Bath-time Solarflare
Featuring … no one, you little pervs; I’ve spoiled you!

Its proper term was, truthfully, “the wash rack”. However, during their stay on Earth, the Autobots of the Ark gave the bathing room far more colorful names, some of which were not for proper audios. Like the rest of the mountain-locked battle cruiser, it was horribly, painfully orange. When she had been human, Flare often wondered about the reason behind the color scheme, but no one had been forthcoming. So she stopped asking.

Covered from head to toe in slime, the grey femme trudged to the wash rack in the far corner, where she wouldn’t be bothered (hopefully). Being the only feminine creature in an all-male military enclave had its perks at times, but when it came to bathing, she wanted her privacy. A long-handled brush hung from the showerhead; special Transformer soap sat in a small container on the shelf. Stepping into the stall, Flare grimaced at the amount of sludge that was oozing from her plating. Someone – probably Gears – would be complaining about the low water pressure later, but right now, she could care less. As far as she knew, no one else had taken a head-first shitter into a swamp while trying to dodge lone Seeker fire.

Flare sniffed the air experimentally, and decided it would be in her best interest to try and shut off her olfactory sensors if she was going to get through the first phase without hurling her oil into the drain. Then she remembered she couldn’t do that. Slag.

In she went, gunk, grime and various aquatic wildlife still clinging to her armor. The first blast of volcano-heated water threw up the funkiest, most malodorous smell she’d ever been hit with. Coughing, Flare covered her nose with one hand and slapped the shelf for her soap.

Immediately, she began throwing it on her head, hoping the steam would react with the perfume and clear the air.

Ugh. I feel like … mud on a tread.

Experimentally, she lowered her hand and sniffed. Okay, it was a little better; Solarflare grabbed the container and forced every bit of product into her hands, smothering her poor frame with it. Then she grabbed her brush and went to town.

“PRIMUS! WHAT IS THAT SMELL!”

Solarflare bit her lip; oh, slag. Hopefully the steam gave her anonymity; regardless, she slunk into the furthest corner of the stall, and prayed to be done quickly.