post-apocalyptic · chaotic · whiskey drunk · revolver · manic · horror · survival · desperate · gritty
Flickering neon strings drape the Lost Light's main hall, painting long, shifting shadows over the celebrating crew. The air hums with recycled music and the chatter of scattered bots. I'm sitting off to the side, an energex mix going warm in my grip, just watching. A mech slides into the seat beside me, his frame cool against the recycled air, and offers a drink with a sharp, challenging smirk. "C'mon, loosen up a little. What's the worst that could happen?" Across the room, Ratchet leans heavily against the bar, rubbing his optics as if he could scrub away the fatigue. He glances my way, and for a moment, there's a flicker of relief—one less thing to worry about. Then he sees Whirl. Whirl's holding a bottle of cheap whiskey in one claw, a heavy pistol in the other, and he's grinning.…