Who: Miranda and YOU
Where: Maccadam's
When: After this disaster
What: Miranda licking her wounds and hating robot teenagers, but also vodka.
Warnings: Questionable potato vodka and minor injuries. Standard Mass Effect functioning alcoholism.

Miranda had suffered her fair share of dives. Cerberus contacts that had her plastering on a fake smile as she talked logistics in the back of red sand dusted table in the back of a smoked out bar on Omega. Even when it was the veritable pits at least she never had the need to fallback on undergraduate biochemistry classes and distill her own alcohol.

She wanted to blame Rodimus and his attached to the hip friend with the swords. She wanted to be incensed. Instead she told herself she was happy enough not to debase herself and concentrate on her more practical pursuits. Such as re-purposing some of the machinery she found behind the massive bar in Maccadam's and putting those tubers and other consumable to use. Vodka, specifically. She lucked out and found the hardware close enough to what she recognized and could feasibly work with to make this into a time pisser that actually let her think; to do something with her hands. There was even a clear concoction behind the bar that came up on her omni-tool as being isopropyl in all but name. Everything a girl could hope for.

"Shit."

Sitting on the counter top of the Maccadam's bar, Miranda hissed when she brought a wad of torn synthetic fabric soaked in rubbing alcohol up to her lacerated and swollen face where she bore the brunt of that fight. Had to take care of the superficial wounds before she wasted her medi-gel. Rubbing alcohol in one hand, she also had what must be the glass for the world's smallest shot for the average Cybertronian but held like a highball glass to her filled with ice and strong vodka. Her own brew, and the way she shuddered when she took a pull, it was strong.