Ahhhh, Maccadam's Old Oil House. Aeons of war, peace, Energon shortages, and Golden Ages have done little to affect the place. It's still centrally located on sub-level six of Cybertron's lower-east quadrant, and it is still maintained by the same small group of mechs and femmes. Few visit anymore, really only the ones who survived the Great War – the Veterans – are even aware it's still open nowadays, but that makes it a perfect place for reunions.

Within, a bronze-and-silver mech nurses his glass of Energon, red optics forlornly staring at the various bottles and containers of everything from ancient high-grade Energon to Nightmare Fuel. He barely notices as a mech matching his exact body type but colored blue-and-white takes a seat on the stool next to him. "Not drinkin' atta bar?" The blue mech asks with a heavy Bronx-like accent.

The bronze mech turns his head to eye his body-double with a baleful stare. "Cain't." His own accent is also Bronx-like, but not as heavy. "On th' clock."

"Oh riiiight, th' Axalon." The blue mech lifts a hand to order a high-grade from the mustachioed bartender behind the counter, then folds his arms on the bar counter. "Damn. Was hopin' t' git ya stinkin' drunk b'fore ya got shipped out, Rattrap."

"Eeeeeeh." Rattrap shrugs his shoulders. "Could be worse. Might not've been able t' see ya at all." He reaches over to clap a hand on the blue mech's shoulder. "So how've ya been, Packrat? Been pickin' th' pockets o' th' rich-an'-famous again?"

Packrat grins. "Naaaaah, bett'a. Just pulled off my biggest heist yet." He pops up out of his chair and twirls around, motioning towards the bits of his own turbo-rat beast mode, which was an unnaturally-bright shade of blue. "Got myself a brand-spankin'-new Energon Shield. Lets me go int'a th' high-energy areas in either form wit'out needin' a full-blown organic beast mode." He shudders. "Cain't stand th' thought. Ain't natural, Rattrap."

"Used t' think a lotta things were 'natural'." The more he talks, the more Rattrap's own accent thickens. "Like rulin' th' galaxy."

Packrat winces, his jovial attitude disappearing in a flash, and he plops back down on his stool. "Yeah, those were th' good ol' days." The bartender passes him his drink and he takes a good long swig from it, red optics brightening as the premium fuel hits his tanks. "Some just cain't leggo, ya know? Ain't seen anybody else since th' Reformation. Or, as th' newbies say," he lifts his hands for sarcastic air-quotes, "Th' Great Upgrade."

Rattrap laughs derisively. "I know, right?" He spins around on his bar-stool to rest his back against the bar, arms resting on the surface with hands hanging off the edge. "See, youse an' me? We moved on, got wit' da program, got new badges t' show we'd Reformed properly," he twists one arm briefly to show the Maximal insignia on the underside of his arm, near the wrist, "an' stayed outta trouble." He pauses, giving Packrat a smirk. "Well, /I/ did."

"I tried!" Packrat protests defensively. "It got borin'! Playin' by th' rules, knowin' ya had somebody watchin' yer every move all th' time. I said t' th' Pit wit' 'em an' started havin' fun! An' I'm doin' jus' fine, ya jerk!" He lifts his arms in an exaggerated shrug, a winning grin settling on his face. "Least I ain't like Ravage. Damn cat went cryin' t' th' Preds 'cause he couldn't take th' loss, an' I hear he's jus' goin' by 'Tripredacus Agent' now or somethin'."

"Real imaginative," Rattrap scoffs. The two take a drink of their respective Energon at roughly the same time, but the silence stretches for a while beyond that. "'Ey, Packrat." The blue mech looks over at him with a raised optic-ridge. "Y'think Boss would be proud o' us movin' on like we have, if he somehow, y'know, could see us now?"

Packrat swishes his drink from side-to-side, watching as the liquid swirls within the glass. "I dunno." He finishes off his high-grade and firmly plants the glass on the bar with a dull THUD. "He told us t' live as we saw fit b'fore th' Autobots took 'im away. We became Maximals, Ravage went Pred, an' th' oth'a's just retired 'longside th' rest who got amnesty too." He shoves Rattrap in the shoulder with a half-smile. "Least one'a us turned out halfway decent."

"Thank Primus it's just 'halfway'," Rattrap shoots back as he returns the shove.

Before their squabble could get any more animated, Rattrap's comm-link beeps. "Optimus to Rattrap, respond!"

Rattrap groans as Packrat's optics widen. "Slag. Th' newbie commander o' th' Axalon." He taps his forearm. "Rattrap here. What'd I do NOW?"

"You're late, that's what! We're ready to depart and you're the only one not on board."

Rattrap blinks and rechecks his chronometer, seeing Packrat covering both hands over his mouth but shoulders shaking in barely-held-in laughter. "Spawn'a Unicron." It's still early yet, but he can already tell that this newly-graduated commander is more ready to leave than he'd thought. "Sorry, sir, must'a lost track o' time. Iiiiiii'll head ov'a t' th' docks immediately."

That seems to placate the mech on the other end of the line. "Alright. We'll keep an optic out for you. Optimus out."

As soon as the line goes dead, Packrat bursts out laughing. "BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!" He's soon gasping for air in-between his howling laughter, pounding a fist on the bar multiple times (much to the mustachioed bartender's visible annoyance). "Optimus? Really? REALLY?!"

Rattrap can only shake his head as he gets up from his seat. "Yeah, really. I know, it's..." He snickers, failing to hold out against the infectious laughter much longer, and decides against trying to finish that thought. "Anyways." He knocks back the rest of his Energon and slides the empty glass to the barkeep. "Ya wanna trade paint-jobs an' identities one last time, jus' fer old-time's sake?"

"Pit no!" Packrat manages to huff out, gaining just enough control of himself to remain coherent. "I like bein' Packrat, th' thrill o' th' chase an' seein' my latest heist headlinin' th' Cybertron Chronicler. You'd just frag it all up!" He wraps an arm over his midsection as if holding in a busted gut. "I gotta know, though. If THAT'S yer commander, what's th' REST o' th' crew like?"

"A bratty kid an' a Maximal Swiss-Army knife. Th' rest're protoforms still in th' stasis pod." Packrat gives him a disbelieving stare and Rattrap holds up a hand like a human getting sworn in for trial. "I swear t' Primus, that's th' only way I c'n describe it. Hack th' roster sometime, you'll see 'xactly wha' I mean."

Packrat shakes his head as he orders a refill on his high-grade. "An' I thought th' crews fer th' Nemesis an' Ark were screwball. I don' envy ya, Rattrap. Not one bit." He inhales deeply to fully drive off the chuckles. "Ev'a think th' Elders're jus' tryin' t' git rid o' ya?"

"All th' time. Might succeed this time, too." Rattrap tosses a few credits on the bar, for both his drink and a tip, and heads for the door. "Bett'a git goin' b'fore this Prime wanna-be starts hollerin' in my audio again."

"'Ey, when ya get back, lemme know! Next round's on me." Packrat picks up his refilled glass and lifts it in the air as a toast, his expression sobering. "Divide an' conquer, Rumble."

Rattrap rests one hand on the door as he half-turns back to his body-double, tapping his helm with a casual two-fingered salute as his own expression becomes serious as well. "Divide an' conquer, Frenzy."