Apolli.XI

He had gone to The Nemesis as he had been instructed to by Starscream to attend the officers meeting, and he had pitched his plans and ideas as he usually did and offered constructive criticism (although the constructive part could always be debated) and advice on the others that were put forwards to him. Megatron had watched him sharply as always, and he still hadn’t dared to say more than ‘yes sir’ to him, the ache in his chest from the last time he had been so callous as to suggest his plans were anything less than perfect a persistent reminder.

And then, not long after the time Blast Off was due to come back, he found himself on the floor clutching his chest and struggling to take in air. He gasped and wheezed, his joints locking as pain wracked his body - Scrapper knelt down next to him and placed a hand to his shoulder that was rapidly slapped away as Onslaught struggled back onto his feet.

It was the one drawback of a Combiner team. Their bond was one that was spark deep, chaining them together in a permanent contract that ended when they were dead - one’s pain was all of their pain, and it all passed through a central channel: the core, the leader. Him.

Something had happened to Blast Off.

Condensation dripped thickly from his frame as he tried to catch his breath. Panicked feelings from the rest of the gestalt had him gripping the edge of the table tightly as his audials whined and squealed. Usually they had the others somewhat blocked and filtered - in a group such as their own feeling it every time another got hurt would have been counterproductive and damn near ruinous for them - but whenever Blast Off had to reenter…

“I need to go.” He managed. He didn’t wait for a reply or a response - he couldn’t hear it anyway. Onslaught just sprinted.

::Blast Off?:: he tried his comm desperately. ::Blast Off, status report::

Static. Nothing. He wasn’t responding, he wasn’t even picking up. Onslaught loudly cursed and went down to the transport bay.

“I need a ground bridge.” He snapped. At the look the technicians shared, he felt his temper fray and he barked the order at them again. “Now!”

When they took a fraction of a second too long to respond, Onslaught stomped over to the nearest bridge and punched the coordinates into the terminal himself, watching as it ignited with colour and a glowing green ground bridge opened up. Without even waiting for it to fully open, he went through it and transformed, speeding through the short structure and flying out of the other end.

Blast Off should have landed nearby - it was the area his landing zone had been narrowed down into. Onslaught scanned the area, hunting for any signs of life, and felt his spark pound in his chest when he couldn’t see him.

Don’t tell me Brawl got it wrong? Did he get captured?

There.

Smoke.

Far away - in the distance. He raced towards it, wheels spinning helplessly on the soft and loose sand of the red dunes before he swore up a storm and transformed, struggling and fighting his way towards it. It didn’t burn like organic fuel did - that was Cybertronian. That was theirs.

Each step had him sinking down in the sand, the effort of hauling himself back up for the next step exhaustive. But still, over and over again, he tried and he fought his way over to where his second might have been.

It was a piece of him. A fragment of his armour. He picked it up, burning his hands on the still smouldering metal, and looked around. Where? Where was he?

Blast Off wasn’t dead. If he was dead, they’d all know about it and it wouldn’t hurt like it did now. The mech was still alive.

His spark was in his throat as he scanned the skyline for more signs of smoke, every scan coming up blank. There weren’t any signs of him. Onslaught grit his teeth.

::Ons! Any joy?:: Brawl comm’ed him. Irritation briefly flickered in the way his hand reached to his audial to reply.

::No sign of him outside of a piece of his armour::

::The fragger couldn’t have gone far. I’ll update you when I’ve taken another stab at the landing coordinates::

Onslaught’s hand dropped and he looked listlessly out over the dunes again. He couldn’t risk moving with no gain - he was starting to exhaust himself with the struggle of wading through the sand and he needed to conserve his energy for what was to come next. He leaned down to scoop sand over the armour panel and extinguish the last of the flames before holding it tightly to his chest as if the proximity of the plating would sync to its owners presence in his spark and tell him where to look. They weren’t close enough for the bond to give any information on location. Onslaught gnashed his teeth.

Where are you?

The sun slowly sank down below the horizon. Onslaught watched it go down before his comm beeped again.

::Status report:: he answered.

::He should be nearby. Tex is on his way for aerial support::

Vortex bitched the whole time. It was a thin veil that masked how he really felt - he was nervous and didn’t want to show it. The last time Blast Off had fragmented upon reentry it had been because he’d been shot down in the process, the Autobots detecting him and swiftly taking aim. It wasn’t something they could take precaution against. Blast Off always got hurt coming back in - it was a simple fact of life, his armour was not suited for Earths atmosphere. The same defect that had prevented him from reaching the size and mass of his shuttle cohort also impacted his shielding, the plates not developing correctly. On Cybertron it hadn’t been an issue, and on other planets the effect wasn’t so dramatic. A crack here, a plate stripped bare from the heat there. Like everything else, it only got worse when they came to Earth.

With his armour so weak, he was a disgustingly easy target. Having him not pierce the atmosphere was not an option; Megatron demanded orbital surveillance, and all space-faring Decepticons had to do their part.

They didn’t find him.

The sun had sunk below the horizon and the temperature had plummeted. Frost was forming on their plating and Vortex was having trouble flying straight from the uneven distribution of it on his rotors. Going back to base was shockingly difficult. All he could think of was Blast Off alone out there, vulnerable to anything - if anything happened to him, it would be the end of Bruticus. Finding a replacement was near impossible on Earth - there wasn’t a single mech who could be considered for a replacement part - and Onslaught didn’t much fancy their chances on further shores either. They’d spent millions of years together. How would they ever hope to replace the bonds and trust that had been carefully built in that time? He couldn’t lose him. The thought alone was ruinous.

::Who knows?:: Vortex began as they approached the rendezvous point. ::Maybe he’s totally fine and it’s just his comm got knocked out::

It was disgustingly optimistic. The hope it held was a cheap salve that only took the edge off.

Onslaught narrowly avoided punishment for abandoning his post in his search of his second in command: if he weren’t gestalt bonded, he would have been whipped back into shape with brute force. It was well known that the programming that came with gestalts was one that was hard to ignore and many blindly obeyed it without even realising. Starscream had argued that the fact it had overridden the loyalty code of all things was proof enough; even Shockwave had confirmed it. Him agreeing with, and even backing, Starscream was rare enough to be near unheard of. It was enough for

Megatron to accept and to let him off the hook.

That didn’t mean it went unnoticed. He was to report to Soundwave the next cycle for an additional detail - that maybe some additional responsibility would remind him why he was there. It was the only way Megatron could enforce his carefully tailored image.

The moment the four Combaticons stepped from the ground bridge, Brawl loudly huffed and began to say something, probably bitching and suggesting they go and look again if what was coming over the bond was any indication, when they all suddenly froze and whipped their helms to the right.

Blast Off was in that direction. He was close enough to be detected. Onslaught harshly glared at Brawl.

“You insisted he was in the Sahara!” He snapped.

“He was supposed to be!” Brawl snapped right back, the two marching off together. “I know I’m wrong about a lot of things, but not this! I can show you my maths!”

“Vortex, Swindle, keep that bridge open!” Onslaught shouted over his shoulder. He didn’t stop to wait for them to confirm - Swindle had already darted back through.

He wasn’t far. They found him leaning heavily against a derelict building that had been long abandoned by the time they had arrived, his vents wheezing and visor dim, parts of his frame randomly sparking from what must have been exposed wires. He looked up at them when Onslaught called his name without thinking, shoulders sagging in relief and gingerly pushing himself upright on what they would come to learn was his good arm, but it still threw sparks when he moved it.

“My goodness.” Blast Off managed, his voice thick with static. “I wondered where you all were.”

“Where the fuck were you?” Brawl went to steady him and the shuttle fully slumped into him. The tank scooped him up and held him, holding him close to his chest to try and keep him warm - his external armour had been stripped bare, exposing the more delicate armour underneath and even going right down to the protoform in places. His right arm was sparking as internal structures stuck out awkwardly. He smelled burned and of hot metal, like he had caught fire. It made Onslaught feel angry. It made him feel used, disposable, like they weren’t even considered more than names on a document. Every time Blast Off came back from an orbital stakeout he got hurt. It didn’t matter that this was an extreme case and it was usually as simple as the top layer of his armour melting off or a few cracks splintering over him - the fact of the matter was that he was still expected to come to harm for a cause that none of them particularly believed in.

Blast Off looked so small in Brawl’s arms. Onslaught didn’t much like how the image made him feel, especially when his visor fizzled offline and his helm thunked against his teammates chest, his frame curling in to the source of warmth. Blast Off would never had been so disgustingly vulnerable with Brawl of all mechs if he could help it. He despised looking vulnerable or appearing to be weak, even more so when he had to go to them for help with anything. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.

Their deal with Hook was simple.

He treated Blast Off. They replenished his precious supplies. His cooperation would be bought with additional solder and enough of the essential minerals and salts and metal that they were chronically running low on to carry them into the next week. The Constructicons knew that Swindle had contacts. They also knew that if Megatron found out, he would have bled them dry for their goods: it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. They got enough to not be suspicious but enough to keep their comrades alive: the Combaticons got a medic who didn’t ask too many questions. Scrapper had twisted his arm at the beginning. While the two Commanders had gotten on well and weren’t at odds with each other, Bruticus and Devastator had decided upon first sight that they were mortal enemies. No matter what the two teams did individually, the animosity remained; even when the Stunticons (and by extension Menasor) actively antagonised them, Bruticus still homed in on Devastator as Devastator did to them.

As such, they were frequently getting injured. Scrapper had managed to make Onslaught feel responsible for it, which meant that the Commander had taken it upon himself to almost go out of his way to source the materials required to repair them every time it extended past an almost playful romp. Megatron would have had both of their skins if they allowed the petty rivalry of their combined forms to impact the operation of his force.

Brawl had been the one to carry him to the medical bay. Onslaught had gone with him to… he didn’t know what. There was no need to negotiate anything, their agreement set ahead of time. The assurance that Swindle would be by with the supplies was just making small talk, the information already known to both parties. He just. Couldn’t leave Blast Off. The sight of him curled up into Brawl’s chest refused to be scrubbed from his databanks and he felt himself looking at him sourly despite not knowing where the feeling came from. It wasn’t Brawl’s fault that Blast Off had gone to him first, but there was no reasoning with what had latched into his mind.

For fucks sake.

“How could it have taken you so long to find him?” Hook admonished as Brawl carefully laid him down. Blast Off’s hand - the one he could still move - twitched towards him before falling down limply. “I am unskilled in necromancy. You may need to alert Shockwave - that is more his forte.”

It was a warning wrapped up in the packaging of a bad joke. If they’d been any later, Blast Off would have been dead.

“I am still alive, you know.” Blast Off managed. Even with as weak and fragile as his voice was, he still managed to sound completely indignant.

“Yes, with no thanks whatsoever to the buffoons you call your gestalt.” Hook replied. Onslaught scowled at him, but he still caught Brawl’s shoulder when the tank made to step forwards towards the medic. Hook turned up to look at them and made a shooing motion. “I don’t need an audience for this. Go home.”

They couldn’t argue otherwise. As soon as Hook said that he wouldn’t be able to focus with them leaning over his shoulder Blast Off had made a noise that he shouldn’t have been making and the monitor attached to him started sending alerts - Onslaught had to leave before he. Did something? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t have the stomach for it.

Blast Off wasn’t going to be back to full strength for a while. The luck with them was that it wasn’t going to take anywhere near as long as the same type of injury would on organic structures; they had the benefit of being able to readily accept replacement parts and integrate them fully so long as they matched their requirements and specifications. Blast Off just needed a new shell and then his frame would handle the rest.

It was the handling the rest that would take the longest. Ceramic plating didn’t exactly form overnight - Blast Off would need time for the structures to form and link and harden. Onslaught thought of the awkward way his arm had bent and the exposed protoform. What had happened to him?

His second had come to such harm and he didn’t know why - it had gnawed away at him until Hook called them back a two Earth days later to collect their colleague from his medical bay. He wasn’t healed. He needed to rest. He would need to come back. Hook just needed the bed.

“Hook.” Onslaught nodded to him as he strode into the medical bay. The Constructicon raised a hand to him in acknowledgement, not glancing at him, far too engrossed with what was on the monitor of the terminal he stood at.

Blast Off looked up from the data pad he was reading. The new metal was still dull but it had a live shine to it, his colouration slowly beginning to come through. The arm that had been broken had a brace around it to keep it still, bolts and screws holding it to his body. His visor was new too - it looked thicker. Sturdier. Not so prone to shattering.

“Such a shame I must leave you, Doctor. I have quite enjoyed being in your care.”

“I’ll send you a calendar invite for your next checkup. Remember what we discussed.”

“No fighting, flying, or physical activity.”

“Amazing. Now get lost.”

Hard mech to argue with.

Onslaught glanced down at his second as they walked together. Blast Off was limping and didn’t have the speed he did before - Onslaught had to slow down for him.

Hook had been sure to sign him off from duty. Megatron could be a difficult mech to reason with at the best of times, but when it came to his medics he was surprisingly obedient in their instructions. If the medic said they needed to rest, then he would allow them that rest. An army was only as strong as its soldiers, and if they weren’t allowed to heal then they were a weakened force. Weakness was not to be tolerated.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Blast Off probed as they waited for the bridge technicians to organise them a ground bridge. He looked up at his commander - Onslaught could feel his optics burning against his frame. “I can hear it.”

Onslaught promptly released his bottom lip from where he’d been gnawing away at it. Damn him for always noticing. He missed when he hadn’t figured it out yet - Blast Off was the only one who had.

“We’ll debrief in my office.” He replied. Blast Off nodded and looked away.

“Yessir.”

He put a hand on his upper back to guide him through first. Blast Off confidently walked through, a relieved sound leaving him when he stepped into their home base.

“Finally home.”

The relief in his field was palpable. Onslaught raised a brow.

“You told Hook you liked his company.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere with him. I want the nice supplies, and I’m willing to set aside my pride for them.”

Wow. Onslaught hadn’t expected him to be capable of that.

“Do you feel like you can join me for a debrief?”

“A short one. I can give a longer one if I write it down.”

He’d accept that.

Blast Off winced and hissed as he sat down, hands tightly gripping the arm rests of the chair. Onslaught had swapped the chairs around, giving Blast Off his comfier one while he took the rickety construction that his mechs usually sat on. There weren’t any arm rests, Vortex liking to sit backwards on his chairs and Brawl having an unfortunate habit of whacking them clean off. He’d done it on a whim, and he was glad he had - Blast Off looked exhausted. It was definitely going to be brief.

“Autobot defence systems caught me - the Sahara isn’t a safe landing zone anymore.” Blast Off sighed wearily. “They’ve established heavy artillery there. I got nicked, but managed to limp back to the HQ where I did, tragically, go on to crash.”

“I will report that back to Lord Megatron. I’m glad you made it back to me.”

“I’d be hard pressed to keep myself from you.”

“And whilst you were in orbit?” He knitted his fingers together in front of his face.

“Nothing out of the ordinary or of note.”

Once again, it had been a complete waste of time.

“Noted.” He tapped his foot. “I’ll wait for your full report, then.”

Blast Off nodded before he sighed again. “I’m sorry, give me a moment -“ he pinched his temple. “I just need a minute.”

It was a minute easily given. He walked with Blast Off, hand on his back to help guide and to keep pace with him. His second was doing well until he wasn’t, the front he’d carefully put on cracking and crumbling away as he stumbled, aching and exhausted body finally giving out under him.

“Damn it!” He cursed, catching himself on the wall. Onslaught caught him too, the mechs weight resting entirely on him.

“Blast Off! Does it hurt?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He said through gritted teeth. He tried to stand up on his own two feet again but his legs just weren’t having it. “Fucks sake!” He quietly hissed, the words venomous.

Onslaught couldn’t stand to see him like this, the proud mech always putting on a solid and steady front, so he did what any normal mech would have done and picked him up, holding him in his arms and close to his chest. Blast Off gasped at the sudden relocation, arms flying to wrap around his neck.

“Commander!”

Commander. Commander, Commander, Commander - it was always Commander with him. Never Onslaught or any other form of nickname that the others had taken to use with him on occasion when their command structure didn’t matter. At first he’d been fine with it and even grateful, but now it was starting to smart. What would it take for him to be less proper? To take down that wall that still stood between them?

“Shh.” Onslaught held him firmly and continued walking towards his quarters, taking care to not jostle him about. “You’re too injured. You aren’t going anywhere on your own.” It was his own fault. He should have debriefed in Blast Off’s quarters, then the mech wouldn’t have been forced to move so much before he was ready to. He could feel his pain and his exhaustion in his field, clutched tightly against his tender frame. There was a growing sense of embarrassment and shame that he was struggling to hide.

“What if they see?”

Should it matter if the others see me carrying you? It was fine when it was Brawl through The Nemesis.

“Let them.”

Was he only ever going to be his commanding officer? It was disappointing and frustrating in equal measure. It wasn’t out of a desire for friendship, but out of something he couldn’t quite identify and was very careful in studiously keeping out of his field and where Blast Off would be able to detect it. The bond between them had been carefully closed off, Onslaught and the rest of the team resuming their usual practice of keeping the others out. He didn’t know what he was thinking. The only window he had into what was going on was what the mech in his arms allowed to seep out into his field.

And Blast Off just hurt.

He held him just that little bit tighter.

The Combaticon Second in Command was limp and pliable when Onslaught went to put him back down. It felt like manipulating a bag of liquid lead, the mech not supporting himself at all. His visor was so dim it was almost offline. He shouldn’t look like that. It felt wrong to see him so… vulnerable, the mech usually extremely careful and never showing a single sign of weakness. The last time it was this bad he at least had a semblance of himself and didn’t completely switch off until he thought he was alone. Now, he was fully of the belief that if he wanted to he could reach into his spark chamber and unplug all of the vital connections and Blast Off wouldn’t make a peep. It was just wrong. Staggeringly wrong.

Blast Off’s hand reached up for him. Onslaught swallowed thickly.

He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He didn’t.

Blast Off needed to rest. He could feel himself becoming tense, his frame reacting to his Second and the Combiner coding beginning to hiss about them feeling better if they were together and how he would be able to rest if they combined and took the strain from him. It was complete nonsense. Combining was tiring. It was the last thing Blast Off needed right now.

But the voices were a bit harder to ignore.

He left Blast Off on his berth above the ornate and extremely well made blanket that he had neatly tucked in and nestled in to the decorative pillows like they were wrapping him in the world’s softest hug. The mech had always been one for luxuries, and it seemed in the absence of everything else he had chosen to surround himself in comfort on his berth. It was so…

Onslaught never knew him to be any other way. They’d met before the war kicked off and had instantly taken a shine to each other - it was the kind of companionship nobody had expected. The rich, pompous, spoiled, and ridiculously snide towers mech and the military logistician with a temper just as foul as his mouth. At first, Blast Off’s cohort referred to him as his pet. That was all mechs like him could be. Pets and something to be owned, to be used and doted on and thrown away when they got boring. Blast Off never got bored, and when the war broke out they had stuck together. Even when they formed their little group, even when Shockwave found them and begun his experiments, they stuck together. Being without him… Onslaught didn’t even remember what it was like.

He stood up before he started to get any ideas and turned, beginning his short march to the door-

“Onslaught.”

Onslaught twitched and looked back at him. His visor was barely online, flickering and dim.

“Don’t go.”

How was he meant to say no to him? He wasn’t so wicked that he’d deny him a small token comfort.

“You shouldn’t be so familiar with your commanding officer.” He knelt down next to him all the same. For harsh words his voice was disgustingly soft; maybe he knew that he didn’t mean them and they came from somewhere bitter that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I was scared that I wouldn’t make it back to you.” He was ex-venting hard, his internals making an ominous creaking noise.

“I will always find you.”

“I should be so lucky.” He sighed, sinking down into the recharge slab below him before grimacing and tensing with a hiss. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.” He quietly admitted, his optics blurry underneath the dim visor. “My spark’s going to give up eventually.”

Why was something so important to him so mortal? It was cruel.

“Then I’ll just have to see to it that it doesn’t.”

“Always ever such the tactician.” Blast Off wheezed. “I eagerly await to see what you have planned.”

He shouldn’t be talking so much. It was clearly a huge strain on his frame - Hook had released him, but it was out of necessity rather than him being ready to go. There was an expectation that Blast Off would continue to rest and do nothing more than recharge. Onslaught thought Blast Off would have been in a better condition than this. Hook must have been desperate for the space. He must have had more faith in their care than they deserved.

“Don’t talk.” Onslaught ordered. “Rest.”

“How can I rest?” Blast Off made a sound that Onslaught interpreted as a laugh of disbelief. “I can’t even-“

“Blast Off.”

“Sorry, Commander.” He almost whispered the apology.

Fucking Commander again. Irritation flared in his field and he tucked it back in close to his chest.

Blast Off slipped into recharge not long after. His venting was uneven but steady, and Onslaught found himself watching the rise and fall of his plating, static jumping over it in tiny sparks as crystalline fingers slowly spread out as his frame produced the coating that protected him.

He couldn’t hold his hand without disturbing the new growth. His hand itched to reach out and tangle their digits together, to feel the weight of his palm against his and assure himself that he was there and with him and he was alive. He had to settle for knotting his own fingers together as he kept watch over him.

Onslaught knew he’d never be able to stay for long, duty always called. It came in the form of his internal alarm going off - he was expected on duty on The Nemesis. An additional shift rotation, courtesy of Megatron. A reminder of the shackles that bound them all. The door opened with a hiss, and he looked back over his shoulder one last time to the sleeping form of Blast Off before leaving.

The defences in the desert had to go. They had to be dismantled and ground to dust, the remnants cast to the wind. The audacity of the Autobots to bring his second to harm. The audacity. Did they think that their actions would be without consequence? Unforgivable.

Blast Off, quite frankly, felt like complete and utter shit. In the past three cycles he had lost his shielding upon reentry, been shot at by Autobot defence forces, ignited as he escaped, crashed into the desert in the most unbecoming way and broken more parts of his unprotected body than was reasonable for someone already having such a terrible time. And then he’d had to be carried by Brawl of all mechs to the medical bay on The Nemesis and was seen by who knew how many others - he’d spent the trip swimming in and out of consciousness and only knew that Brawl hadn’t swapped places with Onslaught because every time his optics onlined it was still that ghastly shade of green.

That, and he’d seen him standing on the other side of the medical bay, somewhere he couldn’t be if he was meant to be putting him down. His hand had tried to reach out to him. Being so far gone he didn’t even know if he was there, but what did his struggling processor care? There was a comfort in his Commanders presence.

The last cycle was slowly coming back, his processor bogged down and sluggish with all the other processes it was slowly chewing its way through. Onslaught had come to collect him on his own. They’d gone back together, his hand searing into his back, and he’d accidentally shared how he felt.

I’d be hard pressed to keep myself from you. Who did he think he was? And then-

He groaned, the fact his limbs felt so heavy the only reason he didn’t immediately slap them to his face. Onslaught had carried him.

It was fine in the loose sense of the word if anyone else carried him - while he detested it, if it was necessary then he would begrudgingly accept it. Needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. But with anyone else, Brawl especially, his spark wasn’t trying to crawl out of his chest to meet them. With Onslaught, every centimetre between them was an extra centimetre his spark had to drag itself across to get to him. Had he felt how it had hammered away in his chest? Did he feel how warm his face was from where he’d buried it into his shoulder, not daring to press into his neck? He loved him. Was his frame screaming it?

The mech was married to his job - there wasn’t any room for him there. It was something Blast Off intended to carry silently with him until the feeling faded, like a good soldier should. If he’d found out…

It wasn’t reciprocated which was fine and he actually preferred that, thank you - it was. Everything else? The embarrassment that he hadn’t managed to keep it private? That now his Commander, the object of his affections, had to navigate it too? How he’d imposed himself upon him and the mech would now feel compelled to give him an answer, no matter the outcome?

In order to distract himself, he began running reports on himself to ascertain the state his frame was in. He ached and he hurt but it wasn’t almost as bad as it had been before, especially now his outer armour didn’t feel so raw and sensitive. The coating must have been starting to form and begun protecting the delicate and sensitive sensors underneath again. Just the airflow from his vents wasn’t enough to have him want to scratch himself raw and dig them out of his armour. Good. That was good. It meant that he was healing and whatever Hook had done for him was doing its job and that the way he’d pushed himself too far hadn’t caused any delays. That he knew of, at least – the report was at 98% and would be ready for his perusal any minute. In the meantime, he looked around his room – there was a cube of medical grade (horrendous) and a single pain chip (wonderful). They would be saved for later, because his attention was now on the memo that was neatly tucked underneath the cube of medical grade, the whispers of his Commander’s penmanship visible in the slightly imperfect fold. It was very unlike Onslaught to fold like that, like he’d been in a rush. Curiosity burned. What had him so rushed that he didn’t even have a second spare to meticulously prepare as he usually did?

The report pinged its completion and he scanned through it. Still broken, still no chance of transforming, spark strained, yadda yadda – he dismissed all of it and hesitantly pushed himself upright, his excitement powering him through – and he moved the cube of medical grade out of the way to force down his intake later in favour of reading the note that Onslaught had left for him.