#overstrike

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Dropmix didn’t bother to look up when the door hissed open. The soft chime was familiar—the medbay doors always had a distinct pitch—and he was halfway through a game of solitaire that he’d been pretending not to care about for the last several minutes.

He assumed it was Jeopardy.

Took his time flipping the next card.

The younger mech had been gone longer than Dropmix had expected, sure, but not worryingly long. Echo had requested attention—not emergency treatment—and Jeopardy had taken the medkit himself. The kid had been nervous, but that was nothing new. Any of the confidence that Dropmix had helped the young mech build within the past year or so had vanished after the incident with Sunrazor.

Jeopardy needed something simple he could accomplish himself to help get him where he needed to be again.

Echo was harmless, it was often difficult for Dropmix to wrap his head around the fact that the Praxian could be dangerous at all. He was small, a bit twitchy, but not the kind to cause problems. And he was far too friendly to pose any real threat. Why the blue mech hadn’t come in for an assessment, Dropmix didn’t know, he had become rather finicky with the medbay as of late.

So the dark mech had stayed behind and let the junior medic go in his place. Watched the clock. Stacked cards. Listened to the ever playing music of the medbay. Let Jeopardy sweat through it.

That’s what field experience was for.

The kid stepped in, medkit still in hand, bright optics a little too wide, mouth drawn tight. He didn’t bother to say anything, which wasn’t odd, but not concerning. No, what caught his attention was the sound of his steps. Jeopardy’s steps were light, more hesitant than usual, but not alone. They were followed by unsure but loud clicking of heels, not the odd rhythm of shuffling that promised Echo—that’s what finally got Dropmix to pull his attention away from his game. A low chuff rumbled from his engine and he looked up.

Dropmix’s posture immediately snapped straight, plates flaring under thick armor and vents hissing. The growl rising in his throat was silenced by programs as he rose from his seat sharply, cards forgotten. His fingers twitched, phantom claws curling by his sides as he leveled his gaze with the second figure that loomed behind Jeopardy.

For a moment, he didn’t recognize her. Just the shape of something wrong in the room, the size, the presence of another predator. A challenger. Then her name detonated in his processor like shrapnel.

Overstrike.

The decepticon seeker had no right to be here, to be so close to Jeopardy. Dropmix had cleared her at Rumbleclutch’s request, quickly looked over her frame, examined and treated most of her wounds, and outfitted her with a compliance collar. He had finished the examination and sent her with Rumbleclutch for questioning with hopes to never see the imposing mech again.

Not that she made such an intimidating sight anymore, no, the one proud bot was in shambles, broken. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous, if anything—despite the popular assumption—it made her even more threatening.

Overstrike had nothing to lose.

She moved slowly, frame hunched, plating tight and twitching. The seeker’s large wings trembled behind her, vents uneasy and shuddering. Her hands were pressed over her chest like she was holding herself together with sheer force of will. Overstrike’s dim gaze didn't meet his optics. She looked... wrong. Nothing like the name she carried. She was too quiet. Too small. Too slow. Like she'd been emptied out and stitched back together wrong.

Her hands were clasped over her chest where black lines licked at her plates.

Dropmix was moving before he had time to fully process the scene unfolding before him, limbs moving on their own accord. He pushed back from his desk and stepped to come around it, foot catching against the leg of his desk. He stumbled but didn’t stop, gaze set on the imposter—who was without any cuffs, only the small collar on her neck kept her at bay.

The gladiator felt something in his chest twist, battle programs trying to rear their ugly heads before being smothered by the oppressive music that beat like a throbbing pulse inside his skull.

“Jeopardy,” his voice was lower, more demanding than he intended, teetering on the edge of hostility—or perhaps it was closer to concern, worry. It didn’t matter what it sounded like, it served its purpose regardless.

Jeopardy flinched and froze like he’d been caught stealing—eyes wide like a sparkling who knew they were in the wrong, gleaming with guilt.

There was fear too.

His hands flexed nervously around the handle of the medkit, trembling now. His lips parted just slightly like he meant to speak, forgot how, and then tried again. His plates flicked and pressed into himself as the medic fought for a reaction. Light blue optics flicked to Overstrike, back to Dropmix, then down to the floor as if he could find his spine somewhere among the scuff marks on the tile.

"I—" he started, voice too soft for a mech his size, "she was—"

“No.” Dropmix’s tone cut clean through the room, no need for volume. Just precision. Finality.

Jeopardy flinched at the tone, vocalizer clicking once. Dropmix almost let himself feel guilty about snapping, almost. Jeopardy’s feelings and confidence weren't the most important thing on his mind right now though. No, it was his safety. The young medic should not be standing so close to Overstrike, he should not be near her at all, even if she was cuffed. She was too dangerous.

The dark mech ignored the rising headache from suppressed programs, the sharp worry that clenched his chest. Instead he just continued onward. He stepped forward, all his weight falling into the motion, like a boulder gaining momentum. Implanted medical scanners whirred to life, locking in on Jeopardy first, searching for any possible injury before moving to the looming Decepticon.

Overstrike didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up. Her red gaze remained on the floor, expression hollow, edges tainted with pain.

Jeopardy took half a step back, then stopped himself. He shifted like he meant to interpose, to explain, but couldn’t find the nerve. His whole frame was drawn taut, like the tension in his plating was the only thing holding him together.

“She wasn’t doing well. Echo called for her but no one came so… so he lied. She was—she is hurt, Dropmix. I think you missed—” He swallowed the rest of the sentence. Flinching back at his unsaid words. His hands were shaking now, more so than before, breaths getting shallower. A low whine escaped him as he lowered his gaze.

Dropmix’s spark clenched.

He could hear the edge in Jeopardy’s voice—could feel it, deep in the tension running between them like a live wire. That high-frequency stutter in the kid’s vents, the tremor in his fingers, the shrinking posture and submissive gaze—this wasn’t just nerves. This was fear.

Not of Overstrike.

Of him.

That brought Dropmix up short.

The tension in his frame didn’t vanish, but it paused—coiled now, pulled in tighter like reins being drawn in. He blinked once, optics narrowing—not in suspicion, but recalibration. His gaze dropped to the medkit still clutched in Jeopardy’s shaking servos, then flicked again to Overstrike’s slouched frame.

Jeopady had acted on his own, which was the point of the exercise. He had evaluated and made a decision on his own, Dropmix was supposed to reinforce and support the behavior. Not yell, not let his concern and fear warp his actions. The large mech worked his jaw, blunt teeth grating against each other as he looked at Oversrike again.

It didn’t change the fact that she was dangerous.

The music in the room suddenly felt louder. The persistent, steady beat that never stopped in the medbay—a rhythm designed to regulate, to stabilize. He let it wash over him, focused on it, and breathed in time with it. He would have to handle this like most things with Jeopardy, delicately. His arms dropped from the faintly defensive posture they’d taken, his gaze firmly set on Overstrike.

The gladiator now was close enough that he should be able to intervene if the seeker made any move for Jeopardy.

“Alright,” Dropmix said, voice lower now. Still firm, but different. The edge was gone. Softer, or maybe just restrained, a forced gentleness. He didn’t look at Jeopardy, hand moving to settle on his hip above where his gun lay hidden. “You're not in trouble, Junior, let’s just… get her settled and then we can talk.”

Jeopardy’s gaze flickered up for a moment, barely reaching Dropmix’s own. The eye contact was too brief for Dropmix to see whatever emotion was hidden with the mech’s optics, but he didn’t need to. Dropmix could see it, the way the tension in Jeopardy eased just slightly, the shaken breath the young medic sucked in. There was relief.

The white bot didn’t speak—didn’t seem to trust himself to—but he nodded once, jerky and quick, like if he held still too long he might fall apart entirely. He moved slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment Dropmix had offered him. Step by step, he guided Overstrike forward, his other hand hovering near her arm like he wanted to support her but knew better than to actually touch her.

Dropmix didn’t stop watching her—not for a single moment. Every tremble of her wings, every twitch of her fingers, every stumble she caught too late. She was folding in on herself like a mech drowning in their own frame.

But she came willingly.

That, somehow, made everything worse.

The seeker’s legs buckled as she reached the nearest berth. Jeopardy lurched forward—reflexive—but Overstrike braced herself on the edge, her plating groaning under its own weight. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t whimper. Just let herself sink down onto the slab like gravity had finally won. Jeopardy offered her an unsure and shaky smile as he helped her settle on the berth.

The silence that followed was heavy and aching, a weight that pressed against all three of them. Only the quiet hum of the medbay's music—slow, measured, almost mournful—kept things from unraveling.

Dropmix approached slowly, his scanners already compiling a list of data he hadn’t seen last time. Fissures spreading like cracks in old concrete. Subdermal bruising. Static burn across the fusion seam in her chest. It wasn’t new, but it was worse. She had either been messing with her old wound or someone had taken the liberty of doing it for her.

The once powerful seeker didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at anything. Her optics were dull, unfocused. Lost in thought perhaps. Her plating was trembling in subtle patterns he recognized—not from anatomy textbooks, but from endless fights and his time in the Pits. She was on the edge. Not just from pain but from fear as well.

The younger mech twisted the medkit tighter in his hands. “I know I should’ve come back first. Protocol says to report before escalating. I just—”

“You did what you thought was right,” Dropmix cut in, voice quiet now. “I’m not going to punish you for that.”

Jeopardy blinked. Relief and guilt warred on his face. The older mech didn’t offer a comforting smile, his attention still firmly set on the seeker in front of him.

“Tell me what happened,” Dropmix spoke clearly, still not looking over at Jeopardy directly. There was no need, he could see the way the mech was still trembling, hands fidgeting as he hovered.

Jeopardy swallowed hard, sucking in a breath. Dropmix hated the way his voice shook with residual fear, “Gun-Gunshot wound. Old. Looks untreated or reopened. Uh… Close-range, chest cavity. Possibly near or into the spark chamber. I um… I brought her here for a more thorough scan?”

Dropmix simply nodded in response. Jeopardy was worried about a fracture in her spark chamber, damage that could develop into something lethal if not treated correctly. A reasonable concern if she had been shot in close range with a powerful enough weapon. The dark mech sighed, looking over Overstrike once more before finally looking at Jeopardy, making sure to soften his expression.

“And you’re sure it was close range?” He asked casually, careful to keep his tone from coming off as skeptical.

The young medic shifted slightly but nodded once, short and curt. His bright optics flicked to Overstrike for a moment before he spoke, words hushed, “Um, yes. Overstrike said it was close range I think? I’m not… I’m not sure, Echo just—well he said it was so…yeah.”

Dropmix’s optics narrowed just slightly—less suspicion, more focus—as he absorbed that answer. Not from Overstrike directly. From Echo. That made things more complicated. He didn’t question it aloud though. Not yet. But a line formed in his brow as he turned back to Overstrike, expression neutral. He looked her over again, frowning at the way she curled into herself. It was the most pathetic Dropmix had ever seen a flier—aside from when they were gutted.

“Overstrike, was it close range?” He asked plainly, his deep voice firm and unwavering. He waited for a response, when he didn’t get one he opened his mouth again, only to be cut off by her soft voice.

“Yes,” the seeker finally spoke, more broken than Dropmix imagined her voice to sound, static lacing the edges of it. She finally looked up, hands still pressed to her chest. The green mech’s expression fractured ever so slightly. Crumbling away into something upset and distraught. Overstrike sucked in a shallow hitched breath, “Sunrazor- we were… she—”

Her voice cracked, vocalizer clicking like a distressed sparkling, vents whining and wings fluttering behind her. She shook her head, gasping and pressing her clawed hand harder against her chest. A broken cry bubbled from her lips, “She said—said she wanted to… to merge with me! But instead she- she shot me! I thought that- I thought…”

Overstrike shuttered, looking down again, voice lowering even more if at all possible. “I thought she loved me.”

Jeopardy made a weak noise in response, flinching at her tone. His hands reached forward—most likely to offer comfort—before pulling back, lingering at his sides again. The young medic’s expression twisted with an odd phantom pain as he turned to look at Dropmix.

Dropmix didn’t return Jeopardy’s look at first. His optics were still on Overstrike, now locked onto the raw fracture in her voice more than the gash in her armor. She was still shaking, whimpers and pathetic clicks stimming from her throat as she fought to catch her breath through shallow gasps. The seeker was shrinking in on herself, as if she could somehow hide her large frame from them.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to believe the sob story or not.

“Merge,” he echoed under his breath, not a question. Not even surprise. Just bitter confirmation. Despite his own hesitance in believing her story, it explained a lot the more he thought about it. Things clicked into place for the most part—there was just one question Dropmix couldn’t seem to find an answer to: why would Sunrazor shoot her most loyal lackey?

Jeopardy looked like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t find words that would make any of this easier to process. He settled for silence instead, edging closer to Overstrike with the medkit hugged against his chest like a shield.

The dark gladiator exhaled through his vents, a slow drag of heat that hissed out into the room. It didn’t matter if he wanted to believe Overstrike or not. The damage was real. The fear was real. And not that Jeopardy was involved, Dropmix had to pretend he cared, act like this all mattered in the long run and he hadn’t purposefully looked over the injury when he originally cleared her.

Dropmix didn’t allow himself the luxury of frustration, not when Jeopardy was still watching him like he might snap. And not when Overstrike looked one wrong question away from falling apart completely. So instead he stepped back, folding his arms over his chest as he focused on what needed to be done to get the seeker out of his medbay. “I need you to open up your chassis.”

Overstrike didn't move.

Her optics had glazed again, staring into the nothing just above the berth. The bruised plating over her chest shuddered with each vented breath, clawed hands still covering the worst of the wound. Her breath was still slightly shaky, though regaining its stability, fans humming loudly against the sound of the medbay’s music. She didn’t seem to hear him.

Jeopardy looked between the two again, jaw working like he had something to say. Dropmix waited a moment, glancing at the young mech expectantly—still, he didn’t speak. Dropmix moved on.

“I need you to retract your armor,” he repeated, voice firmer this time. “So I can assess the spark chamber damage.”

Still nothing.

“Overstrike.” That tone—the one Dropmix rarely used nowadays—wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Command-level. The kind that turned heads in field triage and on the battlefield, that got unruly gladiators to listen and get out of his way.

Jeopardy shied away.

Overstrike flinched.

Her optics finally turned toward him, but there was no recognition there. Just hollow compliance. Her hands remained over her chest, curled claws tightening as she shook her head—once, sharply.

“No.”

Dropmix's plating flared under his armor, jaw clenching tightly for a moment as the music spiked in his head, keeping his mounting frustration at bay.

“You’ll die,” he said evenly despite his own inner turmoil. “If it’s fractured and you don’t let me fix it, it’ll get worse and start stressing your spark.”

“I know,” she hissed through clenched teeth. It wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t angry. Just… tired. Her voice crackled like a fire or broken signal, one more surge from snapping. “I know. Just—don’t. Don’t touch me. I can’t—just don’t.”

Behind him, Jeopardy tensed.

Dropmix recalibrated again, jaw flexing. Of course she couldn’t open up. Not after that kind of trauma. Not after being betrayed by someone she trusted during what was supposed to be the most vulnerable and intimate act a Cybertronian could offer. Which meant that Dropmix was left with only one alternative that required a lot more effort on his part. More than he wanted to spend on her.

“We could… I mean, we have the uh, the scanner? The big one?” Jeopardy finally offered, voice timid and unsure, “We could use it to map out the inside of her spark chamber. It’s strong enough to detect fractures… I’m pretty sure. It would be less… invasive?”

Overstrike didn’t seem to register what he’d said. She was curling back into herself, fingers digging harder into her chest plating as if that alone could keep everything inside from spilling out. Her vents had gone shallow, the pitch edging toward distress. She was starting to spiral.

Dropmix watched her passively, he knew that using the larger scanner was a reasonable solution, things like this is what it was designed for after all—they just didn’t get the chance to use it very often.

“Yes, I know,” He sighed, tone sounding more tired as he continued “I would just rather not use it. Last time we used it I had Nova breathing down my neck about how much power it drained from the rest of the outpost.”

The younger medic nodded nervously, finally placing down the medkit in his arms on a nearby berth. Jeopardy cleared his throat. “That was after a uh… a storm I think? A long one? The solar chargers for the base were… damaged and unable to gather power? Otherwise it um—it should be fine?”

There were times Dropmix hated how smart Jeopardy could be, how good he was at remembering small details.

Dropmix didn’t respond at first. He stood with arms crossed, weight shifted slightly to one side, expression unreadable. The hum and lull of the medbay stretched long and slow between them—too slow. He was buying time, trying not to let the irritation show. Jeopardy was right, of course. The grid had recovered weeks ago. The scanner would be fine. But Dropmix didn’t like wasting high-powered resources on a former Decepticon who couldn’t even meet his optics.

But this wasn’t about Overstrike.

It was about Jeopardy.

The kid had made a judgment call—something Dropmix had been pushing him toward for months. Now that it was here, he couldn’t undercut that, not without shattering the fragile sliver of confidence Jeopardy had managed to cobble back together.

“Prep the scanner,” he said finally, the decision falling from his mouth like it weighed too much. “Run a full chassis sweep. Set the sensitivity high. We’re looking for microfractures—anything that could impact spark integrity.”

Jeopardy nodded, a bit too fast, like he was relieved to finally have something to do. His hands twitched as he moved toward the control panel near the far wall. “Y-yes, I—I’ll just queue the settings now, should take about two minutes to power up. I’ll, um… I’ll do a deep mapping pass.”

Dropmix gave a single, slow nod, watching the kid retreat with his nervous energy coiled tight around him like barbed wire.

Overstrike still hadn’t moved.

Her hands were still locked over her chest, claws digging faint scratches into her own armor. Her optics had dimmed again, that flicker of fire—genuine or not—snuffed back out like a faulty bulb. Whatever was left in her was running on fumes. Dropmix didn’t like the way her breathing stuttered in time with the scanner's whir as it began to power up. She was slipping under again, mentally.

He stepped forward. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to register.

“Overstrike,” he said, quiet but firm, drawing her optics without force. They flicked toward him, dull red against green. “You don’t need to open your chest. We’re scanning externally. It won’t touch you.”

The green seeker blinked once. Twice. As if parsing that took effort. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

Dropmix let out a long, controlled breath, then glanced over his shoulder at Jeopardy, who was still typing rapidly into the side wall console, checking power lines and diagnostic thresholds. He looked back at Overstrike with a firm gaze, “You’ll have to move to the side room for the scan.”

Overstrike’s mouth twitched—almost an objection, almost a grimace—but it didn’t become either. Her gaze had gone vacant again, staring through him more than at him, and her hands remained locked tight over her chest. Still, after a long pause, she gave the smallest of nods. Again. Mechanically.

Jeopardy glanced up from the console at the confirmation and immediately dropped his gaze again like he hadn’t meant to be caught watching. “The chamber’s ready,” he said, voice low and careful. “I’ll—I'll help her in.”

Dropmix didn’t like the idea. He didn’t like Jeopardy being in arm’s reach of someone who could’ve gutted him just a few weeks ago. He didn’t like the way Overstrike’s optics flicked to Jeopardy as he spoke either—not calculating, not cruel, just aware. But he also didn’t move to stop him.

“You’ll stay behind her,” Dropmix finally said, voice quiet but carrying, eyeing Overstrike warily. He would cuff her but the stasis cuffs would affect the scan. “Not beside. Not in front. Behind.”

Jeopardy nodded stiffly as he walked over and prompted the seeker to stand with practiced ease. “Yes, sir.”

She didn’t flinch when Jeopardy stepped to her side, though her wing twitched hard enough to brush the air. She didn’t look at him either. Just slowly—agonizingly—rose from the berth and followed the younger medic across the medbay. Her steps were heavy, off-balance. Dragging. Like her spark was pulling her down with every step.

Dropmix followed them at a distance, messing with his own comm systems and changing the playlist he was currently playing music from.

The scanner room wasn’t far—just a partitioned side chamber built to isolate the high-energy equipment from the rest of the medbay’s delicate systems. It had a reinforced floor, leaded paneling, and hardwired dampeners threaded through the ceiling that rattled softly every time the unit powered on. The scanner itself looked like the skeletal husk of a med-frame, long, riblike supports curling down from the ceiling cradle above a narrow examination slab.

Overstrike paused just inside the threshold, frame rigid. Dropmix didn’t press her. He waited behind, arms crossed again, watching Jeopardy carefully as the kid prepped the slab with a practiced, if shaky, efficiency. He adjusted the supports, calibrated the overhead relay arms, and input the final sequence into the side terminal with trembling fingers.

“She just needs to lie back,” the young mech said aloud—maybe to Dropmix, maybe to himself.

The large seeker hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jeopardy before finally passing the threshold for the room. Her hand brushed the edge of the slab and she shuddered like she’d touched live wire. But she climbed on and laid back, hands finally moving from where they shielded her chest. Overstrike didn’t close her optics, didn’t sigh, didn’t say a word. Instead she stared up at the scanner supports like they might come down and crush her.

Jeopardy lingered a moment longer, making small adjustments before shuffling out of the room and joining Dropmix at the large window that looked into it. He closed the door hesitantly behind himself as Dropmix messed with the small wall monitor, staring at the screen and pressing a few buttons as the machine finished its preparations.

The young medic joined him at his side as the scanner hummed to life, drowning out the gentle lulling music from the medbay speakers. Dropmix stepped back, letting Jeopardy take over with ease, the young mech paused after a moment. Glancing at Dropmix before pressing the start button.

A quiet chime sounded as the scanner powered fully, the arms descending just a few inches from Overstrike’s chest. They didn’t touch, didn’t even hum, but the field between them buzzed with tension all the same. Lines of pale blue light danced across her armor, mapping fracture lines, data streams flickering across the side terminal Jeopardy now hunched over, reading them live.

The machine finished mapping the surface area and waited a moment before it continued. The live internal map appeared on the screen and the deep scan began. The scanner's low whine filled the room, rising just high enough to needle under the plating.

Overstrike jerked, plates twitching and flaring as she gasped.

The sound of the machine buzzed around Dropmix’s skull, making programs whine and strain to keep himself in check. He stood just behind Jeopardy, arms crossed again, optics narrowed on the screen as it began compiling the interior diagnostic data. Another pulse was sent and they were finally getting feedback, a digital copy of Overstrike’s spark chamber building itself on the screen.

The seeker squirmed slightly, discomfort rippling through her form.

“Vitals are spiking,” Jeopardy said quickly, looking over at a side screen and frowning. “Should I—?”

“Just wait, she’ll be fine,” Dropmix raised a hand, not bothering to glance at the screen holding her vitals. Instead he leaned forward, watching as another pulse added more information to the scan of the spark chamber.

Jeopardy nodded slightly, glancing up to watch as Overstrike’s wings twitched against the berth she lay on. The scanner pinged again.

And that’s when he saw it.

A second signal.

Not her spark or an implant. But something else that her spark signature had previously overshadowed, keeping it hidden from weaker scans. Dropmix frowned, tapping at the screen with blunt fingertips until he managed to rotate the image slightly.

The large seeker squirmed on the berth more, a soft cry escaping her lips, drowned out by the scanners insistent humming. Heat rippled the air surrounding her core and Jeopardy made a concerned noise, “She’s overheating.”

Dropmix didn’t bother to respond, rotating the map until he could better see what was creating the signal. There was something buried in Overstrike’s spark chamber. Dormant until now. Jeopardy’s attention turned to the anomaly, vents huffing in confusion. “Dropmix?”

It pulsed—once—in perfect sync with the scanner’s frequency.

This time Dropmix could hear Overstrike’s cry as she jerked away from the scanner, claws pulling her off the berth as she panted, steam rising from her vents. Her plates flared in distress, heat pouring from every open gap as her body failed to regulate her temperature. The large seeker sobbed.

“Dropmix!” Jeopardy shouted, panicking, making his voice crack and snap with static. The young medic stumbled back slightly, horror twisting his expression as he watched the seeker writhe. “We need to shut it off!”

The gladiator didn’t move for a moment, attention focused on the screen in front of him, trying to sort out whatever was lodged in the chamber. He took one sharp step toward the viewing window. His optics locked on the screen—then flicked to Overstrike, who was writhing now, smoke curling from her side vents, the lights in her optics flickering wildly.

The anomaly pulsed again.

Then again.

The signal was syncing with the machine.

Another wave of input cleared the image, giving enough data that Dropmix was finally able to tell what the foreign object was. Panic seized his core and lurched his frame into action. He shoved past Jeopardy, who staggered back with a yelp, and slammed his palm against the override panel on the wall.

The scanner system immediately powered down with a jarring clunk, the energy fields vanishing in a flicker of static. The chamber’s lights flared red for a fraction of a second—emergency cutoff triggered.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

Overstrike shrieked. A horrible, high-frequency wail that wasn’t entirely mechanical—somewhere between a distress call and a scream. Her claws tore at the side of the scanner slab as her body convulsed. The heat coming off her now was unnatural—reactor core level. Her hands slapped over her chest, not protectively this time.

Desperately.

Like she could feel something moving inside her.

“GET IT OUT—!” she wailed, eyes blazing red and wild now. “GET IT OUT OF ME!”

Dropmix’s optics snapped to the screen.

The anomaly had stopped pulsing—but not because the scan was over. No. Because it didn’t need to sync anymore. It had already woken up. It was now feeding off of the supercharged seeker’s spark energy.

There was no stopping this.

Overstrike’s chest cavity now radiated a faint, pulsing orange light, like a spark-but not hers. Not hers.

“Jeopardy!” Dropmix yelled, stepping back from the screen, “Run!”

The young medic flinched at the volume, eyes wide with confusion, horror—but Dropmix was already grabbing him by the arm and hauling him back from the viewing window. “Wha—what?! We have to help—”

“No we don’t. We can’t.” Dropmix snapped.

The seeker had managed to pull herself off of the berth and was now crouched against the far side of the scanner room. One hand was braced against the floor, the other clawed and buried against her own chest like she was trying to dig through her armor. She looked up at the window with pulsing optics-no hatred in her eyes. Just terror. Unfiltered, ancient terror.

"Please!" she choked, a scream tearing from her throat, voice warping with static. "I don’t know— Don’t leave! What’s—Make it stop!”

Dropmix didn’t flinch.

He couldn’t afford to.

The look in Overstrike’s eyes was burned into his processor already—pure panic, uncomprehending agony—but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t freeze like Jeopardy did. The young mech was wide eyed, face contorted with horror and fear, vents wheezing. His mouth moved but his vocalizer failed to do anything but click.

The gladiator grabbed the young medic’s arm and pulled him away, forcing the mech into action.

Overstrike screamed again, convulsing as another pulse shook her chassis. The light coming from her chest cavity flickered faster, brighter—beating in sync with something that wasn’t hers. The walls trembled slightly with the feedback.

“No!” Jeopardy tried to twist away, but Dropmix was faster. Stronger. He hauled the kid back from the door as another shriek split the air. The room beyond the viewing glass flickered with unstable light. The scanner hadn’t even powered all the way down—residual energy licked through the supports like veins.

“We’re not saving her!” Dropmix yelled, tugging Jeopardy with him. “She’s already dead.”

This time, Jeopardy didn’t fight back, a choked sob left him but he turned to follow.

That was all Dropmix was asking for.

He ran.

The gladiator didn't stop to look back. His grip on Jeopardy’s arm was unyielding, his steps thunderous, purposeful. The smaller medic stumbled behind him, optics wide and flooded with fear, looking back over his shoulder again and again as if some part of him believed Overstrike might still follow—still escape the scanner room, still be saved.

She wouldn't.

She couldn’t.

The sound of her screaming still filled the hallway behind them, a voice shredded by panic and raw power, modulated with static and feedback. Something had taken root inside her—something designed to activate under the right conditions. Something no one had detected until now.

They rounded the corner toward the bomb shelter built into the medbay's substructure—a hardened chamber reinforced against plasma discharge and explosives. Originally designed for storing volatile energon samples and sheltering staff during raids. Now, it was the only thing that might survive when Overstrike detonated.

The sound of metal tearing rang out behind them. A shriek of tortured alloy and something far more primal. It echoed through the walls, vibrating in Dropmix’s teeth. Jeopardy whimpered, feet slipping slightly on the smooth flooring before Dropmix hauled him forward again, nearly lifting the smaller mech entirely.

“Don’t look back,” Dropmix growled. “Keep moving.”

Jeopardy only sobbed in response, gripping onto Dropmix hard enough to dent his plating.

They reached the shelter door—a heavy, sealed slab of carbon-steel alloy and reactive shielding. Dropmix’s palm slammed against the override.

“DROP—” Jeopardy shrieked, diving forward as something exploded behind them. The scanner chamber had gone critical—whether it was Overstrike or the machinery, Dropmix didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

—

They had been stuck in this sector for cycles now. The front was moving, Sunrazor temporarily abandoned their assigned base, and they were slowly creeping up on the Autobots. Sunrazor had a plan, a genius and well crafted one, Overstrike was sure of it. There had to be a purpose behind their slow approach, the quiet before a storm. The way Sunrazor’s eyes danced with a new purpose.

Perhaps this time Overstrike would get her chance to take care of the pest, Valkyrie. And she would finally have all of Sunrazor.

Maybe she won’t mess up this time and earn the wrath of her beloved.

The last skirmish left more than just damage in its wake—it left a kind of hollowness, a pause before the inevitable violence began again. Camp was too quiet. Morale, lower than ever. But Overstrike didn’t care.

None of it mattered, as long as she was near her.

Sunrazor sat alone near the edge of camp, silhouetted against a ruined skyline, the dying flicker of fires below casting her frame in sharp, beautiful angles. Her golden armor truly did seem to glow like her namesake like this, catching the yellow light and flaring in a stunning display. Overstrike kept her distance—just a few paces away. Not close enough to be intrusive. Not far enough to be forgotten. Just... near.

Always near.

She hadn’t left Sunrazor’s side in days. Not unless ordered to. And even then, she carried the echo of her voice, her presence, like a live current in her processor.

The moon above burned weak and sickly, like it was giving up. Rain would fall soon, probably acidic again. Didn’t matter. If Sunrazor wanted to sit here and rust into the dirt, Overstrike would kneel beside her and corrode in silence. Gladly.

Sunrazor didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Perfect.

Overstrike sat on a storage unit and watched the golden mech, drinking her in with quiet reverence. The sharp lines of her jaw, the battle-scorched plating, the way her optics shimmered like they saw further than anyone else ever could. They flicked and danced between colors, red and blue clashing until it settled on a stark, piercing white. She would readjust, chuckle a bit, flare her plating, perhaps even murmur to herself and then the game would continue, an endless loop of wandering thoughts.

Even at moments like this, when Sunrazor was lost in her own mind and couldn't care less about what Overstrike was doing, there was something divine about her. Dignified. Untouchable. But Overstrike didn’t need to touch—just being allowed to orbit her, to serve her, was enough.

It was closer than anyone was able to get. Overstrike got to orbit closer than any other mech had the chance to. Of course, that was until Valkyrie entered the stage. Until the pastel mech decided to take all that Overstrike had. She stole Sunrazor’s attention, ruined everything.

Overstrike would make sure the pesky mech understood that she was the one to stand by Sunrazor’s side now. Valkyrie had been nothing.

The silence stretched too long.

Then, as if Overstrike’s longing had summoned it, Sunrazor spoke.

“Say something.” Her voice. A low rasp. Rough as twisted metal and just as beautiful. Sunrazor didn’t bother to turn and face the seeker, her searing red gaze remained on the horizon.

Overstrike startled, optics flaring, her wings twitched up at the request. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, “Like what?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who never shuts up.” Not kind. Not cruel. Just... tired. Sunrazor's tired voice was still music to her. The golden mech’s eyes flicked to blue for a moment, then back to red as her gaze settled on the Seeker.

Overstrike stood from her spot on the storage crate and took a careful step closer, wings flicking tentatively. She kept her voice quiet and reserved, respectful and reverent . “I thought maybe… you wanted space.”

Sunrazor eyes flared white and she snorted, looking to the skyline again, a twisted smile creeping across her lips. “If I wanted space, you’d be scrap on the side of the road.”

The words cut—but Overstrike didn’t flinch. She knew her. Knew she didn’t mean it. Not really. That was just how Sunrazor talked. Sharp edges were part of her charm. She was a weapon. Beautiful. Brutal. Distant.

And Overstrike would bleed herself dry for the illusion of closeness.

The quiet returned. This time heavier. Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” Sunrazor said. Measured. Cold. Her optics locked on the distant wreckage. They had settled on white again, dangerous and unknown. “About us.”

Overstrike’s spark nearly seized.

Her wings twitched, frame straightening as a jolt of electricity shot through her. “You have?” she breathed, optics wide and glowing. There was awe in her voice, like she was witnessing a revelation. A confession. A promise.

Of course there was something between them. Of course Sunrazor had been thinking. How could she not feel it? The bond. The connection.

Sunrazor finally turned to her, slow and deliberate, the twist of her frame fluid like oil over molten metal. Her optics still glowed white, unreadable and sharp. Her plates flared, vents hissing with heat, engine ticking and idling low. She hummed, looking over the large seeker with keen interest.

Overstrike’s ventilations caught in her throat. It felt like standing before a god about to pass judgment.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sunrazor repeated, her voice soft now, laced with something almost gentle—almost tender. Her eyes flicked to blue, endless and deep, a smile still spread across her face. She stepped closer, claws flexing at her sides. “About how devoted you are, how you are always there.”

Sunrazor closed the space between them, slow, calculated steps. Her frame loomed larger now, the heat radiating from her vents seeping into Overstrike’s armor. That smile never faltered—sharp, knowing. Predatory.

Overstrike didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe. If Sunrazor touched her now—if she even brushed a servo against her arm—it would undo her entirely.

“You’ve been loyal,” Sunrazor murmured, voice like polished steel sliding across glass. “Even when I didn’t ask for it. Even when I didn’t deserve it.” Her claws reached up, hovering a hair’s width from Overstrike’s faceplate. “That kind of loyalty… deserves acknowledgment, don’t you think?”

Overstrike’s optics widened. Her frame trembled, wings fluttering with barely-contained anticipation. “I’d do anything for you,” she whispered, spark fluttering erratically beneath her plating. “Anything you ask. You know that.”

Sunrazor’s optics shimmered with a glint of amusement, dancing between white and blue. She finally touched her—fingers trailing down the curve of Overstrike’s jaw, light and lingering. The seeker nearly shorted from the contact.

“I know,” Sunrazor said, quiet. “That’s what makes you so useful.”

The words stung. Useful. Not cherished. Not wanted. But Overstrike latched onto the tone, not the meaning. She twisted the word in her mind until it sounded like affection. Anything, she thought. She’d be anything for her.

Sunrazor leaned closer, close enough that Overstrike could feel her breath against her plating, that the smell of burning metal was intoxicating, overwhelming. The heat of Sunrazor’s frame seeped into her plating, searing through armor like it was meant to brand her. Her venting hitched. Her spark buzzed erratically behind its casing, trying to make sense of the closeness—of this.

“You’re trembling,” Sunrazor murmured, lips just barely grazing Overstrike’s cheek as she spoke. “Didn’t realize I scared you that much.”

“I’m not scared,” Overstrike breathed quietly, afraid that a single movement would take all this away, if she stepped out of line Sunrazor would retreat like she so often did. It had been ages since Sunrazor had touched her this gently.

Sunrazor’s mouth curled into the faintest grin. Not warm. Not cruel either. Just knowing.

“No?” she asked, and her hand slid lower—over her collar, brushing the exposed lines beneath her armor. Gentle. Teasing. Possessive.

Overstrike's frame reacted before she could stop it. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly, wings twitching with quiet need, mouth parting on an unsteady ex-vent. Her processor struggled to keep up, too full of static and fire.

“I just didn’t expect—” Her voice wavered. She tried again. “You’re never like this… not anymore… not since-”

Overstrike didn’t bother to finish that thought. Sunrazor was rarely physical with her, she rarely initiated it, but any and all touch had disappeared the moment Valkyrie had shown up, when they arrived at this cursed sector… when Sunrazor’s eyes weren’t the steady, rich red anymore, when they had started dancing between colors. Things had changed since then.

But this was nice.

Sunrazor tilted her head, optics scanning her face like she was mapping the most effective place to press. Her eyes flicked between blue and red, a mesmerizing dance between colors. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“No,” Overstrike said quickly, too quickly. “No, it’s not. It’s just…”

She trailed off, not sure how to finish that thought.

Sunrazor took another half-step closer, pressing Overstrike to sit on the storage unit again and slotting her knee between the seeker’s, crowding into her space like she belonged there. Her hand lifted, brushing lightly against the side of Overstrike’s jaw. Her other hand moved lower, tracing worm transformation seams down over the larger mech’s chest.

Sunrazor’s touch was light—purposefully so. Each glide of her claw a calculated gesture, slow and drawn-out, deliberate in its implication. She wasn’t reaching for connection. She was testing. Prodding. Watching how easily Overstrike would unravel for her again.

And unravel she did.

Overstrike leaned in, just a fraction, her optics wide and almost pleading. Her spark was roaring now, pressing against its chamber like it wanted to break through and spill into Sunrazor’s hands, like it already belonged there. She didn’t even notice the way her knees parted to accommodate Sunrazor’s leg, didn’t process how small she’d allowed herself to become—how compliant.

“You want this,” Sunrazor said, not a question. A statement. A claim. One hand remained on the seeker’s chest, the other moved to dance across Overstrike’s sensitive wings.

The large seeker nodded, lips parted, voice caught in the mess of her ventilation systems. “Yes,” she whispered, optics fluttering. “I want you. I always—”

Sunrazor cut her off—not with words, but with a shift of weight, the press of her body fully against Overstrike’s, hand now splayed over the plating of her chest, right over her spark. She hummed and smiled, eyes flicking and settling on the ghostly white—and then she kissed her.

It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow and deliberate, just like every other move Sunrazor made. But it devoured her all the same.

Overstrike melted into the kiss, her optics widening in shock and delight as Sunrazor’s lips pressed to hers. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t reverent. It wasn't about love. It was a claim. Her chassis trembled under the weight of it—she barely held on, fingers clenching Sunrazor’s sides like lifelines.

When the kiss broke, she exhaled an unsteady stream of vents. Her spark thundered behind its casing, as if it had just been ripped open. Her playing buzzed, shivering, vents hot and loud as the seeker struggled to compensate with the rising heat in her frame.

Sunrazor didn’t move back. Didn’t give her space. Her thumb stayed against Overstrike’s wing, idly stroking the seam there with a gentleness that felt like a contradiction. Like a lie wrapped in silk.

“That spark of yours,” she said softly after a moment, chuckling to herself, “it’s loud.”

Overstrike blinked, still breathless, fans whirring frantically. “Loud?”

“Always flaring when I’m near.” Sunrazor’s optics narrowed slightly, her hand moved slowly across the other’s chest, claws trailing dangerously on seams and gaps. “Like it’s calling mine.”

That made Overstrike’s internals seize. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t get the words out. Not right away.

“Do you… hear it?” she finally asked, voice raw.

A low hum rumbled in Sunrazor’s throat. “Sometimes. When I’m quiet enough to listen.” Her hand drifted up again, touching just over the place where Overstrike’s spark pulsed behind its casing. “It’s not subtle, Striker.”

The nickname landed like a pulse through Overstrike’s frame. She couldn’t stop the way her fingers clutched at Sunrazor’s plating, couldn’t stop the way her spark clawed forward like it wanted to bridge the space between them entirely.

“Then—then you know how I feel,” Overstrike said, spark stuttering behind its armor.

Sunrazor didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, she leaned in again, mouth brushing Overstrike’s like a secret, a test, a tether. Her hand stayed over Overstrike’s spark casing, and now her fingers moved—tracing the seams that shielded the core, mapping every line of pressure, every point that made her tremble.

Overstrike gasped, just barely.

Sunrazor pulled back a fraction, lips still close, blazing white optics locked onto hers like she was hunting the seeker. “Open it.”

The green mech froze.

“…What?”

“You heard me.” Her voice was low, quiet, deadly steady. “Prove you’d do anything for me.”

Overstrike’s spark skipped a pulse. Her optics searched Sunrazor’s, desperate for something—permission, kindness, understanding. But there was none of that. Just the cold, unwavering gleam of white light, and that smile—razor-thin and unreadable.

“Open it,” Sunrazor repeated, softer now, but no less sharp. A whisper made of daggers. Her thumb pressed lightly over the central seam of Overstrike’s chest. “Or was that just talk?”

The storage crate creaked beneath Overstrike’s weight as her wings stiffened and trembled. Her spark—already so close to the surface—flared at the request. A command. A test.

The seeker obeyed, plating shifting to open and reveal her spark. Her optics never left Sunrazor’s, even as metal shifted and split, exposing the pulsing core beneath. Her spark flared the moment it tasted open air—vibrant, eager, vulnerable.

It shone like a live flame. Wild. Loyal. Burning for only one.

“I trust you,” Overstrike whispered, voice hoarse, almost reverent. She could barely speak past the trembling in her frame.

Sunrazor didn’t smile. Not this time. Her expression was unreadable. Focused. Clinical. Her eyes glowed an eerie white, cold and calculating, dangerous and unsteady.

Despite herself, Overstrike flinched, plates longing to slide back into place, to seal her spark away from that hungry gaze.

“I know you do,” she murmured—and then she reached into her own subspace compartment.

Overstrike didn’t have time to pull away—maybe she didn’t want to—or seal her spark. Sunrazor reached in and something cold clicked into place. It latched onto the inside of Overstrike’s spark casing, gripped her spark itself. It sunk its cold claws into her very core.

—

The barracks were cold.

Not literally—climate regulation was still functional—but in the way that settled deep into your joints, into your spark. The lights hummed softly overhead, set to a dim, sterile glow that did little to chase away the gloom clinging to the corners of the reinforced room.

It had been hours—possibly more—since Echo had moved from the cot in the far corner. He sat hunched forward, helm in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, wings drooping low and listless behind him. A fine tremor occasionally ran through his frame, he would flick his wings, he would pick at his paint. Sometimes he would start drumming a melody onto the floor, maybe pace a little.

Whatever he could do to make the time pass a little faster.

Anything to keep his mind occupied.

The confrontation with Leoblast played on repeat in his processor. Every word, every silence between them. The sound of the door hissing shut behind his brother. "Just long enough to end this."

Leo was going to find her. He was going to make sure she never came back.

And Echo couldn’t do anything about it.

His hands dropped from his helm, plating creaking faintly as he sat back against the wall behind the cot. He stared at the ceiling, optics dim, watching the slow, cyclical pulse of the lights in the corner of the room. A silent metronome ticking away at a rhythm he couldn’t follow.

He was going to lose his mind here, alone, waiting for his best friend—his brother—to kill the mech he wanted as a conjunx. This small, grimy room that was meant for prisoners. It wasn’t a terrible cell all things considered. He had seen worse.

The Praxian’s wings twitched and the beat he was tapping into his wrist faltered. He had survived worse, managed to keep the boredom from killing him before—but there were other threats then. Echo hadn’t been concerned about getting bored, he was more focused on not getting killed by Sunrazor.

But he wasn’t with Sunrazor.

Echo was in the autobot base, not the Decepticon stronghold. He was in one piece, no missing plating or torn limbs. He wasn’t hungry or sick, rust hadn’t settled into what remained of his body and he was very aware. There was no drifting in and out of consciousness. His vocalizer was sore not with overuse—not from screaming—but because he hadn’t said anything in days.

He was safe.

Just like Leoblast wanted him.

Contained. Grounded. Removed.

The blue mech let his optics close for a long moment, trying to will away the sudden tightness in his throat. He didn’t want to resent Leo for that—didn’t want to start pulling threads that might unravel everything left between them—but Primus, it was hard not to. It was hard not to hear that word—safe—as another kind of prison. One built of good intentions and fear.

Because Leo wasn’t just trying to protect him. He was trying to erase what Echo had chosen.

What they had built, in the dark, between fire missions and radio silence. What she had become to him.

Tempestrift was never simple. She was sharp where he was soft, calm where he was untamed. A Decepticon, sure. An enemy once. But now? She was something else. Something more. Something Leo had never tried to understand—not really. To him, she would always be a risk, a variable, a bomb waiting to go off.

But Echo had seen her bleed. Had seen her stay, when she didn’t have to. Had felt her spark pulsing against him, not as a tactic or a trap, but as a plea. A truth.

He knew what she meant to him and Leo couldn’t stop seeing it as a threat.

The quiet twisted in Echo’s chest. He raised his hand to pick at a streak of chipped paint from his forearm, then abandoned it.

The door hissed.

His spark gave a startled jolt in his chest as he sat bolt upright, wings snapping to attention before he could stop them. The door to the barracks slid open with a reluctant grind of metal on metal, and two silhouettes stepped through. One was a guard—bulky, tired, probably pulling overtime on a shift no one wanted. The other—

Tall. Rounded edges. Wings too wide for the narrow doorway. Paint scraped, armor scuffed from recent combat, plates shivering in distress. Her size alone was enough to indicate who she was. Overstrike. She ducked instinctively under the threshold, red eyes immediately locking onto Echo. There was almost something predatory in the way she looked at him, as if locking onto a target.

Echo stiffened.

Wherever there was one of Sunrazor’s minions, the golden mech was always sure to follow. Overstrike’s presence on the base threatened violence.

The door shut behind them with a loud clang, sealing the room with a finality that made Echo’s internal systems jolt. The faint pressure drop was noticeable—more psychological than physical.

Overstrike didn’t move at first. Her wings flicked, adjusting automatically to the claustrophobic confines, and her optics remained locked on Echo’s frame like she was scanning for weakness. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... intent.

Echo didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not yet. Not when his processor was screaming with all the implications of her presence.

The towering Seeker’s optics dimmed for a moment, her gaze drifting down as if even she didn’t know what to say. The silence hung too long, long enough that it made the walls feel too close.

Then, finally, she moved. A slow, deliberate step closer to Echo, away from the cell door. Her boots clicked gently against the floor until she stood at the opposite wall from him. Her towering frame loomed over him, ruby eyes watching Echo like a bird of prey.

It was unsettling to say the least, but oddly familiar. There was a time that Tempestrift had looked at Echo just like that. Cold and calculating, but interested. Waiting for him to move or do something.

The Praxian’s doorwings twitched behind him. His fingers absently starting to pick at peeking paint across his left arm—his right forearm was already stripped of color besides an odd speckling. Echo broke the silence, voice sharper than he intended, “No cuffs?”

Overstrike tilted her head at the question, red optics blinking slow—almost too slow to be natural. Feigned surprise. "Should there be?"

Echo narrowed his optics.

She gave a soft, almost mocking sound of amusement, stepping away from the wall just enough to kneel down, one knee touching the floor with a metallic click. Her movements were smooth, disarming in their deliberate gentleness.

Even when kneeling the behemoth of a seeker loomed over Echo—the feeling wasn't foreign, Echo was very used to being towered over. As ironic as it was, he was pretty sure it was more comforting than terrifying for him. Sunrazor ruined that for him. Now he cowered just like everyone else when a giant came along.

Overstrike was no exemption. Echo pressed himself further into the wall, ignoring the way his doorwings fluttered in protest to being pinned. It would hurt later, yes, but he didn’t think he was supposed to be sharing a cell with a psychopath. He was in the barracks for whatever lame excuse Leo had come up with to get him contained.

He should not be with a decepticon who was known for blinding following every command of her deranged leader.

The large green seeker simply sighed and looked away after a moment, leaning on the wall behind her, shoulders sagging with some invisible weight. She looked to the side, away from Echo, and clicked once. Another tremor ran through her plating before she spoke, “You have no reason to be afraid, they have a collar on me… your doctor seems to know a lot about wiring behavioral compliance programs.”

Dropmix was oddly good at a lot of things. It was peculiar if anything, but it made sense with his age. The dark mech had been around for a long time, just about anyone could see that.

Echo’s optics flicked toward her neck, searching. Sure enough, the faint glint of a restraining collar sat flush against the base of her throat—blinking in steady, harmless pulses of blue. No active stun charges, not right now. Not unless she triggered it.

The Praxian grimaced and shook his head, visor flashing briefly. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Overstrike said softly. Her fingers gently touched the foreign metal before settling on her own chest, over her spark. She gently pressed, flattening the panels that quivered and flared up, “It’s supposed to make you feel safe.”

Echo’s optics stayed on her a moment too long, searching. He wasn’t sure what for though, and whatever it was he didn’t find it. The blue mech looked away.

“I don’t,” he muttered coolly, fingers still picking at paint. His wings tried to flick once though they were quickly caught by the wall.

Overstrike nodded, like she expected that. She stayed quiet for a bit, head slightly bowed, wings trembling like they wanted to spread but didn’t dare. It was… uncharacteristic. The Overstrike Echo remembered was firm, proud, always at Sunrazor’s side like a sentinel. This version—kneeling, speaking softly, posture drawn in—it didn’t fit.

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said at last, not looking at him. She paused, wings flinching and breath hitched for a moment. Her hand pressed against her chest again, firmer this time. “You probably shouldn’t.”

Well, that was honest.

Echo didn’t respond. His hands clenched. He hated how small his voice had sounded. How unsure. How caged. He hated that he was stuck in here with a mech that followed Sunrazor like a lost dog. He hated waiting for the terrible news to come that Tempestrift was dead.

The Praxian hated many things.

But Overstrike was not one of them.

She sighed, still looking away, her hand absently rubbing her plates as she continued, “But I… I did not come here because Sunrazor asked.”

Echo stilled.

That caught him off guard.

Not because he believed her—but because she didn’t sound like she was lying.

She wasn’t trying to sell him on anything. Wasn’t leaning into dramatics or righteousness like most Decepticons did when they tried to justify themselves. She just... said it. Quiet. Flat. Like it was the truth and she didn’t expect him to care. More surprisingly she didn’t say Sunrazor’s name recently, like she always did.

Dare he admit it, she sounded disgusted when the name fell from her lips.

Echo turned his head just slightly, visor angled in her direction. Watching. Not trusting. But listening.

Overstrike's fingers curled against her chassis, a whine emitting from her, low and weak. She looked at the small blue mech, red eyes dim, “She tried to kill me… and… and I ran.”

Echo stared. The words clanged in his processor, loud and out of place. “She tried to kill me,” Overstrike had said.

But she hadn’t meant Tempestrift.

The realization hit like a blunt strike to the helm—too late, too loud. He looked at her, really looked, and saw it: the way Overstrike was almost folding in on herself, voice too fragile, optics flickering like static through a fog. He had never seen the proud mech look like this. But that was because she no longer had anything to be proud about.

Echo’s voice came out rough. “You meant Sunrazor.”

A pause.

A hitch in her vent.

Then: a single, small nod.

“She didn't hesitate,” Overstrike whispered, her voice suddenly flat and distant. The seeker stared at the wall. She flinched again, a clicking whine escaping her as she pressed against her chest again. “No hesitation. No speech. Just fire.”

That image struck hard. Echo could imagine it. Sunrazor—gleaming, golden, fury forged into form—raising a hand and trying to end someone who had never stopped loving her.

Echo’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

What did you even say to that? To someone who had followed a monster into hell and only realized it when she was the one left burning?

Overstrike’s frame shuddered once—small, barely noticeable if Echo hadn’t been watching so closely. Her optics dimmed further, the red softening to something tired and old. She shook her head, “You are lucky, Echo. What you and Tempest have… I… I dreamed of for ages.”

Overstrike’s voice cracked at the edges—too raw, too thin. Her fingers curled tighter over her chest, a scraping sound breaking through the silence as her talons dragged faint grooves into her own plating.

Echo blinked, wings flicking up and fingers stilling. Slowly. The tremor in her hand wasn’t fear.

It was pain.

Her chest heaved in uneven intervals, vents hitching and stalling like something inside her was misaligned—like something was failing.

The Praxian stilled as he examined the other’s chest from afar, closer than he had previously. He could see the black spiderweb of char that spread over it. Deep cracks and groves that covered the smooth surface. Emerged in cakes the edges of her plating, some of it had dried but in a few spots it still leaked.

“Overstrike…” the blue mech began, throat tightening as he looked at the wound. She had been shot just to the side of her spark chamber.

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered. But her voice warbled, staticky and thin. She wasn’t convincing anyone. Least of all herself.

“No, you haven’t.” Echo crouched in front of her, one hand braced on his knee, the other hovering uncertainly near the seared mess of her chest. “That’s a clean hit. Close range. Heavy caliber.” He swallowed. “That’s meant to kill.”

Anyway, onto her songs with some minor notes:

-Oleander—Mother Mother (this is she and Sunrazor’s “duet” song)

-Criminal—Britney spears

-Bad romance—Lady Gaga

-Love me Love me, say that you love me—The traveling kisses

-Diet Mountain Dew—Lana Del ray

-#1 Crush—Garbage

-Community gardens—The scary jokes & louie Zong

-The Zombie song—Stephanie Mabey

-Partner in crime—Madilyn mei

-Stalkers Tango—Radioheart (this one isn’t perfect but fun)

-Toxic—Britney spears

-The red means love you—madds Bucky (not perfect but it’s alright)

~~~~~~~~~~

I sadly only have this headshot of Overstrike and some very old designs that are outdated and need to be redone… so… yeah.

—

Jeopardy didn’t know what he expected to find when he received a notification from Vellon–a lean speedster that was currently on shift guarding the barracks–that Echo had requested medical attention. The mech had provided no further details beyond missing paint and chest pain, but they had sounded more confused rather than concerned. Which while it may have been a good sign–it wasn't too serious–it also meant that the issue wasn’t easily identifiable.

That alone would’ve made Jeopardy take the call seriously, but when he’d brought it to Dropmix’s attention, the senior medic had just waved him off without looking up from the card game on his computer screen. “Go. Handle it. Doesn’t sound urgent, but Echo’s yours.”

That should’ve been fine. Dropmix trusted him. That should have made Jeopardy feel more confident. More capable.

It didn’t.

So here he was—walking at a clipped pace down the northern corridor, half-jogging, half-rehearsing protocols under his vents. He had a medkit slung under one arm and a growing sense that something didn’t quite add up. The young medic ran through possibilities–potential spark stress from ptsd or anxiety, self injury or simply an excuse to get some company. He ran over procedures, how he should handle each situation.

He wasn’t ready for this. Not really.

But he kept going.

Until he got there–he hadn’t prepared himself for this.

When he had arrived Vellon had escorted him in and left him with Echo… and Overstrike.

The towering seeker was seated against the far wall, wings cramped in the too-small room, red optics dim, plating flaring and twitching with discomfort. And injured. Deep, seared plating along her upper chest, just shy of a direct spark wound. Blackened lines spiderwebbed out from the burn, leaking coolant and energon in sluggish intervals. The damage was old—at least a day or two—and clearly untreated. Her vents shuddered with every breath like the air was trying to claw its way back out of her, rasping with each intake.

He stopped in the doorway, gripping his medkit too tightly, trying to keep his vocalizer from glitching. He felt like he’d just walked into a different job—one he hadn’t trained for. The thought of Dropmix being here instead was sharp, sudden, and painful. He wouldn’t be hesitating. His limbs wouldn’t have locked with an instinctive fear of a patient. Dropmix should have been the one to come, Jeopardy’s fingers tapped on the medkit as he debated, he should turn back and get him.

Jeopardy was about to turn back when his thoughts were interrupted.

Echo was crouched next to Overstrike, tense, frame hunched, but aside from a higher spark rate–which could be nerves or general stress, nothing concerning–and some peeled paint, seemed untouched. The small Praxian looked at Jeopardy and offered a concerned look, voice quiet but casual, like they were meeting under normal circumstances instead of… this. “Hey, Junior. You're just the mech I was hoping to see. Hopefully you weren’t too busy.”

The medic forced himself to smile and straighten his posture before he stepped fully into the room, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

His processor was already racing, slotting together timelines and inconsistencies. He knew Overstrike had arrived on base—Dropmix had told him as much. They’d fitted her with a compliance collar, checked her over. She’d surrendered at the border, and hadn't resisted. She was supposed to be stable, if not entirely cooperative.

But this—this level of injury? Dropmix wouldn’t have missed this. He wouldn’t have ignored it. Jeopardy fidgeted with his hands as he mused over the possibilities–a guard had lost their patience, the injury got infected, she managed to hide it, perhaps it was somehow self-inflicted?

None of that mattered, not now at least.

It was clear that she needed help, that Echo had called not for himself but the Decepticon prisoner.

The white mech almost commed Dropmix, was moments away from reaching out before he hesitated. Dropmix has sent him out, he was expected to get this done. He was supposed to be able to do this.

Jeopardy crossed the room in a few measured steps, keeping his pace calm, unthreatening, optics flicking between the two of them. Echo was coiled like a spring, wings twitching against his back as if he was ready to bolt but didn’t dare. Overstrike, by contrast, was still. Too still. It was unnerving to see the usually proud and imposing seeker like this, small and quiet.

The medic got to the seekers side and paused, composing himself before smiling as pleasantly as he could–the kind he had mastered years ago, professional and reserved, but friendly. He tried to keep his voice low and soothing and ignored the way his plates fought to press into himself as he drew closer to her. He was so much smaller than her. “Hello, Overstrike. I–uh–I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to… properly meet before?”

Overstrike didn’t look at him.

She seemed to be staring somewhere far past the medic, optics unfocused, flickering faintly like a dying signal light. Her posture remained tight, hands clenched over her chest as if she could hold herself together, her large wings quivering behind her. Jeopardy didn’t move, eyeing the collar around her neck before guilt washed over himself for it. She was hurt, suffering, he should not be afraid. The medic’s spark twisted and his smile faltered for just a moment.

“I’m Jeopardy, the um… I’m the junior medical officer here,” He began, twitching when his voice faltered and cracked, he sucked in another deep breath. Jeopardy needed to focus, figure out what was wrong and assist, but just being so close to the towering seeker made his hands tremble. Dropmix shouldn’t have sent him, he should know that Jeopardy wasn’t equipped for this, that he would somehow find a way to mess this up. He fought a clicking whine from escaping, “I’m here to help.”

Overstrike didn’t move.

Her optics flicked toward him at the sound of his name—just briefly—but there was no recognition in the gesture, no spark of acknowledgment. Just exhaustion. Like she was already a thousand miles away.

His fingers tightened around the medkit handle, internal protocols buzzing frantically. Dropmix would know what to say here. What to do. Jeopardy just felt lost.

He looked at Echo, who simply shrugged unhelpfully, doorwings flicking nervously behind him a few times, fingers picking at paint. The blue mech gazed warily at Overstrike, vocalizer crackling as he spoke–lack of use most likely–the words came out rushed, unsure. “She came in like this. I tried to request medical attention for her but no one came so… yeah, I’m fine, she's not. I know that she’s a Decepticon and all that but I couldn’t just… let her suffer?”

The young medic nodded slowly, gaze lingering on the smaller mech for a moment, letting his scanners confirm that there was nothing out of the ordinary before he looked at the seeker in question. He swallowed and knelt beside her, careful to keep his hands visible and movements slow. She was watching, even if she didn’t look like it—every twitch in her plating told him that much. Even with the compliance collar she could still lash out and cause damage if he wasn't careful.

He took a deep breath.

“I’m going to check your vitals,” Jeopardy said softly, tone falling into his practiced cadence—the one Dropmix had taught him when handling trauma patients–scanners already buzzing in his head as he looked her over. “Just basic external readings. I won’t touch you until you say its okay.”

The reading he received was nothing unexpected.

He looked at her chest, her claws hands still obstructing the view, keeping it mostly concealed, but safe. Jeopardy could feel his spark racing in his chest as he searched her expression, she seemed lost, not dazed. He tried to remain composed and professional but being so close to the dangerous seeker made his spark hammer in his chest.

“I… I need to see it. Your chest, I mean,” he said, gently. “Please. I won’t touch anything. I promise. I just need to check if the damage is—” he cut himself off. “—if it’s safe. For you. I mean. That’s all.”

A tremor ran through the large seeker before she turned her head to look at Jeopardy, ruby eyes dim and cautious. There was a brief moment of hesitation, a clicking whine escaping her throat, another shudder as she pressed on her chest. Jeopardy flinched, resisting the urge to simply pry her hands away to fully assess the damage or to pull away. Then, finally, she spoke, voice low and broken, “I… no.”

Had it been any sharper Jeopardy might have pulled away, but it wasn't. It was soft and unsure and so very scared, something deep in Jeopardy twisted, his expression twitching. His chest ached and he nodded gently, trying to keep his composure. She sounded broken–beyond broken, betrayed and hurt and terrified, it was far too familiar to the medic. He sucked in another shaky breath, “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to… Not yet.”

That wasn’t right, he was supposed to insist. He didn’t correct himself, hands tapping on the medkit again as he tried to sort his thoughts enough to form words.

A long moment passed before her frame relaxed again—only slightly—but it was enough for her vents to cycle once more.

“Wasn’t… supposed to be like this,” she muttered. Her optics dimmed and her voice crackled. “I thought she wanted to… I thought…” Her voice faded, glitching out on the edge of a deeper thought. She shook her head, curling deeper into herself, her vocalizer clicking and plates trembling, “It hurts.”

Echo piped in to clarify before Jeopardy had the chance to ask, wings twitching and tone hushed, nervous. “SHe told me Sunrazor tried to kill her. Shot her, close range from what I could tell? But maybe… I haven't gotten a really close look at it either. But I believe her. Sunrazor is the right kind of twisted to shoot her own men.”

A choked noise escaped Overstrike and she trembled harder.

Jeopardy froze, his optics going wide as he looked at the injured seeker once more. Things started clicking into place, the hesitance, compliance, how utterly broken she seemed. The mech she adored more than anything, who she followed and swooned over blindly, had tried to kill her. The medic nodded carefully. The air in the room felt suddenly thinner, and heavier all at once. Jeopardy’s vents hitched. It wasn’t a battlefield injury—it couldn’t be. Too close. Too cruel. This had been deliberate.

Overstrike wasn’t broken because she had been captured. She was broken because someone she believed in had turned on her, had burned her, and left her to die slowly in a corner cell. The white mech hated the strange kinship, the understanding that settled in his chest, next to his aching spark. Regardless, he schooled his expression, he was in over his head now, but he had to try and help.

“Alright, that's… okay. Everything is going to be alright, Overstrike, I promise,” Jeopardy didn’t know if he was trying to comfort her or himself more. His mind raced, instinct taking over. If the shot had hit close to the spark and the wound had been left untreated, there could be internal damage—fractures in the chamber itself. He would need a full scan to confirm. If her spark chamber was compromised—if they had missed it—this could spiral fast.

“I just… I need to get you to the medbay. You’re not stable. If your spark chamber is fractured, I—” He stopped. His voice was shaking. He hated that it was shaking. He wanted to sound like Dropmix. Reassuring. Strong. The kind of medic you believed in.

But he wasn’t.

“I’ll get you help,” Jeopardy repeated, quieter. “Proper help. Not just… me.”

Echo paused, blinking in surprise. His frame twitched, visored eyes glancing between Overstrike and the door a few times before settling on Jeopardy, confusion evident. “They’re gonna see you? Someone’s always posted outside… Vellon, I think? He’s real strict, got a rod up his aft or something, he wont let you take her out. You need Rumbleclutch’s permission to move her if you want to get anywhere. And you’ll need an escort?”

“I know,” Jeopardy said, jaw clenching. His hands were shaking the more he thought about what he was about to do. He had to do it though, otherwise Overstrike could die, her spark could destabilize or the injuries could get infected–Jeopardy needed to act for her sake, not his own. He tried to make himself sound sure and confident, his voice cracked regardless and he flinched. “I’ll handle it.”

Echo didn’t look sure, Jeopardy couldn’t help but agree.

Jeopardy felt like a sparkling trying to play doctor.

He turned back to Overstrike, lowering his voice, strong and sure. His mounting anxiety tainted the edges of his tone though, sneaking in like a venom, “We’re going to move you, alright? Slowly. No restraints. I won’t let anyone touch you. But I need you to walk with me.”

Her optics flicked toward him again, and this time they lingered. “You’re not supposed to help me,” she rasped, wary and uncertain.