Many times before has the ex-Decepticon ran into a party of former ‘allies’ that had a bone to pick with him, and each and every time he has thus far been able to handle the situation. Not without consequences in a few cases, of course. But usually they ended up minuscule.
This time he wasn’t so lucky, the small pack of Decepticons skilled and determined. Dead, now, of course-- their Energon staining the servos of the since-been traitor’s as many other of his former kins did. Many of his own kind.
But just because he came out on top, didn’t mean he came out unscathed. The complete opposite, as a matter of fact.
For starters, his right servo had been torn off, discarded haphazardly off to the side in the middle of the scuffle and at this current moment the mech couldn’t for the life of him remember just what direction it’d been thrown in. His own sword had been driven through his chest, so dangerously close to having taken out his Spark-- left in partly due to lack of proper ability to yank it out just yet as well as knowledge that that very well might seal his fate here on the dirty tarmac.
A pained cough wheezed out of the red and black mech, golden optics squeezed shut for a long moment until he sensed someone or something was still nearby-- barely picking up the sound of their existence through the pain, and unable to smell them over the burn of his own Energon.
Golden orbs blink open, turning towards the location he perceived it to be; if it were yet another threat he’d fight to keep himself from being done in by another’s hand while they lived to gloat about it.
“Who’s there?” His voice was a low growl, offering out English as he’d learned most natives in the area spoke as well as the Cybertronians around.
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