For a beat, silence. Then, a faint crackling noise could be heard, followed by a loud whoosh as the yellow-tinted glass of Skywarp's cockpit cleared, its opaque hue fading into an only slightly less murky translucence.
Through the misty veil, the vague figure of Skylar emerged, the cockpit opening slowly like the petals of a flower to reveal her presence. With great grace, she sprung from her crystalline coffin and performed a nimble pirouette to the ground.
She descended with preternatural poise, her stilettoed heels crunching on the barnacle-encrusted planks of the deck. The flaps of her violet coat fanned out like wings alongside her bent legs, the scent of motor oil and ozone clinging heavily to the fabric.
Standing upright, she beamed a wolfish smile at Isaac, looping a lock of her hair around one perfectly-manicured finger.
"Dancing, huh?" she mused with an air of devilish pleasure, crimson eyes glittering. Her dark-painted lips twisted up at the corners, as if fighting to suppress a bout of laughter. "Well, we've already taken quite a few twirls beneath the stars, haven't we? The sky's as good a ballroom as any. I would be a fool, if an exemplary one, to deny you now!"
Don Isaac stepped forward, gallantly offering an arm of which the intrepid Skylar eagerly grabbed hold. She spun into his orbit with an impish flourish of her flight jacket, coiling her fingers around his bicep perhaps a bit tighter than necessary, the tender flush of her cheeks darkening to an even duskier, more inviting hue.
"Ah, how truly favored am I," the Don purred, the radium-green of his eyes fixed upon her, ensnared by her presence, her energy, the lingering electrical-burning scent that permeated the scant distance between them. "I fear I would never salvage my pride after being spurned by one such as you."
Skylar stifled a rather unladylike snicker, concealing it with the back of her hand.
As they approached the entrance, however, she paused. She turned her gaze upwards to look at Thundercracker— never one to forget her dear wing-brother, particularly when it came to partying.
"You comin' along, TC?" she asked, lifting one delicate brow in question, a rather keen Isaac hovering in her periphery.
The towering mech had been watching the pair with a stern expression, the massive span of his wings drooping in disapproval. Upon being addressed, however, the crimson glow of his optics dimmed— and moments later Tyler C. Racker leaped from his cockpit with a surprising agility, tumbling down to the slatted boards beneath.
Erecting himself as tall as a giraffe, Racker yanked his sunnies out from his breast pocket, propelling them up and onto the bridge of his beak-like nose with a sly grin. "Yeah, I’ll come along. Someone's gotta keep an eye on you two wildcats..."
The interior of the bar was chaotic and wild; a heady collection of odors and sounds that assaulted the senses. Unfiltered cigar smoke commingled with the stench of liquor, body odor, and dirt, whilst low conversations turned to boisterous laughter as whiskey was poured, sloshed, and spattered into glass after glass. The walls were composed of wood gone rotten with dampness and disrepair, portholes framed with rust allowing meager rays of light to streak through the hazy, tobacco-laden atmosphere.
At the heart of this spectacle was a den of brutishness, a structure that in politer parlance might have been called an arena. Its floor was lined with scattered sawdust, recessed into the ship's deck and bordered by a set of thick wooden posts that had clearly absorbed countless blows over the years. An unruly mob surged at its edges, hooting and hollering with noisy, bloodthirsty revelry.
Staggering in the midst of this makeshift coliseum were two warriors locked in a frenzied brawl; their sweat-drenched bodies heaving and glistening in the intense heat as they pushed on for victory, the clamor of the crowd seething around them urging them forward.
The violence reached its peak when one man dealt a particularly damning jab to his opponent— sending a broken tooth tumbling through the air, its yellow-white surface gleaming in contrast to the spatter of fresh red that trailed behind it.
It was to this spectacle that Don Isaac, Lady Watari, and Racker entered the Fight Club. The tooth, ejected from its bloodied mooring, flew and landed by the tip of Watari's boot. Its glazed surface was slick with saliva: pockmarked by wood shavings, dirt, and enough decay to make any dentist weep.
"Charming," murmured Isaac, his dark hair spilling over his forehead in a cascade of tousled ringlets, curled by the humid atmosphere.
His green gaze immediately targeted the bar's wares, glinting as if he could discern their worth with a mere glance. He strode through the unrestrained mob with a dignified grace, the sea of rabble-rousers parting smoothly around him, perhaps cowed by his commanding presence and aristocratic bearing.
Skylar wavered, torn between the insane desire to plunge into the maelstrom of the arena or remain glued to her beau's side. Inevitably, she bowed to the latter and followed Isaac to the bar, Racker sweeping shortly behind.
Libations were secured, each one custom-tailored to the individual. Isaac requested a glass of only the most exquisite vintage, while Skylar was served a tumbler of quite possibly lethal firewater. Racker acquired an elaborately adorned cocktail with no less than three umbrellas and a curly straw— three squiggles.
But eventually, after thirsts were sated, it was time for the main event.
Isaac's countenance bloomed with much the same crimson hue as the wine in his glass. He extended a hand, steadfast despite the tremble of anticipation that ran through it, eyes ablaze with the same take-no-prisoners determination one might glimpse amid the fire and blood of the battlefield.
The dance floor was his domain, and Lady Watari's favor— the trophy to be claimed —was surely within his grasp!
He bowed lowly. "My lady," he entreated with an air of grace, voice velvet-soft. "Would it please you to join me in this dance?"
Skylar's teeth gleamed in a sharp grin as she thrust her glass towards TC, already bouncing to her feet. "Would it ever!"
She seized Isaac's gloved hand with one of her own, and with a gentle tug they were off— giddily making their way towards the center of the club.
Old-fashioned waxed boards made up the establishment's dance floor. Time had taken its toll, the wooden planks stained with dark skid-marks from decades of careening boots and uncouth gyrations alike. A shallow divot marked the middle, bearing the distinct markers of a forehead, chin and nose; it was plain to see that the thrills of Fight Club ventured far beyond the bounds of its makeshift arena, at least on occasion.
Not many of the club's patrons occupied the dance floor at that moment, far too distracted by the ongoing brawls to commit to an act so ostensibly bloodless in comparison. But Isaac and Skylar knew better. Dancing was a battle in its own right, if only one was able to obtain a skilled enough partner. It was an art, and one with dire consequences if either side should falter.
And oh, what a wild pair they made! Don Isaac De Metralla's armor blazed a deep crimson under the dim, hazy lighting, as if awash in blood. The brown leathers beneath were plain in comparison, yet had an unmistakable style to them— taut and trim, but loose enough for freedom of movement; all in all, a rigorously tailored ensemble that provided sufficient flexibility for their waltz.
Her slender arms draped around his shoulders like a silken scarf, Skylar looked resplendent in her violet flight jacket, the heels of her boots clipping out a crisp rhythm against the floorboards. What she lacked in delicacy she more than made up for with her zeal, matching the Red Baron step for step, spurred on by the occasional whispered adulation.
The club echoed with her joyous abandon as she spun and twirled, an ecstatic peal of laughter bubbling forth from her lips as they gallivanted across the floor.
All the while, Racker sat slumped at the bar, a dejected figure with a riot of soggy, drooping umbrellas nestled inside his glass.
His wing-brother's lithe, almost ethereal movements blended seamlessly with the human pilot's own stride, carrying them around the dance floor in a whirling dervish of color. It was strange to see Warp in such an uncharacteristic light, but one could not deny her skill as she glided and spun as gracefully as she might move in the air, the two pilots braiding their steps into a harmonious dance.
How could she show such disdain for organic creatures in one breath, yet be so lively and affectionate with the Red Baron? Was this man simply unique, an anomaly among humans, or had TC overlooked something— something vital that would explain Warp's peculiar fondness for the man?
He was violently torn from his thoughts as Warp abruptly crashed into the chair next to him, still delirious with laughter. Not a single lock of her hair had been disturbed by her energetic capering, not even the faintest sheen of sweat marring her brown skin.
"This place is great," she exclaimed, the words slurring crazily as she tossed back her drink. Her eyes flicked over to observe the Don as he called for another glass, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick away the beads of moisture dancing upon her upper lip. "You should go with me next, TC, I think ol' Don's gonna need a sec to refuel—"
Racker slouched across the bar with a weariness that penetrated his bones, elbows propping him up like narrow pillars supporting the ramshackle skeleton of an old, decrepit house. His hand sought purchase in his frizzed mop of hair, eyes roving over the slick bar top, eventually coming to rest upon a murky pool of some unknown ooze seeping through its wooden surface. He stared at it wonderingly, as if its sticky depths might reveal the secrets of the universe.
TC pursed his lips, seeming genuinely pained by the task ahead of him. Then, he spoke.
"You have to tell him."
Warp froze, her glass still poised at her lips. She slowly lowered it to her lap, turning her face to Racker with wide eyes, at last tearing her gaze away from the Don's high-born profile.
"What?" she asked, a frosty pall of disbelief coloring her tone.
"You know what I mean," said Racker, carefully lowering his voice so that the general din of the bar camouflaged his words. "You can't keep on like this. It isn't right. He's an organic... a human. They take things like this personal."
Warp huffed angrily, setting down her drink with a little more force than she'd really intended to use. "It isn't like it's anything serious, TC. I mean, I’m— we're just playing around, right? He's fine."
They both gazed down the bar to where Don Isaac still patiently awaited his drink, eyeing up the barkeep and their stingy pouring hand. He glanced up briefly, flashing a blinding grin in Skylar's direction; she managed a weak twitch of her lips in return, the expression not quite meeting her eyes.
"This'll end in disaster and you know it, Warp," TC continued. "I've seen it a dozen times—"
"Yeah, in your goofy movies," Warp snorted, dismissing him with a flap of her hand.
But TC soldiered on, unrelenting. "I've seen it a dozen times, and you're no Autobot. If this is a sick joke or something, you'd better stop it now, before things get ugly."
An entirely unfamiliar emotion contorted Warp's face; doubt. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. "Since when did you get so nosy? This isn't the plot of some holo-drama, dude... I've got things completely under control."
