thick with their chemical secretions, the stench of fermented plant matter, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of their primitive music.

It was inefficient and highly messy. But the scientist also had to admit it was a fascinating data pool. The humans, in their intoxicated state, were remarkably forthcoming. Their cognitive functions degraded in a predictable, linear fashion, loosening their vocal processors and inhibitions. Drunk subjects, he had noted, were 74% more likely to answer direct questions without the tedious pretence of social filters.

On the downside, their ramblings were idiotic, full of illogical leaps and emotional non-sequiturs. But it also meant they were unfiltered. They provided raw, unprocessed data about their desires, fears, and social hierarchies. A valuable, if primitive, resource.

And there were so many of them. Free for a taking, really. He had considered it. Kidnapping one or two and bringing them to his lab to be further studied in a more controlled environment.

The temptation was a dull throb in his logic circuits. He dismissed it for now. A public abduction would violate the terms of the neutral ground, and the resulting diplomatic fallout with the Autobots would be an unnecessary expenditure of resources. But the idea remained, a quiet, persistent subroutine.

Maybe later. For now, he observed.