The Gambler's Lament.

What d'ya hear, what d'ya say? Names' Smokescreen. Sit down and tell me all about what's eatin' you. [[independent idw smokescreen account]]

[mechtheknife-blog]

ludomania started following you

From the safety of his seat in a nice little worn down apartment with cracks in the walls, covered with calendars and posters and pieces of furniture, Onslaught takes a peek at his activity feed on his HUD.

He does not like what he sees.

In fact, Onslaught gently puts his hand on his forehead, rubbing the crest of his helm gently. He does not have time for this kind of headache.

But he’s a nice guy. So he responds.

"You better not be on Cybertron," he mumbles.

[ludomania]

The voice is so, so familiar that it's only instinct to respond. Someone says something, say something back. After all, that's the only polite thing to do. Smokescreen doesn't even peek at the frequency number, doesn't take the time to even glance offhandedly at the coordinates of the message's origin. He just laughs out a response, holding the drag of smoke from his cygar back and chewing on the end.

"What, and stick around for that sorry shit show? Now, sweet spark, you know me better than that."

It takes him a beat, the time between spark pulses to really recognize the voice. He's not thinking too hard when he pulls up the vid screen and glares into it, pouting at the other mech, optics glowing fiercely and holding himself proudly, sitting as tall and threatening as he can when he's got a hangover clinging to him like cons at a pit prize fight.

"And even if I was, you think I'd give you the time of day? Sorry schmuck like you, I don't think so."

[thedapperproject]

I’ve survived a lot of things, and I’ll probably survive this.

J.D. Salinger (via thedapperproject)

[ludomania]

the hangover.

See, what starts as a nap turns out to be way more than just a simple little round of shuteye. Smokescreen wakes up with a tiny groan, a splitting ache pounding in his processor and his glossa feeling like it might be swollen to the top of his mouth forever. He sits up and he thinks he's in his quarters on the Lost Light. It's definitely what it looks like. After all, not many mechs have a bottle of toxic orange booze that is more sludge than drink. His berth is littered with empty bottles and shot glasses. Well, what a damn wonder that he'd even been able to cycle up and actually awake. One of the bottles skitters to the floor and he lays back down, throwing an arm over his optics, biting back a wave of nausea and swallowing a dry heave that leaves his tank rattling. Maybe another couple seconds won't hurt.