Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The W.A.P., as it was so fondly named, isn't an awful ship by any means. A little... okay a lot dingy, hardly holding together, and barely scraping by on fuel reserves, but frankly, it's not like Fulcrum has much room to argue. They're on their way back, and he's more than glad to put a distance between themselves and Clemency. The traveling had been kind of odd to get through; Grimlock hardly reacted while he and Crankcase dragged him through the deserted planet, but his legs seemed to work just fine to walk along. Unsurprisingly, Crankcase pointed out that he wouldn't be surprised if at any moment Grimlock would snap out of it and tear them all to pieces because that would just be their luck.

"Nah," Misfire had assured cheerfully. "He'd probably just set us on fire and walk off."

With that optimistic thought in mind, they boarded without trouble to the ship. Without really anywhere to put him and not wanting to set off Spinister who was still working on repairing Krok, they kind of just shoved Grimlock into the most convenient place possible without having him get in the way.

A cleaning supplies closet.

"Well, I guess maybe he'll smell nice by the time we get to Cybertron," Fulcrum mutters to himself.

It might be a bit much to hope for, but a nice, quiet trip back home -- home, finally -- would be pleasant. It would be great and there'd be less dying and dead people and that's all pretty spectacular. For the first couple of hours? All of that had been true. Short of Spinister complaining that the ceiling sounded threatening and that he wanted to shoot it and Crankcase snapping at him just focus on fixing Krok, it'd been fairly easygoing. Much to Fulcrum's surprise, Crankcase is actually a pretty damned competent pilot. Maybe not as shocking as Spinister's capacity to be a freaking brilliant surgeon, but hey, who's counting how many surprises have been happening here?

While he'd been still exploring the ship for the sake of curiosity, as he was going to be stuck here for awhile, Fulcrum stumbles in the hallway as he hears Crankcase on their commlinks.

"Fulcrum, get on the bridge. Misfire is driving me insane."

"...Right, okay. How am I supposed to help?" The K-Class Decepticon squints at the hologram in his arm.

"Probably not by much, but I won't be the only one suffering."

There's a heavy exhale from Fulcrum's vents; he's not really in a position to argue and he gets it. It's not that Misfire's bad, he rather likes the talkative jet, but his focus is awful and he apparently needs to be kept busy. Leaving him in the hands of Crankcase probably hadn't been the best idea when the grumpy mech is trying to, you know, pilot.

Upon entering the bridge, Misfire's attention is quickly withdrawn from the pilot and steered right to Fulcrum, practically draping himself over the smaller Decepticon. The attention's still weird and he hasn't really wrapped his processor around it yet, but all Fulcrum can do is shrug and learn when to smile and nod when Misfire begins to ramble on much ado about nothing. Eventually, the purple mech found himself becoming occupied in picking little stones from the creases along Fulcrum's plating, still chatting his one-sided conversation pertaining to a tale of Flywheels, fuzzy brown boots, and dancing, which apparently had been really hilarious at the time and "you had to be there to really get it" and "hey did anyone remember to take his feet with us, they were some incredible feet."

Fulcrum just shakes his head, flinching a little as Misfire tugs out another pebble from his back.

"Not that it makes a whole lot of sense for us to put on clothes wouldn't that get in the way of transforming?" Misfire muses, the lack of filter between his mouth and his processor extremely apparent. He pauses only for a moment before he's dragging Fulcrum to a chair and shoving him down to sit. "But you know I've heard it around at least once or twice and I guess a cape would be kind of impressive but then where does it go when you transform I mean--" Misfire sits down across from Fulcrum, yanking the dud bomb-former's foot up onto his lap as he picks at the pebbles there next. "--it's gonna be basically some vehicle driving around all like heyyyy I'm a fabulous carrrr how awesome am I until you trip up or it gets sucked into your turbines or whatever."

Fulcrum flinches as another pebble is pulled out, clenching his jaw to try to not laugh. That's horridly ticklish. "Obviously when we get back home, you should join the Fashion Police."

"You think there is one? There should be. I'd fashion the hell out of Cybertron. I'd make the whole damn planet wear a cozy, fluffy jacket." Misfire flicks the pebble away, aiming for Crankcase's head, and missing entirely as it bounces off the console instead.

"Quit it," Crankcase snaps.

Ignoring the pilot entirely, Misfire works on the next piece of stone caught up in Fulcrum's heel. This time, he's unable to stifle a burst of laughter, squirming in his chair. Hardly alarmed and just grinning widely, Misfire makes a point of wiggling his fingers over Fulcrum's foot.

"H-heh--! Quit it!" Fulcrum snorts and tries to kick at him, but it's not very strong and the jet just gives him a big, dumb smile.

"You're definitely the worst Decepticon ever," Misfire muses, finally plucking the piece of rock out.

With a sheepish smile, Fulcrum just shrugs at the purple Scavenger; Misfire flicks the pebble away and it hits the ceiling.

Suddenly, the ship hit turbulence somehow, throwing both of them out of their chairs. With a grunt, Fulcrum finds himself pinned under Misfire while he hears him shout defensively, "That wasn't me! ...Was it? Crankcase?"

"Slagging..." Crankcase grumbles. "No, something tore off. We're stalled until I figure out what happened."

"That figures." Fulcrum gently shoves Misfire off of him. "What's the plan?"

"Well, idealy, I head outside and take a look. Could use a hand." Crankcase points at Misfire. "Watch the console. Don't press anything. All right? Just wanna make sure nothing is coming at us."

"Watch all of the blinking colorful lights and not touch them?" Misfire gives a heavy sigh from his vents. "Okay, okay."

"C'mon, Fulcrum." Crankcase grumbles to himself as he heads down the hall with the more hesitant lanky mech behind him.

"Y'know, I'm more of a computer engineer than I am a mechanic. You're gonna have a better idea of what you're looking at," Fulcrum points out.

"Yeah, but you can follow directions. With Krok out of commission right now and Flywheels being, you know, dead? You're what I got. I sure as frag aren't asking Spinister, Misfire, or for Pit's sake Grimlock for help with this."

Fulcrum rubs the back of his helm. "Eh, good point."

As the pair continue down to head towards the airlock, Spinister pokes his head out from the medbay, red optics wide in both concern and curiosity. "Crankcase? Was it the ceiling? I said the ceiling was bad. I should have shot it! It was making all kinds of noises."

"Don't worry about it," Crankcase scoffs. "Just keep putting Krok back together."

Fulcrum leans over Crankcase's shoulder to address their unusually talented medic. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"Oh, well, I got all of the holes plugged up good, so he's not leaking every where now. But, his optics are all punctured, so he's pretty much blind until we have replacement parts." Spinister scratches absently as his own chevron. "He's gonna be fine. Hasn't woken up yet, though."

There's a sudden yank on his prominent chin as Fulcrum is forced to be dragged along with Crankcase. "Well-- that's good news...? Ow, Crankcase, I'm coming!"

Watching the pair go, Spinister mutters to himself, "I knew I should have shot the ceiling."

-=-=-

"Yep. Turbine tore off," Crankcase growls. "Took one of the capacitors with it. Not that we have replacements."

"So... what? You can kind of, I don't know, hotwire it?" Fulcrum rubs the top of his helm. When the other Decepticon gives him a flat, unamused look, somehow more of a scowl than usual, the K-Classer grins awkwardly. "Like I said, computer engineering. I don't know anything about fixing ships."

"Can tell you this much." With a grunt, Crankcase gets back to his feet from kneeling down by the damage. "We need replacements, and we sure as slag aren't anywhere near an outpost or a planet. This puts us in a bad situation."

"Which means what, exactly?" Fulcrum is pretty sure he knows where this is going and he does not like it.

There's a snort and Crankcase starts to head back into the ship with the other mech following him. "We set up a distress signal."

Ah. There we go. He hasn't had a good little panic attack in awhile. There's a sinking feeling in his chassis and already Fulcrum isn't so sure he likes where this is going. "What...?"

"I can't yank a miracle out of my tailpipe," Crankcase tells him firmly as they head back inside.

"Yeah, well-- well, what if the D.J.D. decided hey, obviously we have nothing better to do but go back and find those Scavenger guys and maim them some more!" Fulcrum flinches his head back at the way the other Decepticon is scowling at him. "Yeah, I know how it sounds, but you can't talk sense into pure fear, okay?"

"You didn't seem to have any problem jumping at them last time."

"I'll have you know that was probably the most heroic leap I'll ever make in my life."

The mechanic-pilot just grunts at him as they head back inside, stepping into one of the holding bays to sort through their pile of what was apparently considered useful junk. "All right. So we're gonna have to go ahead and pin this on the hull. You'll have the wonderfully simplistic job of holding it down while I seal it on there. Signal goes out and who knows, maybe someone will take pity on us before we all start starving."

"Your cheerful outlook is comforting as always," Fulcrum mutters, giving an oof as a long transmitting tower is dumped into his arms. "What're we gonna do about Grimlock?"

"...Shut the door on him?" Crankcase shrugs. "I know how it sounds, but we need to keep him out of our way. Misfire wasn't wrong; he's our ticket back to Cybertron, no matter who won the war."

"All right," Fulcrum concedes reluctantly. "I'll go take care of that and meet you up top."

There's just a wordless grumble in return, which Fulcrum assumes that's yes in the nicest manner possibly emitted from Crankcase. All right, then. With the tower in his arms, Fulcrum backs out of the storage bay and heads a bit further down the narrow hall until he comes upon the supplies closet.

Sluggishly, the Dynobot stares at him from where he sits. "Mm... me. Grimlock."

"Yeah, I know." Fulcrum can't even make himself sound exasperated. "Look, I gotta close this door."

"Mm...muh?" Grimlock stares at him, the noise sounding confused.

"Just to keep you out of sight." He really has no idea why he's explaining this, it's not like Grimlock understands what the slag he's saying. Still, Fulcrum feels it's more appropriate to talk to him on some normal level, even if Grimlock seems basically braindead. "Sorry," he adds sincerely. "I'll come open it back up later."

With a wince, because Grimlock is looking at him somehow with the most pathetic expression that could ever be on an infamous warrior's face, Fulcrum shuts the door. That was a lot harder to do than anticipated.

Backing away from the door, Fulcrum heads back to the airlock to catch up with Crankcase, tower in his arms. The job is as simple as described, pinning it down for the mechanic to fix into the ship and send out their distress signal. There's still a certain amount of anxiety in Fulcrum at the idea. Would there even be any Decepticon ships out here that would find them? Would they send searches? Hard to say, and he can only hope that the D.J.D. won't find them.

"That ought to do it," Crankcase mutters. "Now it's just sit tight and make sure we don't have anything else falling off out here. Think you can handle that, computer nerd?"

"Just making sure nothing floats off of the ship? Sounds incredibly complicated, but I'll make do." Fulcrum offers a faint grin which is not returned in the slightest. "I'll take the east end, you on the west, and meet you in the middle?"

"Sure, whatever."

-=-=-

The work is more laboring than Fulcrum is particularly used to. Which really does put things in a bit of perspective; he's never been lazy, but physical activities aren't exactly what his frame was made for. Running around, picking up scrap pieces, and putting it all together to make something out of the mess -- that's the sort of thing that the Scavengers do pretty much daily, isn't it? Sealing the pieces back onto the ship is a pain, but you do what you have to in order to survive.

"Crankcase? Hey Crankcase! Crankcaaaase."

Somewhere behind Fulcrum, he hears a bah! before the pilot grumbles, "He'd better not have touched anything."

"We've left him alone for a good megacycle. I'm surprised he managed to stay still that long," Fulcrum admits.

"Crankcase! Crankcase! Hey hey hey--"

"What?" the grouchy mech growls finally.

"So, I was looking at the console, and I was watching one of the screens. There's a green thingy and there's a red thingy. The green thingy is staying still and the red thingy is coming towards the green thingy."

Crankcase scoffs, "What the slag are you talking about?"

Out of the corner of Fulcrum's optics, he takes notice of something in the distance. He peers out into the darkness of space, squinting. There's something... gray in the distance? Gray with a red dot on it. Real specific, but he can't make it out.

And something is getting closer. Something launched--

"Hey, I think we're the green thingy! So the red thingy--"

"Crankcase!" Fulcrum sputters out, pointing wildly as the launched thing getting closer and closer is very clearly a missile.

"Aw scrap," is all Crankcase can mutter, his tone barely more than mild disappointment.

The explosion against the W.A.P. shakes the entire ship, and all of the work that Fulcrum had just spent fixing the hull is quickly gone to waste. The boots he and Crankcase wear keep them both on the ship, but he still flails a moment in reaction, watching bitterly as the pieces float off.

"...The red thingy was a missile."

"Thanks, Misfire, we got that," Fulcrum grates out.

"Oh hey, now there's a blinking red light! There's a button next to it!"

Crankcase rubs his forehead for a moment. "Misfire, you're gonna listen real carefully to me. The button next to that blinking red light? I need you to press it once and don't press anything else."

"C'mon, am I Spinister? I'm not stupid. Are we getting hailed? From the missile guys?"

"Seems like it," Fulcrum replies hesitantly. "Are you sure we should be answering?"

"We're not in a position to turn around and show our afts like a bunch of cocky idiots," Crankcase informs him.

"Right. And I guess if they wanted us dead, they would have shot more than one explosive," Fulcrum reluctantly agrees. "All right. Guess we should head back inside."

At the grunt of agreement, the pair start to head back into the ship. At about the same time, the transmission from the distant ship begins to come through their commlinks.

"Decepticon vessel Weak Anthropic Principle, this is the Autobot ship Mad Minute. I am the head of this team, Blithe. That missile is just a warning shot to make sure you Decepticons won't pull anything. We did receive your distress call, and we demand to be able to come aboard. We'll see where things go from there."

"Blithe? Well, he sounds cheerful," Misfire muses as he comes to meet the other two in the hallway. "On one hand, Autobots kind of just shot at us. On the other hand, war's over. We should be fine, right?"

"In theory." Fulcrum frowns and peers down to the medbay. The door is closed, he notices. "Is Spinister...?"

"Eh, he shot the lights when they flickered, but he's fine otherwise." Misfire shrugs. "I told him to keep his trigger finger on the down-low and pay more attention to Krok before I shut the door."

"Right. Okay." Fulcrum shrugs helplessly. "I guess we should just wait here. I mean, if the Autobots won, this should go pretty okay, despite the new hole in our ship."

"Well, sheesh, when you put it that way."

The hallway goes silent suddenly. It's almost strangling, how quiet it gets when the airlock opens. Stepping through are three tall mechs, very apparently Autobot. The one in front, based on what can be told, looks like a triplechanger between some type of jet and tank bearing a bright teal color coordination. Big surprise there, really. Yet, the triplechanger has a broad smile on his face, approaching the three Decepticons with his arms folded behind his back. Behind him are what appears to be two groundpounders; one much, much less cheerful than the triplechanger including his dark gray plating, with a sour enough face to try to compete with Crankcase. The other looks mildly bored, arms folded, his paint job an eye sore of pine green, fuschia, and orange.

The triplechanger spreads his hands out wide. "Decepticons, thank you for having us on board. I'm Blithe. The colorful one here is Petrol, and I also have Gladbag with me here. We're terribly grateful to be here in your lovely pile of recycled scrap of a ship."

"Just hurry it up," Crankcase grumbles. "We're missing parts. Didn't miss as many until you shot us."

"Well, we had to give a warning shot. War or not, who knows what you 'Cons would be up to. Though, looking at your sorry faces, I'm pretty sure that it was a waste of a missile!" Blithe gives a chipper laugh. "Gladbag, send a message to Powerthrust. We're going to be awhile."

Silently, as Gladbag turns to send a text response to the Mad Minute, Crankcase growls, "Are you helping us or not?"

"And why in Primus would I ever help Decepticons? Even worse, a couple of lowlife rusted heaps? You're all just objects in space." Blithe snorts in amusement to himself before glancing at the more colorful Autobot. "Petrol, bring down the stress level for these guys."

"What the hell does that even..." Fulcrum starts, but pauses. His scanners are starting to read an increase in some kind of... gas? That shouldn't even bother them, should it?

But he's quickly finding that his sensors aren't able to read directives in his own movement. He tries to lift his left arm and his knees jerk instead, causing him to stumble into one of the Autobots. Blithe, probably, from the way the laugh sounds; he's shoved back against the wall and Fulcrum collapses, dizzy, trying to sort his processor. By the sound of the other two thumps, Misfire and Crankcase must have been affected as well.

And there's clatter of a rifle.

Misfire's rifle, probably. Slag.

"You were planning on shooting us?" Blithe's voice sounds mockingly hurt. "After all of what you Decepticons have done--"

"Misfire? Crankcase? You guys still out here? I heard some..." The voice trails off. Spinister.

Damn it.

"Spin-- get back in there!" Crankcase snaps at him.

Fulcrum turns his head, trying to watch what's happening. As his sight straightens and the gas fades, he sees Spinister lifting his gun, ready to shoot. Blithe just shakes his head and lowers his cannon from his shoulder mount to point at the three collapsed Scavengers. "I wouldn't suggest that, 'Con."

Spinister actually hesitates, looking between the three and the Autobots before letting his shoulders sink slightly. "Ah, slag. Just when I had some good news, too."

"Well, what do we have in here? Gladbag, go check it out. Petrol, help me escort these three idiots into that room. Might as well get the whole group together."

The darker colored Autobot slips into the medbay without any effort. Fulcrum grunts and tries not to flinch at the way he's manhandled, dragged into the medbay along with Misfire and Crankcase. Spinister, darting his optics between the Autobots and his fellow Decepticons, can't seem to decide what he should be doing.

"They have an injured," Gladbag informs Blithe, his tone deep and patient. "Facial injuries, lack of fuel. Recently mended."

"When... the frag did Autobots end up on this ship...?"

To Fulcrum's surprise, it's Krok's voice. That must have been the good news that Spinister was trying to eagerly share. The Scavengers leader is back online, and at the worst time, too.

"This is getting more and more interesting. More 'Cons the galaxy doesn't need," Blithe tsks. Turning to Crankcase, the Autobot leans in closely. "Do you have anyone else on this ship?"

Crankcase grumbles, "Yer getting in my personal bubble, 'Bot."

"I see. How about this?" Blithe reaches in and prods at the exposed part of Crankcase's brain module, causing the pilot to flinch out of his control, some kind of spasm. "Am I close enough now?" He does it again, causing a pained yell from the mechanic, which earns an excited laugh from Blithe.

Gladbag's optics narrow, but he says nothing. Petrol's previous bland expression is now turned into a faintly amused smile.

"Crankcase--" Krok tries to budge from his position on the berth, giving a pained groan and a frantic sound from Spinister.

"What the hell kind of Autobot are you?" Fulcrum snaps. "The war's over with, isn't it? What kind of point is this?"

Well, that got Blithe's attention away from Crankcase. Yay for him, but now the focus is on him, which quickly makes Fulcrum uncomfortable. Even with the gas's effects fading, he's not in a position to fight. He's never in a position to fight.

"Do you know how may good mechs are dead because of you Decepticons?" The smile is empty now. No longer obnoxiously joyful, but just... some distant cold thing on Blithe's face. "I had friends at Garrus-9. The 113th Batallion. Slag, I wonder how many good friends of mine were torn apart? They laughed. They laughed and all I could do was watch, 'Con, when they found us, I--" There's a pause, and Blithe grins, baring teeth. "Don't you dare ask me what's the point, because all I can think of is how much better off we'd be without any of you in it."

Fulcrum knows the types of Decepticons. He knows the types, like the D.J.D., who joined the army just as an excuse to get their jollies in killing. No, he won't excuse them, but. "I didn't do anything! I've never even pulled a trigger in my life. Misfire can't shoot worth scrap anyway, either!"

"So I get a little trigger happy-- well, not Spinister level," Misfire murmurs in his corner, still wobbling from the gas's effects.

"Point is, yeah, I get it, there are thousands dead on both sides. And it's over!"

Blithe is silent a moment, and Fulcrum gets the subtle feeling it's not the kind where the Autobot realizes what he's doing is just perpetuating the dead war between the factions and the Autobots leave and they can get back to Cybertron. Not with the way the cannon mount is being pointed at Fulcrum.

"This is more than just Autobots being dead," Blithe informs him, lips twitching in that unstable smile. "This is about my friends, brutally murdered."

"Blithe," Gladbag speaks up. "I don't suggest killing that one. It's a K-Class. You shoot, he explodes, and we're all dead."

Oh. Oh, they'd have no way of knowing Spinister removed those parts. Fulcrum almost feels some relief.

"Damn." Blithe exhales. "Well. Then I guess it's almost your lucky day, 'Con. You get to live, and figure out what it's like losing a friend."

The cannon is fired, though not at Fulcrum. Instead, the blast goes through Misfire's midsection, to Fulcrum's horror.

"Ohhh, that's not good--" Misfire mumbles, staring down at the gaping hole in his chassis before he collapses in a heap, energon draining out of him.

"Misfire!" He can't believe this. He can hardly believe this, what the hell-- Fulcrum's mind is reeling. He could believe this better from Decepticons, but from an Autobot?!

"Bam, right in the spark casing," Blithe chuckles.

It's probably one of the more stupid decisions he's made. Not quite up there with run away from battle and get arrested for cowardice, but it's pretty bad; he can barely make his legs work, but he uses his K-Class frame to his advantage. They won't shoot something that will supposedly explode. So, Fulcrum manages to throw himself onto his feet and slam himself into Blithe almost blindly.

The Autobot curses, "Stupid slagging chin-imposing 'Con--" The cannon going off again. This time, it strikes a hole in the floor nearby Misfire's fallen body, a big enough gaping hole where the bleeding jet falls down it and... and to wherever. Fulcrum stares down in horror and does the stupid thing.

He jumps down the hole after Misfire before remembering, hey, that compulsion to transform into a bomb.

"Aw slag--" Fulcrum mutters before he transforms.

This is definitely going to suck--

-=-=-

"Fulcrum? Misfire?"

Spinister's voice, hushed. Coming in over the frequency. Fulcrum's optics blink online and he struggles to sit up. His joints in his left arm is a bit messed up, he's even more banged up than usual, and he kind of caused an enormous dent in the floor.

But he's okay.

"Hey, are you guys still online?"

Misfire.

Scrambling to his feet with a stumble, trying to shake off the after effects of the gas and jumping, Fulcrum spots the jet not too far off. He tries not to panic, tries as hard as he can; Blithe said it was right in the spark casing. Was Misfire dead?

"Fulcrum--"

"H-here!" Fulcrum manages to turn Misfire onto his back. "I'm here, Spinister-- Misfire's... I can't tell if he's dead or--"

"Ohhh, well. That's not hard. You probably don't have the equipment to check, so lean in real close and see if you can hear his vents goin', okay?"

Lean in? Oh. Fulcrum tries to keep himself composed as he leans in, tilting his face aside to listen.

There. It's faint, but he hears the vents going. Slowly.

"Yeah, I think he's online, but he's-- there's energon everywhere. Spin, where are you? I can't do this!"

"Uh, sorry, Fulcrum. I'm hiding with Krok. After that fuss you caused, I shot out the last of the lights! Snagged Crankcase an' Krok an' we're hiding for now, but I'm pretty sure they're looking for us. ...Oh, hang on! Krok wants to talk to you."

"Krok--" Fulcrum exhales. Trying not to panic, trying real hard. The Scavengers have been decent to him. Quirky and weird and wonderful as they all are; he's not about to lose a friend because of some stranger.

"Can you hear me?" Fulcrum rubs his forehead. It's sobering to hear Krok again.

"Yeah. Krok, are you really in any condition to be doing anything right now, much less speaking?"

"Don't worry about that. Look at Misfire. Tell me what's going on."

"Well... medically speaking, he's got a freakin' huge hole in his chest and I think he's dying and I really really really need Spin here, I can't--" So much for not panicking.

"What's causing the major leak? If he's venting, he's got a spark going. We keep him from losing too much energon, and we can fix him up later."

"What's causing the major... did I mention the not-so-subtle hole in his chest?!" Fulcrum scrubs at his optics. "Okay, okay. I'm looking..."

Aside from the obvious blast through Misfire, there are cables and wires dangling out now that are making his tanks churn. He'd seen and experienced his fair share of gore, but having to actually take a look and... and maybe reach inside. Yeah. But if he has a shot at saving Misfire...

He reaches in, following the path of the major fuel line that'd been blasted through. That seems to be where the major leak is coming from, but that and--

Something else. Something pretty important.

Fulcrum winces as he holds Misfire's mangled fuel pump. Go figure.

"It's his fuel pump, Krok. It's totalled. What the hell do I do?"

"You make like a Scavenger and use what's available to you--" There's a pause, then a curse. "Fulcrum, the Autobots are getting closer. They called reinforcements from their ship. You stay outta sight, and we need to do the same."

"Krok! Hey! I can't--" Fulcrum's shoulders sink when Krok ends the line. "I... have no clue what I'm doing."

Okay. Okay, think. Misfire's fuel pump is ruined and so is the fuel line. If he can somehow salvage that and keep the energon flowing through Misfire properly, then he has a shot of living.

Use what's available. There isn't anything down on the bottom deck like this, though, besides his own fuel pump.

"...Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Fulcrum groans to himself, "How am I supposed to...?"

He can't waste time wondering. He has to know how to fix this, even just for awhile. Okay, okay. He can do this. He can... he should be able to set it up so that his fuel pump can keep energon flowing for both of them. It'll mean that he's going to be literally attached to Misfire for awhile with their lines, but whatever.

This is going to get messy.

Fulcrum winces as he reaches up inside of himself, and with a jerk, he pulls out his fuel pump. He lets out a pitiful sound as he tears off one of his own lines from the pump, but keeps at least one hooked up into it. Misfire's damaged fuel pump is discarded and the lines are hooked messily into his own; murmuring an apology, he tugs a wire from Misfire's damaged body and wraps it around the lines, keeping them hooked into his pump. He feels a little light-headed, knowing his own energon is being pumped into Misfire's now, but hey. It'll do.

There's a groan from Misfire.

"Not remotely religious, but thank you, Primus," Fulcrum mutters, letting relief sink in. "Well. Guess you're not walking, so..."

Clumsily, he pulls Misfire onto his back. It's not the best idea, being that the jet is bigger than he is, but he stubbornly bears the weight as he gives Misfire a piggyback ride.

Misfire mumbles, partly awake, "This would be so much more awesome if I wasn't, you know, half-dead."

Despite himself, Fulcrum feels a tired, pained smile coming on. "Glad you're at least half-alive."

"Me too, Pinhead." Misfire gives a pained laugh. "Ow. Giggles shouldn't hurt that much. So... what'd I miss?"

"Not a whole lot." Slowly, Fulcrum walks down the corridor. "Autobot shot you. He shot a hole in the floor, you fell in, I went after you... we're all split up right now and we're probably going to get our afts kicked. Bright side? You're not completely dead."

"Yayyy, go team." Misfire pauses, then offers, "What about Grimlock?"

"Last I checked, he was still kind of braindead." Fulcrum sighs. "And it worked so well last time when we flung him at the D.J.D."

"Wow, you sound just as cheerful as Crankcase right about now."

While traveling down the dark corridor, Fulcrum almost jerks as the speakers nearly causes the walls to tremble with a rather familiar overly cheerful voice booming out:

"Hiding is pointless, Decepticons! There's ten of us, and so few of you. You're all going to be dead very soon. But I can make it quick, if you show yourselves!"

There's a shake of Fulcrum's head at the announcement from Blithe before he mutters to himself, "It's kind of hilarious how many times people think saying that is going to work."

When he doesn't receive a reply from Misfire, Fulcrum hesitates. He shifts his shoulder slightly to jostle the other Decepticon. "Misfire?"

"Mm?" Misfire exhales against him. "Heh, sorry. Everything's... slower. Haven't been this slow for awhile."

Before the circuit-speeders, no doubt.

How did that end up happening? From the lack of fuel in his body, the injury, or Fulcrum's own energon...? Damn it, he doesn't know, but he knows he needs to find Spinister to fix this. And it needs to be soon.

"Just hang in there," Fulcrum mutters quietly.

"Hey, you know what I noticed...?" Misfire's voice is quiet, half-mumbling by Fulcrum's auditory receptor. "That Autobot's just as bad of a shot as I am. Heh. Right in the spark chamber... nope, he missed. Totally missed."

"Yeah. Guess he did." Fulcrum offers up a faint smile.

It's starting to look pretty bad, he admits. Even as they finally climb out of the lower corridors of the ship and back up a level, Fulcrum is trying to think of what he could do if he ran into one of the Autobots. Which, honestly, is not a whole lot. They could overpower him physically pretty easily. Even if they didn't shoot, he knows even just one could grab him and then maybe kill Misfire or--

Scrap that he doesn't want to think about.

Maybe Misfire is right. At this rate, it's going to take forever to find everyone, and they're both defenseless. Grimlock is their only chance.

Damn damn damn damn.

Slowly, he inches his way down the hallway, peering around and making sure he isn't being followed or about to meet with a very nasty surprise. As he pauses and looks around, he pauses long enough to kneel down and pick up Misfire's dropped gun.

Right. Useful. Except he's never used a damned firearm before. It's... better than nothing, he supposes.

"Well. On the bright side, I can't be a worse shot than you," Fulcrum mutters.

"Whatever, loser." Though Misfire's tone is quiet, he hardly sounds offended, pushing for something lighter. He goes quiet again as they trudge along in the hallway, then eventually he murmurs, "Hey, Fulcrum?"

Fulcrum turns his head to glance at Misfire best as he can. "Yeah?"

"When... when I call you a pinhead and a loser, you know what I really mean?" Misfire pauses. "...I really mean that you're a pinhead and a loser."

There's a quiet snort from Fulcrum before he responds with, "I like you too, Misfire."

Gradually, the K-Classer manages to turn a corner; the supplies closet isn't far off. In fact, he can see where it is from where he's standing. The issue is that the door has been torn off and he's pretty sure that Grimlock isn't there anymore.

"Slag," Fulcrum hisses.

"A perfect choice of words, Decepticon."

It doesn't sound like Blithe, but it's not a voice he knows; it has to be one of the Autobots from Blithe's ship, especially since there's a gun pressed up against the back of his head. He feels Misfire twitch and hold on as tight as he can, which isn't much. Fulcrum warily peers over his shoulder, then turns around sharply; it occurs to him quickly that he needs to put himself between this Autobot and Misfire in order to keep the other Decepticon from further harm as long as he can.

Different Autobot. This one looks like some kind of airborne type. Spaceworthy. Maybe a shuttle-former. It doesn't matter; the smug look is really irritating him.

The Autobot is peering over the two of them, then lets out a laugh of amusement. "What the frag is this?" Fulcrum tries to not flinch when the fuel cables dangling out of him are being prodded. "You're both hooked up to a single fuel pump. Oh, that's just sad!"

"A bunch of Autobots picking a fight with some mechs who just want to go home -- that's sad," Fulcrum grumbles.

"What was that?"

"You heard me!"

It occurs to Fulcrum that it's a step too far; maybe telling the D.J.D. where to stuff it is where he started to build a better spinal strut or something, but when the Autobot is grabbing and yanking hard on his fuel cable, Fulcrum lets out a pained yell, trembling as he drops to his knees. Misfire squirms against his back, mumbling something incoherent, but it sounds vaguely something like worry.

"I think you owe me an apology. And maybe a bit of begging, 'Con." The Autobot yanks again on the fuel line, which earns an outright scream from Fulcrum; he hasn't screamed like that since Styx. "C'mon, 'Con! What do you say?"

There's another pull, and he swears that it's nearly close to pulling off of his own body or the fuel pump and Fulcrum is downright near shrieking.

"What do you say?!" the Autobot repeats.

"Me Grimlock say, crush stupid shuttle!"

All three of them make varying sounds and words of shock as there's a thunderous roar and something heavy stomping up towards them.

"What the slag--" the Autobot stammers, turning around to stare.

"Oh scrap oh scrap oh scrap," Fulcrum mutters, optics wide as he sees the dinosaur stampeding up to them.

"Awesome," he hears Misfire remark practically in glee.

Without any hesitation, the Dynobot snatches up the Autobot into his jaws, starting to chew and crunch him between his razor sharp teeth. On the bright side, in the sheer amount of terror and no doubt pain the Autobot is going through, Fulcrum's fuel line has been released. On the other hand, he's watching in horror as the Autobot screams and energon spurts out and he hears himself letting out a terrified squeak.

Eventually, Grimlock finally throws the Autobot onto the floor, opening his mouth and letting out a spray of flames, pretty much melting the Autobot to the floor of the ship. Fulcrum deeply suspects that, probably, most likely, the Autobot is dead.

"That... was neato," Misfire murmurs into Fulcrum's shoulder.

"Uh," is all Fulcrum can get out, trying not to tremble as Grimlock slowly approaches them, energon dripping down from his jaw. Oh, that's not frightening at all.

This is it. He's going to die a horrible death of being chewed on and melted and--

And Grimlock is just staring at them in his weird beast-like form, tilting his head slowly.

"...Hi?" Fulcrum tries hesitantly.

Slowly, Grimlock crouches down, leaning in to look at both of them. Then, he speaks, "Mm... me. Grimlock."

"Yeah, I know," Fulcrum sighs, more just exasperated than anything else.

"Me Grimlock," the Dynobot repeats, almost sounding impatient.

"Um... oh." Fulcrum winces a little. "Me... Fulcrum?"

Seemingly satisfied with that, the Dynobot states, "Me Grimlock, you Fulcrum."

"That was quite possibly the most intelligent conversation I've heard all day," Misfire mutters into Fulcrum's back, letting out a small laugh before flinching. "Ow. No, seriously, this laugh means pain thing is a real downer."

Before Fulcrum can properly react, Grimlock is opening his jaws again and he very well near lets out a horrified scream, but fear is the only thing keeping him from making a single sound as Grimlock takes both him and Misfire into his mouth. He expects to be crushed and killed.

It doesn't happen. Grimlock is just. Holding them like this.

"This is so weird," Fulcrum groans in dismay.

"No, screw you, this is cool," Misfire tells him with a grin.

"All right, uh." Fulcrum lets out a huff of air from his vents. "All right. Misfire, do you have any idea where Spinister took Krok and Crankcase?"

Misfire squints faintly, giving that some thought. "Hm. If I were a really dumb Decepticon, where would I be... oh! Hey, I've got it. Trust me, this is the stupidest kind of brilliance. It's so Spinister it hurts."

-=-=-

The nice and weird thing is that despite however simple Grimlock has become, he takes directions pretty well. Although it's still extremely scary as all frag to be carried in the Dynobot's mouth, they're taken to where they need to go a lot faster than if Fulcrum was still carrying Misfire on his own. Plus, well, for some reason the way they've being carried around just downright delights Misfire; take the pros where you can, because the cons were pretty bad right now.

Once they arrive to their destination, there's a pause when Grimlock stops. Fulcrum can see why; outside of the airlock door, there are several Autobot corpses around.

No sign of one of the others. There's that, at least.

"Doesn't look like Blithe is among them," Fulcrum mutters. "I wonder what happened?"

"Eh, I got a feeling I know." Misfire glances at the door. "So, two cubes of energon at Cybertron says that Spinister is hanging out on the hull of the ship with Captain No-Face and Sir Grouchers. Whaddaya think?"

"Sounds like you're pretty on the ball there." Fulcrum pauses, then nervously addresses the Dynobot. "Uh. Thanks, Grimlock, but you can put us down now, all right?"

There's a deep growl for a moment, which nearly causes yet another panic attack in Fulcrum until he feels Grimlock slowly drop them to the floor. All right, good, that's clumsy but not certain horrible death.

The K-Classer drags Misfire onto his back again, stepping gingerly over the Autobot bodies as he gets to the airlock door. He brings up his commlink, trying to ping the others.

"Spinister?" he calls out hesitantly.

There's a pause, then eventually a response. "Oh hey, Fulcrum! You're still alive. That's a good surprise; Krok'll be real glad to hear that."

"Are you out there? On the hull," Fulcrum wonders.

"Oh yeah, after the Autobots tried followin' us."

"Uh. Did... you kill all these Autobots?" Fulcrum finds himself asking, glancing back down at the corpses.

Spinister makes an irritated noise. "Nothin' to be worried about. Krok says hello, by the way."

That's a vague response. Shaking his head, Fulcrum decides he shouldn't have to worry about it. "Hey, if you're still out on the hull, can you come back for Misfire? I managed to keep him together, but... well, I'm not a surgeon and he needs one. Now."

"Well--"

"That needs to be now." He doesn't enjoy making orders, but he's not going to waste much more time with this. "I count about, uh. Seven dead here? That leaves Blithe, Grimlock chomped up that other Autobot... how many are left?"

"Besides Blithe, there's Gladbag," Crankcase grumbles over the commlink. "That we know of."

"Thanks." Fulcrum gently sets Misfire down to the floor next to the door. "Spinister, I left Misfire by the airlock, so you know where to find him. I'm taking Grimlock to deal with the other two Autobots."

"Where the hell do you think you're going...?" Misfire peers up at him. "We're sort of, you know, linked."

Fulcrum winces a bit. "Yeah, I know. So, this is gonna suck. Well, for me, anyway, but..."

After trailing off, he reaches down to grasp the fuel pump in one hand and his own fuel lines in the other, gripping tightly. It stings a bit like this, but... frag, it's not like he has much other choice. He steels himself, cycling his vents a few times. "So, good news is, you actually get to keep my fuel pump after all, Misfire."

And he yanks his fuel lines off of the pump, letting out a strangled, pain-filled cry; he'd prepared, but it doesn't make the hurting stop. He feels himself shaking, letting go of the fuel pump as it drops into Misfire's lap. Gritting his teeth, Fulcrum knots the ends of his line so he's not bleeding out energon everywhere.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Fulcrum has a hard time imagining Misfire sounding this concerned, but his focus is a bigger surprise. Maybe because of the injuries, who knows.

"Someone needs to keep Grimlock on track. We... we still don't really know how all there he is." Talking is a strain and Fulcrum is shoving his cables back into his own chest. A huge mess and if he makes out of this alive -- oh he hopes so -- Spinister isn't going to be impressed. "Spinister's coming for you, and I need to deal with the other Autobots and wow I really don't have time to argue I feel like utter scrap."

He hears Misfire, hears him struggle to shout or move or something and Fulcrum stumbles to his feet, turning away, trying to tune him out. "Grimlock, let's go."

It gets easier after he and Grimlock both leave, since he hears the airlock open finally somewhere behind them and Spinister gathering up Misfire. Right. Better.

"Grimlock," Fulcrum starts, starting to feel himself tremble already. Without the fuel pump, the fuel isn't being distributed to his body, but he should be able to live long enough to do this. Maybe. "I have a really simple plan. Do you understand?"

"Me Grimlock. You Fulcrum."

"Right. Beautiful. Wonderful. Downright poetic." Fulcrum braces a hand to the Dynobot's side as they continue down the hall together. "I need you to follow my directions very. Closely."

He only hopes that Grimlock will actually understand.

-=-=-

"Okay... okay." The lack of the pump is overheating his systems, too, he realizes; Fulcrum's finding himself leaning against the console at the bridge of the ship, vents working overtime in order to try to cool his frame, but it's not working, the fuel isn't going anywhere. He rubs the top of his helm, trying to remain focused.

"Um." Right. What he was doing.

Grimlock's been told to wait elsewhere, so the bridge is empty. Just himself right now. That's about to change.

Fulcrum presses for the intercom. "Hey. Blithe. I'm waiting for you on the bridge. I'm giving myself up or... whatever. Sure. We're going with that."

Ugh. It would be a perfectly good plan if he could just-- keep his focus. What's wrong with him? Is it the lack of pump? It's got to be. Fulcrum lets his forehead rest against both of his hands for a moment as he slides down to sit against the console. This has to work. He's not looking forward to dying, and he's going to try really, really damned hard not to, but Krok and the others already came to his defense when they didn't have to. Faintly, in his tired mind, he's pretty much accepted that Flywheels is dead because of him. Sure, Decepticons and Autobots have died a lot in the past, but it didn't have to turn out that way.

And he's really, really not keen on seeing the others die. If he can stop that, yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice.

"It's so nice of you to wait so comfortably for me, Decepticon."

There's a shot fired. It doesn't hit Fulcrum, but part of the console by his head; it makes Fulcrum jerk slightly, optics wide as he sees Blithe head inside, Petrol behind. With his grin wide and mad and furious, Blithe is charging up towards him before Fulcrum can make himself move.

"Slag-- Gr--!" Fulcrum tries to shout, but his neck is snagged by Blithe, his voicebox cut off before another word can come out.

"Do you think this is funny?" Blithe's smile is downright near hysterical as he speaks, and he's slamming Fulcrum's head against the console. "Most of my Autobots are dead -- because of you! Because of you Decepticons. It's always the same, because of you slagging 'Cons!" He slams the smaller mech against the console again, sparks flying. "What do you think of that, huh?! What do you have to say?"

Fulcrum winces, struggling, his strength quickly diminishing. The lack of fuel going through his body -- he feels sluggish. "G-grr--"

"What was that? Are you growling at me?" Blithe laughs sharply. "You're growling at me! Let me hear this, little 'Con!"

When the pressure is relieved off of his voice box, Fulcrum shouts as loud as he can, "GRIMLOCK!!"

"What...?" Blithe's smile diminishes, looking confused at the name.

There's a loud, room-shaking roar as the ceiling collapses, the Dynobot bursting through it as he snaps at Blithe; the Autobot manages to duck away, scrambling, and Fulcrum does similarly to the best of his ability. Petrol is getting ready to attack, but Grimlock snarls and bites at the Autobot, shaking his head violently as he tears into the colorful mech.

It's a familiar scene: Fulcrum hears the Autobot screaming. What's different, though, is that Grimlock slows down and lets out a confused snarl. Petrol is limp, either injured or dead, and drops from Grimlock's jaws. The infamous warrior stumbles and walks into a wall, disorientated.

Petrol's gas. Slag, Fulcrum didn't account for that.

"What in Primus is Grimlock doing here...? Eh, no matter." Blithe is getting back to his feet. "Now, where were... we?"

Fulcrum's managed to find the strength to standing up, holding with both hands unsteadily Misfire's gun. His vents shudder and he feels like collapsing, but he keeps the firearm trained on the Autobot.

Blithe holds up his hands. "N-now... Decepticon, we don't--"

"My name's Fulcrum," the K-Classer spits at him.

"Fulcrum! Fulcrum, you don't have to shoot that gun. I can walk away. We'll never see each other again. I--"

"Shut up." There's another tremor running through his body, but Fulcrum keeps to his feet. "The war's over. I... I don't care about what happened to you, or your friends. I didn't do those things. The others-- my friends didn't hurt them either. Or kill them. We didn't do anything to you. The war... is done and we just want to go home." He wavers a moment, shaking his head, but takes a step closer. "All I want is to live. Why the hell is that so complicated?!"

"I'll walk away! I'll just walk!" Blithe's smile is completely gone, but he's laughing nervously. "I'm begging you-- I understand! You want to live, and so do I. Please!"

"The way you treated Crankcase, shot Misfire-- I should. I should shoot you. Any other Decepticon would, I guess."

There's a moment in which Fulcrum just keeps the gun pointed at him. Then, gradually, he lowers it, shoulders sinking.

"Just get out," Fulcrum mutters. "Just leave."

The room is silent, as Blithe stares at him, almost confused. Fulcrum wonders briefly if he'd made any impact. He can't think of things in terms of Autobots bad, Decepticons good. He can't, because there are Decepticons like the D.J.D. who twisted the cause to suit their own violent needs. There are, it seems, Autobots just as awful. But it's done now. Over. It doesn't matter. They can both be free.

No, Fulcrum tells himself grimly as he sees Blithe begin to charge him again, he didn't convince him of anything.

So he shoots, pulling a trigger for the first time at someone.

The blast catches Blithe in the face, blowing off most of his head and chunks of his brain node scattering across the wall in shrapnel. The body collapses in a heap in front of Fulcrum's feet.

"O-oh... scrap." It's not the lack of fuel running through him, nor the injuries. No, neither of those things causes him to pass out.

With a loud clang, he hits the floor, blacking out.

-=-=-

"...so you have everything that you need, Krok?"

"Don't know about that. Crankcase?"

"Hmph. We have the missing parts and then some. Suppose the W.A.P. is a little better than when we first left Clemency, which is saying something."

"All right then. Gladbag, take the shuttle of the Mad Minute. We're going to have some fireworks in space. You have fifteen minutes to clear out."

"Ah. Understood. ... Thank you. I'll excuse myself."

The room grows silent, save for the sound of someone walking out. Slowly, he feels a bit more awake.

Fulcrum groans, rubbing his head; his optics turn on.

"Welcome back," Krok greets him, his tone far less harsh than the one he had with the Autobot, Gladbag.

Looking over the leader of the Scavengers is a bit odd. There's been a frame placed over most of his head, but his optics are replaced at least. Whatever healing process he's going through now, most of his head is covered up for the moment. Still, it's good to see Krok on his feet again.

"Thanks, I-- ow." Fulcrum winces, holding his midsection. "Ugh, that stings."

"Well, I had to get you a new fuel pump. And I had to fix up your fuel lines, put 'em back all right, seal up your chestplate... so things are gonna be kinda touchy," Spinister informs him.

Fulcrum frowns. "Where'd I get a new fuel pump?"

"Oh, I jus' yanked it from one of the Autobots since they were dead and didn't need it anymore. Lucky you, huh?"

As he becomes more aware, Fulcrum sees that he's in the medbay on the only berth they have. In a corner, Grimlock is sleeping off whatever effects Petrol's gases had on him. To his surprise and nearly causing him to jerk back unexpectedly, Misfire is standing right next to his berth -- being mostly quiet, even. That's rather unusual.

"So what happened?" Fulcrum dares to ask.

"Eh, you fainted," Misfire informs him. "You really are the worst Decepticon. Ticklish and fainting when he shoots someone..."

Shooting someone-- Blithe. That really happened. "Is... he dead?" Fulcrum inquires warily.

"Oh, he was mostly dead when we got back on the ship." Krok turns his head faintly to peer down at Fulcrum. "To be honest, I debated keeping him online for awhile to make him pay for what happened. Decided to put him out of his misery instead. Figured that'd save us trouble and time. Gladbag agreed to respectfully leave, on account of the fact that he didn't participate in any of the destruction. So he's leaving the Mad Minute for spare parts and taking off in a shuttle. Once we're done with their ship..."

"Kaboom!" Misfire offers.

"At any rate, I should see about making sure the ship is repaired proper."

Fulcrum struggles to sit up, but Krok is roughly shoving him back down. "You've done plenty since I've been out," Krok informs him. "And I really don't want Spinister to waste the supplies fixing you up again. Get some more recharge; Crankcase and I will finish the repairs."

There's a brief moment in which Fulcrum thinks it'd be kind of noble or something to argue, offer to help, but... but no, his body is pretty much telling him that's enough and it kills him a bit to see how oddly worried Misfire is. So he shrugs and lays back down. "Sure, you got it," Fulcrum answers quietly.

"Good answer." A heavy pat goes to Fulcrum's shoulder before Krok nods; he takes his leave, Crankcase and Spinister following him.

Which leaves a bit of an awkward silence between Fulcrum and Misfire.

"Sooo. You gave me your fuel pump," Misfire points out.

"Sure did. I kind of remember screaming when I pulled that out of me," Fulcrum tells him wryly.

Misfire grins and shrugs. "Yeah, it was kind of a wussy scream there, Pinhead."

"I'll try to scream with a deeper baritone when I'm yanking fuel pumps out of my body."

"Sure, that's nice and all; it's like we have best friends decals that go together, but. You know. Inside of our bodies. ...But I think I'd take the less traumatizing route and just have you be not dead. Though, if you did die, I promise to use every single part of you and not let it go to waste."

"...I." Fulcrum squints at him. "Misfire that's very, um." Weird. Odd. A little creepy. "Thoughtful of you."

Misfire laughs. "Yeah, well, hopefully you'll stay online for a long time. I kind of like you being alive."

"Yeah, me too." Fulcrum leans his head back slightly against the berth.

-=-=-

All in all, things worked out oddly well. Despite the attack from the Autobots, Gladbag kept to his word and left with no fight. The Mad Minute had been taken apart for all that they could use for its worth, repaired their own ship, and then blew it up. As promised. The W.A.P.'s been repaired and powered back on, getting back on track. Misfire eventually had ended up passing out against Grimlock, which Fulcrum had advised maybe was a bad idea but Misfire did it anyway.

Fulcrum knows he should recharge. Knows it, but without Misfire's yammering keeping him busy, he's sunk into thinking.

Which is a little awful.

He lifts his head when he sees Krok step inside the medbay.

"Still need to be taking it easy, or Spinister says." Krok's tone implies he isn't interested in arguing with their surgeon. "How are you feeling?"

"Lousy, but alive. So I guess I can't complain," Fulcrum responds. "Though-- hey. ...Krok?"

"What is it?"

"I know this is going to sound pretty lame, or-- anyway." He frowns. "Before Blithe, I really hadn't shot anyone before. I... yeah, I get it, I'm a crap Decepticon, whatever--"

"I know the story. Crankcase filled me in." Krok shrugs. "Not all of us were forged to be soldiers, Fulcrum. But now you're on edge, because you pulled a trigger."

"Yeah, something like that."

"You'll deal with it." It's not comforting, not that Fulcrum's looking for comfort, considering, but to be heard. Which is something he knows he can rely on Krok for. "Blithe had it coming. I was okay with doing the finishing blow, but wish I took the initial shot myself. You did what you had to, and he was in the way."

Fulcrum lets his optics dim. "Yeah. I know that. But I guess I needed to hear it."

Krok nods faintly, as lightly as he can to keep off the pain. "We're on our way now. You did all right for a crap Decepticon. You used what you had to around you, like any one of us would, and we made it out alive. That's a good day in my data tracks. Live with that."

And that's, Fulcrum supposes, all that he can do. He doesn't feel like he'd done something wrong. He had defended himself. Blithe put him into a corner. He'd been willing to let him go, when Fulcrum is positive any of the others would have just killed Blithe. Maybe that makes him a coward, but in the end, it was the same. That's not wrong, it's just living.

That's something he can deal with.

Right or wrong, in the end of the day, Krok is right. They're alive.

Fulcrum can accept that.

Chapter Text

The war's over and that still didn't stop Krok sometimes.

There are a lot of leftover feelings on the Autobots. Just because the war is over doesn't mean the hate will stop. Blithe and his crew had been proof enough that the feelings haven't died. It took all of Krok's will to not just shoot down Gladbag's shuttle anyway, but he's a 'Con of his word.

Waking up to find Grimlock in his ship had caused initial fury. Why the slag would he want an Autobot in his ship?

Crankcase had asked Fulcrum what they should do about Grimlock, according to Spinister.

The war's over. We help him.

Fulcrum taking the initiative had been concerning on two levels. First, someone making decisions for the team? Really? Sure, Krok was unconscious, but it still made him concerned. The other -- the Autobot.

Krok sits in the medbay, trying to not pick at the bandages around his helm. There are two mechs in his sight: Fulcrum who is unconscious on the berth, and Grimlock who's curled up on the floor in his strange bestial mode.

So maybe it was good for Fulcrum to have taken the initiative; when Blithe and his crew attacked, they probably would have been in a worse state without either K-Con or Autobot. Fulcrum was ready to sacrifice his life a second round, apparently, for all of them. Grimlock, too dumb to be vicious against the crew of the Weak Anthropic Principle, made sure to protect Fulcrum and Misfire, maybe due to some latent memory of Fulcrum vocalizing to help him.

Who knew, really.

Warily, Krok watches Grimlock sit up, stretching out his enormous body. There's a pause, then Grimlock noses his snout against Fulcrum's hand.

Fulcrum mumbles something wordless and sleepily pats the Dynobot on the snout. There's a pleased rumble in the Autobot's engine.

Right. No one would ever know that Grimlock had once been a fierce warrior, infamous for the way he'd viciously battle Decepticons. A brilliant soldier, anyone would reluctantly agree.

Now...

"Hey, Krok. We're picking up a distress beacon. You might wanna come to the bridge," Crankcase advises over the intercom.

"Right," Krok responds. "I'll be there."

Slowly, the tactician stands up. He pauses, then gives Grimlock a rough pat on the head. "Keep an eye on him," Krok mutters.

Grimlock wags his impressive tail.

Chapter Text

"Are you gonna sit there all day or are you gonna finish your high-grade, Fulcrum?"

The disorientating part is less the words or the faces he sees, but rather as he looks at his own arms, frowning. It doesn't quite fit in with what he's seeing, what what he's hearing. Eventually, his mind is able to put it together and determine that this isn't right. He mumbles some sort of apology, stands up, excuses himself, and slowly makes his way out of the room.

There, he can exhale, cycle his vents and know he's straight of mind. Fulcrum frowns and looks around the hallway of the suspiciously quiet ship, then down at his arms. Right, okay.

"Think," the K-Class Decepticon orders of himself in a low grumble, pacing slowly. "What happened last, and why the slag is my mind so muddled?"

All right. So they were traveling, on their way to Cybertron. Right. That sounds right. Krok is more or less better, especially after that damned incident with the Autobots, but in the midst of everything Fulcrum had been too out of it due to his repairs, they were landing and...

The rest feels like an unpleasant hum of static in his mind, not unlike when he crashed and went unconscious on Clemency when he first leapt.

"Damn," Fulcrum grumbles. Well, that's enough to work with. He brings up his wrist, the panel there flipping open as he attempts to make radio contact. "Krok? It's Fulcrum. When did we land?"

Nothing but white noise in return.

"Okayyyy? Misfire? Crankcase? ... Spinister?" Nothing. "...Grimlock...?"

All right. Why the hell is there no response? Are they hiding somewhere? No, that's ridiculous. Spinister could never stay in one place without feeling threatened, and the idea of Misfire staying quiet is hilariously impossible.

So. If they aren't on the ship...

Fulcrum looks warily outside one of the windows, and narrows his optics at the suspiciously familiar offensive sight of organic foliage. Trees and leaves and... and gross. Yuck. Seriously? He's pretty sure he helped cyberform a planet like this before.

Still, if he's going to find any of the others, it's probably out there.

"Great," Fulcrum mutters to himself. "You know what doesn't help? Everyone else having vehicle modes or a giant monster thing with teeth that can run way, way faster than me."

Gingerly, as if the ground outside would melt his legs if he wasn't careful enough, Fulcrum finds himself warily stepping outside and trying to not cringe at the feeling of grass tickling the plating of his feet. Ugh, that alone feels weird, but there's not much he can really do about it. Not if he wants to go out and try to locate everybody else.

Fantastic.

"Where could they have--" Fulcrum starts to mumble to himself as he pushes away some bright blue leaves. He stops when something makes a grotesque combination of a noise under his foot, that of a SQSHH and a CRNCH.

Hesitantly and definitely warily, he lifts his foot up slowly in order to peer down and see what the hell made that noise. Whatever it was, it was definitely something insectoid and organic and its guts everywhere and the slime clinging to the bottom of his foot and.

It takes all of Fulcrum's will to not let out a high-pitched shriek of disgust and terror at the organic material on his foot. Instead, a series of panicked, hushed words come out in a sequence of, "OhPrimusthatissodisgusting--!" as he stumbles, hopping on one foot and trying to shake the matter off.

Which, in turn, causes him to go tumbling down a hill.

At that time, he gives out a noisy scream of dismay, hardly tough sounding at all.

Once the fall is done and Fulcrum is able to straighten himself out, he shakes his head and moves himself to sit up from his awkward angle. He dusts himself off, decidedly trying not to look at his own foot or pay attention to it because it's going to be gross and give him bad shivers all around. However, he does look up when he hears a very familiar giggle.

"Misf--" Fulcrum starts, then stops because he has to stare at the scenery before him.

It's Misfire all right, sprawled out lazily over a berth, which looks a bit funny in the middle of a very organic jungle. Surrounding him are several stacks of energon cubes, all glowing intensely, looking well filtered and freshly generated. While Misfire is sipping on a cube, there's someone polishing his wings.

That someone is.

Fulcrum himself? What?

"What the hell is happening here?" the K-Con demands, staring in utter disbelief.

Misfire snorts and coughs, choking on his energon. "--Uh, Fulcrum?" He looks from the one cheerfully working on his plating to the other standing in front of him. "Well. This got either more awesome or suddenly very awkward."

"We're going with awkward. Where did all this energon come from?" Fulcrum peers warily at his... copy, or whatever you'd call it, as he seems to be adept at ignoring anything outside of tending to Misfire.

"I dunno, I just kinda found it." Misfire shrugs. "And you. You were with the energon. Or are you a twin?"

"No! I'm-- it's me, Fulcrum. C'mon, I don't even know what's up with this other me," the ex-technician growls, waving a hand at the other Fulcrum with lack of any other method of expressing himself.

Misfire squints warily at him. "Hmm, I don't know." He looks at the K-Classer wiping down his wings. "You're Fulcrum, aren't you?"

"Of course!" comes the cheery answer.

"See? Rather convincing argument."

"That's not even--!" Fulcrum sighs, hitting his own forehead with the palm of his hand. "Are you serious? Look, this has to be fake. I just came from the ship and I experienced some... some weird hallucination. This has to be the same, that's the only thing that makes sense. I mean-- oh for crying out loud, he's pouring energon all over himself!"

Misfire is looking at the copy very attentively. "He surely is."

"Don't you want to lick it off of me, Misfire?" the oddly cheerful version of Fulcrum coos at the jet.

"No he doesn't!" Fulcrum practically shrieks.

"I don't? I mean, uh, of course I don't! Bad, bad Fulcrum." Misfire finally tears his optics off of the hallucination of the K-Con. "So you're saying this is all fake?"

"Yes! Yes, I am." Fulcrum rubs his helm. "Though I have no idea why you'd ever experience a vision of me tending to you so..." He trails off, then peers at Misfire. "Why would you experience a hallucination like this?"

"Um." Misfire bites his lower lip. "OhheyIthinkIhearKrokcalling!" Transforming into his vehicle mode, the jet takes off into the sky.

"Get back here! MISFIRE!" Fulcrum growls and throws his hands up into the air. "Are you freakin' kidding me?!!"

As soon as the jet leaves the area, despite his annoyance Fulcrum is able to take notice of a simple fact: the illusion dissipates completely, leaving behind just the organic foliage. The stacks of energon cubes and his ridiculous double are all gone. Whatever that means, anyway; Fulcrum's aware it was all fake, but how it happened and why is still escaping him.

At the very least, he can hope that the others will be more reasonable than Misfire. ...Well, maybe not Spinister, whatever the frag he ends up seeing, but at the very least upon finding Misfire temporarily, he must be on the right track.

Even if he'd found the jet technically by accident.

Eh, technicalities.

With a sigh, Fulcrum presses on in his on-foot journey in a continued attempt to locate the rest of the crew. Which is irritating, but at least there are signs to follow a bit easier the more foliage. After all, Misfire's the only one that can fly, and the big stomping footprints left by Grimlock are pretty telling. The broken branches were probably also left by the Autobot, Spinister, or both of them.

So there's that.

Shrubbery are shoved aside and suddenly, Fulcrum finds himself in another hallucination. He frowns, stepping carefully as a rather convincing click clack of metal plating is under his feet, apparently. He's in a ship, Imperial class by the looks of it. The bridge of it. In the front tending to the main consoles are...

Hey, is that Shockwave? Yeah, that's Shockwave and Sixshot and a lot of other Decepticons that Fulcrum recognizes as high ranking officers.

"Captain," Shockwave calls out. "The Autobot ship is requesting a merciful surrender."

The captain's chair turns and sitting there is definitely Crankcase, his helm suspiciously repaired and his plating polished and gleaming. In his lap is a recently groomed turbofox. He points out to the screens. "Mercy? I don't think so. Activate the Superduper Blastoff's cannons."

"...Superduper Blastoff," Fulcrum repeats out loud, squinting.

"It's a good ship name," Crankcase snaps defensively, then peers at Fulcrum. "I'm pretty sure you're not part of the crew."

"Got it in one. And I'm pretty sure you don't actually own a ship, especially not one called that." The K-Con rubs the back of his helm. "C'mon, Crankcase. You remember? Krok and the others?"

"Way behind me." Crankcase peers out the window in satisfaction as the Autobot ship explodes gloriously. The turbofox in his lap makes a pleasant barking noise as he scratches it behind the ears. "I've got my own ship now."

"The war's over, you know. Why the frag would you be attacking an Autobot ship?" Fulcrum gestures out the window.

The pilot scowls more than usual in Fulcrum's direction. "Like I need a proper excuse, or are you forgettin' what happened with Blithe and the others?"

Fulcrum shakes his head. "I'm not forgetting that or even what our own Decepticons are like now. Look, tell me this: who repaired your helm? Because it sure as hell wasn't Spinister."

There's a deep frown on Crankcase's face, more than usual. Slowly, he reaches up to touch his own helm, then jerks his hand back. There's a growl of frustration before he's shoving the illusion of the turbofox off of his lap. It squawks, scampering away as Crankcase is standing up, looking around the ship.

"Can you remember what happened before you ended up on this ship?" Fulcrum asks him warily.

The mechanic goes silent for a moment before snorting and nodding. "There was a distress beacon. I told Krok we should probably just ignore it, but he wanted to check it out anyway. We landed and... that's about when things turn fuzzy."

"I don't remember at all," Fulcrum confesses. "But you know this is fake, right?"

"Gettin' that idea," Crankcase responds gruffly. "I'd never have a ship this nice anyway. Where's the way out?"

There's a pause of consideration before Fulcrum is holding out his hand, loosely taking the pilot by the wrist and guiding him down the steps and towards the back of the bridge. Gradually, the further the pair part from the bridge, it's noticeable how the illusion fades.

With that, Crankcase's more typical appearance is back to normal: the awful head injury and plating scraped to being raw metal, rough and unruly. Not unlike the rest of the scavengers.

"Crankcase?" Fulcrum still decides to ask warily.

"I'm here," the pilot snaps impatiently.

Yeah, that's definitely him. Fulcrum shrugs helplessly. "I really don't know how we ended up here. Do you remember?"

"I do now, mostly." Crankcase looks around the area. "You were still in the medbay, recovering from the operation. We caught that beacon that I mentioned. Krok, being the big fraggin' softie he is, had me land the ship. As soon as we did, that's when these illusions started up."

"I had one," Fulcrum admits. "Where do you think it came from?"

"Hmph." Crankcase folds his arms. "Thinking about it now, that beacon type was outdated. I just assumed it was due to the fact that the ship itself was probably an old one, not unlike our wreck of shuttle. ...You worked on cyberforming planets, right?"

"What about it?" That was a life Fulcrum's pretty ready to leave behind, considering all that's happened. Not his favorite subject; far too many complicated feelings come with it, and discussing a matter of personal emotion isn't exactly high up on topics for Decepticons, even Fulcrum.

Crankcase snorts. "Well, in case you didn't notice, loyal Phase Sixers were kinda hard to come by. Rumor has it, there was a project that was started up. A machine that was supposed to deal with the sentient life in the simplest way possible."

"I... really don't like where this is going."

"Good, because it's gonna be as bad as it sounds." Crankcase shakes his head. "Some nut called it the Cerebnum. You ever hear of it?"

Fulcrum scratches the back of his helm. "Sort of? Just the name. Not even really gossip." Maybe due to his age. Frankly, in comparison to the rest of the Scavengers, he's not even very old, but that's not really a topic he's going to hop into.

"The idea was that it was supposed to make its targets complacent under a hallucination that'd match their deepest desires. While trapped in the illusion, it was the job for everyone else to wipe out the sentient life." Crankcase turns his head to look down into the jungle. "Heard it was a great big malfunction. It couldn't keep from projecting on Cybertronians, so they had to dispose of the entire project. Seems like based on that, it's a fair guess that'd be here it was thrown onto."

There's a skeptical look from Fulcrum, his optics squinting and his head tilted just so. "So you're saying that there's this machine projecting everyone's deepest desires to them and they're trapped in this hallucination. I sort of get that, considering..." The former technician trails off, then his yellow optics widen in realization. "Wait a fragging second, what the hell does this say about Misfire?"

"What?" Crankcase snorts, looking down at the K-Con.

"Er. Nothing. Never mind. A-All right, so we break everyone out from the illusion and leave this planet as soon as possible." Fulcrum coughs into his hand and looks away. "We should probably just keep following after the trail I followed. Kind of hard to miss Grimlock and Spinister's tracks."

"Y'don't say." With an irritated wave of his hand, Crankcase takes point and leads the two of them. "So you ran into Misfire?"

"Before he flew off, sure," Fulcrum mutters. "Dunno where he went off to."

"Anyone else?"

Fulcrum shakes his head. "No, just you otherwise. The ship was empty."

A curious but nonetheless grumpy glare is given over Crankcase's shoulder. "So who got you out of your illusion?"

"Myself. I..." Fulcrum glances away. "I got myself out of it. I don't know, a part of me was able to tell something was off, so I got myself out of it. It didn't seem right. Suppose if we're speaking in how this Cerebnum works (that's still a really stupid name by the way) it might have something to do with how I was reformatted."

"Eh, whatever the reason, you're here now." Crankcase turns his head back around.

Gradually, as the pair make their way through the forest, they find themselves at a fork in the path, as it were. Somewhere along the way, Grimlock stomped his way off into the west and Spinister, the big lug of a medic, found his way to the east. Crankcase hemmed and hawed, folding his arms and narrowing his gaze. Similarly, Fulcrum finds himself putting his hands on his hips and sighing as he tries to consider who to go after first.

"I guess we need to consider who's gonna do the most damage," Fulcrum mutters. "Spinister or Grimlock."

Crankcase replies with a guffaw. "There's a fraggin' contest I don't wanna witness. At least Spinister's got a grasp of grammar."

"You two."

Both heads turn in the direction of the voice, finding themselves looking in the face of their commanding officer, seemingly not bothered by any potential hallucinations. Krok and his very familiar bandages wrapped around his helm is seen shoving branches out of the way, peering at Crankcase and Fulcrum for a moment before apparently satisfied with whatever he'd been briefly calculating.

"Good to see you back on your feet," Krok addresses the K-Con. "But we have a problem."

"What do you mean?" Fulcrum frowns.

Krok inclines to the west with his head. "You hear that?"

As Fulcrum stops to consider what Krok might be hearing, he listens to it as well. It's a loud roar, practically vibrating the ground underneath his feet. Any other variation of the sound would cause a wary laugh and a suggestion of retreat or hiding from the K-Con, most likely. Or at the very least, nervous glancing about. However, he knows that exact pitch pretty damned well by now, so all it does is earn a jerk of familiarity and a downright near concerned look.

"Grimlock!" Fulcrum realizes. Probably the only time in which Fulcrum doesn't cower from a roar or snarl of any kind. Before Clemency, he probably wouldn't even be inclined to have a bout of lack of fear in regards to the Autobot warrior, but considering how things have been working out so far, it's hard to even think about shying away or turning his back on the Dynobot now.

Which explains why he bolts towards the sound with a brief surprised noise from Crankcase.

"Fulcrum, stop--!" Krok starts, then sighs and follows him. "Crankcase, go after Spinister!"

"Fine by me! Have fun getting chomped," Crankcase grates out before taking off to the east.

Unlike the other strange hallucinations in which stepping into it had been seamless, the sensation of stepping out into the opening and entering Grimlock's illusion causes a strange jolt of electricity running through his plating. Visually, the images are flickering, like some interference going on as static blares through. There in the midst of the clearing is Grimlock in his strange animal-like mode, swinging his head and letting out an enraged, guttural noise. The images surrounding him are other Cybertronians in similar enough animal-based forms, at least one of them with some sort of flight capability. The others are of varying sizes, one with a long neck, another with three horns, and the last with spikes on a swinging tail.

The way the hallucination seems to be malfunctioning is causing a bad ache in Fulcrum's helm, though he's not sure if maybe that's the cause of Grimlock's reaction at the moment. Either way, the Dynobot is relentlessly stomping around, displeased and upset.

Fulcrum begins to step forward, only to have Krok snag him by the wrist. "If you go out there--" the war historian starts.

"He'll recognize me. I'm the only K-Con around here, so my frame kinda sticks out," Fulcrum informs him. "And if I don't, what the hell are we gonna do? Wait until he wears himself out?"

There's a bit of hesitation from Krok, then the commanding officer gives a heavy exhale from his vents. The look he's giving Grimlock as the Dynobot continues his wordless tirade is both distrusting and wary. "This isn't a good idea, but we don't have a lot of other choices considering we're lacking crew. If he looks like he's going to attack you, I will shoot him."

"And if it comes to that, I hope that won't just make him more upset," Fulcrum responds with a nervous chuckle. "Thanks, though."

Slowly, Krok releases Fulcrum's wrist, watching the K-Con make his way to slowly towards the giant Autobot. Snorting and biting at the illusions before giving a low, growling whine, Grimlock turns to face the K-Classer.

In return to staring down those two flaring red optics, Fulcrum holds up his hands in a surrender position. "E-easy! Easy now, Grimlock. It's me."

No words are given in return. Grimlock opens his massive jaws and roars instead, stomping forward and marching up towards Fulcrum in a blind rush.

"Fulcrum!" Krok warns.

"Wait wait wait! Grimlock! Me Fulcrum! Remember?!" Frozen in his spot, Fulcrum keeps his arms up and his optics widen.

Abruptly, the enormous Autobot stops in front of Fulcrum, shoving his nose into Fulcrum's hands like some giant nuzzling pet. Another almost agonized whine mixed with a furious snarl emits from the Dynobot. "You... Fulcrum," Grimlock acknowledges. "Me Grimlock, head full of bad."

"Um, hey." A light, awkward pat is given to the front of Grimlock's snout. "It's all right. Walk with me and I'll help you from the bad stuff, okay?"

"Not them others," Grimlock huffed in a way that Fulcrum can't quite grasp. Whatever this hallucination is supposed to be, it's not working; it's glitching and only serving to anger and confuse the Dynobot.

"Right," Fulcrum slowly agrees. "It's fake. Let me get you away from it, Grimlock. Just watch me. Follow me."

Carefully, cupping his hands under Grimlock's jaw, he starts to guide the Dynobot away from the flickering illusion of the other Cybertronians. He can feel the difference when they all breach the... field or whatever it is as they all manage to exit it. The strange electrical tingle and something like relief as the pressure is relieved from their processors.

Fulcrum peers over to where the unstable illusions had been originally. They're gone now, completely.

"All right, big guy." The K-Con gives a light pat to the front of Grimlock's snout. "The bad things are gone."

Pulling away from Fulcrum's hold, Grimlock slowly turns to face where the illusions were. A distressed snarl is rumbled into the air, degenerating into a weary huff before Grimlock snaps his jaws a few times. He lowers his head, shoving his nose against Fulcrum's shoulder.

"Well." Krok snorts a little, putting his rifle away. "I gotta say, apparently you have a knack for giant braindead Autobots or something."

Hesitantly, Fulcrum keeps his hand up to the Dynobot's jaw, lightly giving him reassuring pats. "Funny how that ended up working out. You okay, Krok?"

"Aside from you nearly making me feel like my head was going to spin from all that with the Autobot?" Krok shrugs one shoulder. "About as well as I've been since we talked last. Sometimes I'm not so sure you were convicted for cowardice."

There's a stutter in Fulcrum's intakes, then he coughs sharply. "Nope, definitely was. Grimlock's... just not all bad. He was a big help when Blithe and his crew were on the W.A.P.; dunno what I would have done without him."

"Either way, doing fine. Just sick of this place already." Krok sighs. "Suppose I should have listened to Crankcase, but I wasn't expecting all of this illusion nonsense."

"How'd you end up getting out of your hallucination, anyway?" Fulcrum raises an optic ridge curiously.

There's a brief bout of silence and Krok looks down at his hand before clenching it. "Let's just say I had a pretty good feeling it was fake. Turned out I was right. Anyway, we should try to catch up with Crankcase and make sure he and Spinister are all right. Have you seen Misfire?"

"Er." Fulcrum warily nods. "I did, but after he realized it was an illusion, he took off. I haven't seen him since. Sorry; it's not like I have a vehicle mode that could follow him."

"He'll be back soon enough." Krok turns his head towards the path they'd come from. "C'mon, get your Dynobot moving."

In return, Fulcrum nods and lightly nudges Grimlock. "Follow me, big guy. We'll get off this stupid planet soon."

"Stupid planet, put bad feeling in head," Grimlock growls, snorting against the K-Con's shoulder. Obediently enough, the Autobot waits for Fulcrum to take lead before he slowly follows.

The walk, it seems, takes a bit longer; Spinister had made it further than Grimlock, wherever it was that their wayward medic ran off to. In front of him, Fulcrum hears Krok muttering some passing, concerned words, disliking how his group has dispersed, especially unwillingly. The kind of concern Krok takes to his crew isn't a trait that the K-Con's seen in many Decepticons and it's part of why he's quietly found value in the scavengers; they're good mechs for all of their flaws and quirks. Krok's sincere concern over his crew, even warily with an Autobot, is endearing.

In turn, Fulcrum doesn't have to wonder too hard what Krok must have seen due to the Cerebnum, what he must want deep down.

Eventually, Krok stops mid-walk, which forces Fulcrum to take pause and wordlessly slow Grimlock down. With a frustrated grumble, Krok finally announces, "Trail stops here." He points up to indicate destroyed branches. "He must have taken off in his vehicle mode."

"Okay, so where the hell did Crankcase go?" Fulcrum points out.

"Fragging..." Krok lifts his wrist, activating his internal com. "Crankcase, where the slag did you get off to? Crankcase!"

"Krok, I'm pretty sure the signal's blocked. Crankcase had a, uh. Theory about what's going on." Fulcrum scratches absently at his own helm. "That there's a machine generating these illusions. I already tried contacting everyone when I first woke up, so I'm pretty sure that any radio waves we try to put out are going to be blocked or maybe even overwritten; this machine's putting a lot of effort into putting a signal directly into our brain modules."

At the explanation and assessment, Krok gives a thoughtful hmmm before glancing back towards the Dynobot. "Doesn't seem like the illusions are so flawless."

"I'm not sure," Fulcrum admits. "I'm not exactly an expert on brains, but maybe Grimlock's too, uh. Hurt in the head for it to work too well on him." The words are chosen carefully, considering the presence of the Autobot. Braindead is probably the word Fulcrum had wanted to use.

"Still doesn't help us find Crankcase or Spinister. But maybe something else can." Krok opens his wrist paneling. "There was that beacon. If we follow it, we might end up finding either of them. Maybe Misfire, too."

Curious, Fulcrum gets onto the tips of his feet to try to look over Krok's shoulder to see what he's doing. "That's not a bad thought," he agrees slowly. There's a pause as Grimlock mimics the K-Con, looming over both of the Decepticons until Krok scowls over his shoulder.

"You two mind giving me venting room?" Krok grunts.

"Er, sorry. C'mon, back up, Grimlock." Gently, Fulcrum nudges the Dynobot, who gives a low rumble in his engine before taking a step back -- which is quite the distance considering his size.

"So this machine making these illusions." Krok is tilting his head as he's finishing up the adjustments in his wrist module to track the beacon. "What's the purpose?"

Briefly, the K-Con finds himself splitting his attention by making sure Grimlock isn't straying too far and responding to the officer. "According to Crankcase? Generating your deepest... I don't know, desire or. Or something like that. Something to keep you complacent long enough."

"Suppose that makes sense." Krok sighs a little. "Couldn't tell you what Spinister's gonna end up seeing. So you'd better be prepared."

That's not too hard to imagine, though it earns a grimace. Fulcrum isn't looking forward to the violent-prone medic's illusions. Considering how he sees everything as a threat and wants to shoot at inanimate objects that "look" at him funny. The hallucination must be full of all kinds of destruction. Probably dead bodies everywhere or... or something. Ugh, it's going to be bad and Fulcrum kind of hopes he has the fuel tanks for it.

"All right, I got a fixation on the beacon. Let's move," Krok orders.

The officer's eagerness to get his group back together is shown easily when Krok takes off through the foliage. Letting out a squeak of surprise, Fulcrum tries to catch up after the tactician, hearing the thundering steps behind of Grimlock easily keeping up.

Show-off Dynobot, Fulcrum can't help but think to himself with a grumble.

There are a lot of things that Fulcrum thought he was prepared for. The most likely outcome to Spinister's potential hallucination he figured would have been the violent type. You know, body parts everywhere, splashes of energon, a big ol' battlefield. Spinister's not the sharpest, but he can be big and scary in his own right.

So this is kind of. Yeah. Kind of weird.

Stumped as hell, Fulcrum watches the colorful landscape. No longer the overwhelming foliage of this gross organic planet, but now cartoonish crystalized plants grow out from the ground, bursting with rainbows. The sky is clear and blue with puffy little pink clouds; hanging in the sky as well is the sun, but it suspiciously is wearing a pair of dark eye-wear and bearing a jolly grin of some kind.

Oh, and there's a little river of glowing energon. What the slag, even.

And there's Spinister, just sitting in the middle of it all, looking wondrously at his own illusion.

"Wow, this. Explains so much, and yet so very, very little."

Fulcrum double-takes as he glances towards the source of the voice. "Misfire? Where the slag have you been?"

Stiffly, the purple jet jerks upright from where he'd been sitting and observing Spinister. "Well! You know, around. Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?" Fulcrum huffs.

"That's enough, you two," Krok orders sternly. "Spinister!"

The medic jerks his head up and looks towards their commanding officer. "Hey, Krok! You know, you and Fulcrum really shouldn't be wandering around out here."

"I appreciate the concern, but we should get back to the ship. Don't you think?" Krok folds his arms.

"Yeah, I guess so." Standing up from his spot, Spinister approaches easily enough, not putting up a single fuss about being pulled out from the hallucination. "So where's Crankcase?"

"That's what I'm working on. You just worry about following me." Krok peers at the rest of the group. "That means all of you."

Wordlessly, the tactician is taking Spinister by the hand and guiding him out of the illusion, who in turn just seems confused as to why the weather is different and the river is gone. Shaking his head, Fulcrum gets Grimlock to follow him and gives Misfire another look.

To which the flier shrugs and sighs, "What? C'mon!"

Shortly after leaving Spinister's weird-as-hell illusion, Fulcrum scowls at Misfire. "You kinda just left me behind after I found you."

"Well, I was in a very compromising-- a very unusual position."

"I'll bet it'd have been weirder with that other Fulcrum you imagined up," Fulcrum mutters.

"What? It was fake! What are you so worried about anyway, loser?" Misfire's wings are twitching, a little agitated.

"Do you know why you had that illusion, even? It was generated because it's based on personal desire. What's that say about you?"

Misfire lets out an awkward laugh. "Well, it just. It means it could have been anyone! Yeah, not just you. Anyone would have worked. I mean, really -- I just really like energon. A lot. You know that."

There's a moment in which Fulcrum wants to call out Misfire on that. Really, if it could have been anyone, why not just have an illusion for everyone? Maybe he's just reading into it. Even if Misfire flew off into a hurry, who wouldn't have been embarrassed?

Fulcrum sighs and lets it go. No, he's over thinking it. "My bad. Just don't ditch me like that, all right?"

"Right, sheesh! I'm sorry already," Misfire rubs the back of his helm.

There's a soft grunt behind the both of them and Fulcrum turns his head to see Grimlock turning to look at something above the trees. Of course, unlike most of them, Grimlock's just tall enough to see over the foliage anyway, so the enormous Autobot is noticing something.

"Grimlock?" Fulcrum calls out for the Dynobot.

The Autobot just snorts, nostrils flaring, very apparently distracted. At the very least, he's obedient enough to keep following.

And when the group circles around some branches and bushes, it becomes clear enough what Grimlock is seeing.

"Slag," Fulcrum mutters, optics wide.

"Uh, that's a word for it," Misfire more or less agrees.

Even Krok's taken a moment to pause and peer at the display. The clearing is large enough to accommodate and then some, and considering what's in view, it makes enough sense. There are several ships here, though many look outdated, rusted, and enough plant-life decided to make its home here over all of them.

"Seems like the beacon called for more than just us for help sometimes," Krok mutters, squinting behind his bandages. "This could be a really great find, or..."

"Waste of time."

A negative remark with a hint of a harumph at the end? Undoubtedly Crankcase. All optics glance over to their mechanic and pilot, who's coming out from one of the ships.

"Told you to find Spinister," Krok informs him firmly.

"And I did, until the trail went cold. Followed the beacon and it brought me here." Crankcase lifts his chin, frowning a fraction more than usual. "I haven't found the ship with beacon yet. Didn't figure it was a safe idea alone. But most of these ships have been stripped of anything useful. Fuel's gone, so are a lot of components. Hulls are rusted out and we'd have better luck jamming a tree into the W.A.P. than using the plating I've seen so far. Might be some medical supplies, if they're not useless."

Just their luck, Fulcrum thinks a bit glumly.

"Any survivors?" Krok decides to inquire.

Crankcase scoffs. "Not so far, and I'm thinking no. I've seen nothing but bodies so far. Organic and Cybertronian. All of 'em starved to death, just lounging where they were stuck in their illusions, I'm guessing."

"But there's someone stripping the ships of useful items," Fulcrum points out. "Someone's still alive here."

"Something," Crankcase reminds him. "I'm tellin' you, it's gotta be it. The Cerebnum."

"That's still a dumb--"

"Look, whatever." Crankcase folds his arms. "Doesn't matter. We're all back together, so we can bail."

There's a moment of silence as all optics turn to Krok, who seems to be considering something deeply. Their commanding officer gives a hum of thought, clenching and unclenching his hand.

"Aw scrap I know that sympathetic look anywhere," Misfire bemoans to himself.

"That beacon's still gonna play even after we leave," Krok mentions. "We need to take care of that first before any other poor spark ends up here. We got lucky. Obviously others haven't been."

Some could confuse Krok's sympathetic behavior as being soft or gentle; it's an endearing factor about their commanding officer and they all knew it. He was stern when he needed to be, good at keeping his group of misfits together and making sure they got what they needed as best as he could work with.

Then there's this, the honorable notion to make sure no one else would end up here like them and to take care of the beacon that'd very well near trapped them here. This kind of trait was one of the reasons why Fulcrum had been endeared to the group when they met on Clemency. Sure, they're a bunch of weirdos, but they'd a decent bunch of weirdos.

"Fine. I'm sure we can take care of it, then get the frag out of here," Crankcase grumbles.

"Besides, if you're right, it's at least worth checking to make sure we haven't missed a thing useful item. Maybe worthwhile bodies." Krok shrugs. "Misfire, Crankcase. Go keep looking. Crankcase knows where he left off. Can you keep Grimlock in line?"

"Easy enough." Misfire shrugs.

Fulcrum frowns and folds his arms. "What's the big idea?"

"If we're keeping the fragging Autobot, he needs to get used to other crewmembers. He can't just take orders from you all the time," Krok informs the K-Con. "All right?"

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Fulcrum replies with a sigh. "Fine. Grimlock, you remember Misfire, right?"

The Dynobot tilts his head. "Him Misfire?"

"Good. You Grimlock follow him Misfire, okay?"

There's a small rumble of brief confusion before Grimlock is shoving his nose against Fulcrum's shoulder. There's a gentle pat from Fulcrum before he shoos the Dynobot to the talkative jet.

"No worries, I'll take good care of Grimsie," Misfire assures with a brilliant grin.

"Yeah, yeah. I know." It's probably ridiculous to worry about the big dumb Dynobot, but the K-Con can't really help it; he's getting pretty fond of the big lug.

Giving a satisfied grunt, Krok motions for Spinister and Fulcrum to follow. "We're going to take care of that beacon. Crankcase mentioned the Cerebnum."

"Er, yeah." Fulcrum pauses, then frowns as he starts to trail after Krok. "You aren't even wondering what that is. Am I the only one who's never heard of it?"

"Crankcase has a lot to say when you get him going on some subjects." Krok shakes his head. "Yeah, I've heard of it. Wasn't sure it was real, but we have some pretty compelling evidence now that it is. That happens a lot."

Either way, Krok manages to lead the way through the ship graveyard of sorts; eventually, they come upon less of a ship and more of a shuttle. Once a deep rich violet color, now faded and graying and rusting.

Before going inside, Fulcrum takes a moment to press his auditory sensor to the door, frowning. "There's... there's still an active generator inside," he notes out loud. "Maybe from the beacon, but I doubt it."

"The Cerebnum. That nails it." Krok approaches the door. Closed, and locked to boot. He gives a sigh and motions for Spinister. "Mind convincing this to open up?"

"Felt like the door was givin' me a funny look anyway." Somehow, the remark didn't surprise Fulcrum; both Krok and the K-Classer find themselves backing up as Spinister takes his rotor and jams it into the seams of the door. Satisfied with how much he's loosened the door, Spinister jams his hands into the seams and tears the door off, throwing the slab of weakened metal aside.

Slowly, the three Decepticons creep into the shuttle. After the initial entrance way, there isn't much more to explore other than the main room of the spacecraft; here, there is the piloting console, with some pretty lifeless corpses long since rusted out. Anything left of energon is unlikely, though no doubt Misfire will take the time to check that later.

Otherwise, there are three curious factors. There are a couple of generators set up, energized and in pristine condition. A valuable find, if the way Krok's optics are glowing a little more intently is any expression. Fulcrum can't disagree; functional generators? Yes please and thank you; maybe he's been spending already too much time with the scavengers, but he's finding his own fingers are twitching curiously. The second factor? Some drones in decent enough condition are working to keep the generator functional and fueled, which explains why the ships were so stripped of their... well, everything.

The third and final factor, the main one as it were, is what's glowing before the three of them. In a large, circular containment glass is a large device. It looks like a floating orb with a series of notches in it, little glowing nodes. Below the orb is a stand with several thick cables attached, where they run to be connected to a separate computer console. It seems the generators are being used to keep this device active.

It's also where there's a blinking beacon is set upon.

"Well. That's interesting," Krok remarks.

"Hell of an understatement," Fulcrum mutters, his optics wide. "Is that the Cerebnum?"

"Looks like. Can you imagine how much energon's in the generators?"

"The real question being, who programmed the drones to make sure it could keep up with the upgrades and keep this fueled?" Fulcrum raises an optic ridge. "This seems like a well laid out trap."

Krok shrugs. "Sure. Put up a distress beacon, keep the crew occupied, and take their supplies and fuel. Though who placed the set up? Who knows."

"You know, it wasn't until Clemency that I started getting into a habit of finding weird ships with ... strange stuff like this. Doesn't beat brains on a ceiling, I guess, though."

"Welcome to the crew. Things like this happen more often than they ought to." Krok rubs his chin. "No, Spinister, you don't get to shoot the Cerebnum."

"Damn," the medic sighs. "Why not?"

"The containment field would just absorb your firepower," Fulcrum points out, giving the set-up a scrutinizing look. "And, by the looks of it, if you tried beating it to, er. Death? You'd just get electrocuted, getting stunned at best. We could destroy the generators, but you could say bye-bye to that and the energon -- and probably the whole shuttle."

"Not very favorable," Krok comments. "You're a technician forged. Can you deactivate the Cerebnum so we can disconnect the generators safely?"

Fulcrum approaches the computer console, tilting his head, then nods. "Sure. I'll deactivate the beacon first, but shouldn't be a problem."

"Make it happen."

This is a little more into his comfort zone. Relaxed as he approaches the console, Fulcrum starts to get to work, pulling up some menus. To his surprise, even the programming seems curiously up to date. Nothing about this save for the model of the shuttle seems very old. Maybe a few centuries off, but that's not bad and perfectly workable. Did the drones update this automatically with the equipment stolen? How would the drones be that sophisticated?

Out the corner of his optics, he can see Krok exploring the rest of the shuttle and Spinister muttering as he crushes some of the drones under his feet. Otherwise, Fulcrum focuses, frowning as he shuts off the beacon, outright deleting any programming that insists on its function. The beacon is old, the console is not. The programming is not. How is that even possible? They haven't run into any survivors.

Slowly, it occurs to Fulcrum. If the Cerebnum is programmed to display holograms and illusions of a person's innermost desire, doesn't that essentially mean... mindreading? Something like that. And if that's possible, it could read the minds of other visitors that had been here. Enough to upgrade itself.

Is it that sentient?

A loud hum abruptly emits from the glowing orbital device in the room and it starts to spin slowly, its power strong enough to cause a vibration to the entire shuttle.

"Fulcrum?" Krok calls out warily.

"I didn't activate anything--" the K-Con starts, just as confused.

It hits him abruptly. His receptors are screaming in pain, and it's all too familiar as to why. There's the memorable smell of energon, fresh and old and congealed, and his entire frame aches. When Fulcrum looks down, he recognizes his old plating, before the forced reconfiguration into the K-Class.

His hands and feet have gaping holes, bleeding.

Everything about Styx rushes back to him and Fulcrum shrieks before he can stop himself. It feels like he's back on the traitor's wheel, slowly being pulled apart. Panic rushes through him, fear consuming; his spark flutters. He feels himself collapsing to the floor, shaking as he stares at his own hands.

"Fulcrum!" Krok is kneeling down, reaching for him.

The ex-technician flinches back. "Please don't!" he finds himself begging, feeling familiar shame bubbling up inside at his own cowardice.

"All right, easy." Krok holds up his hands. "I'm not going to touch you. But you need to listen to me. This isn't real, Fulcrum. That's not even your frame anymore."

"I know, but I can't-- I just can't!"

Cursing quietly to himself, Krok glances between Fulcrum and the generators before he tilts his head down and scowls. He holds out his hands. "I really need you to trust me right now, Fulcrum. Look at me. Don't look at your hands." Fulcrum winces, trying to swallow back a pathetic whimper. "I need you to take my hands right now."

A small shiver passes through Fulcrum before he hesitantly grabs onto the tactician. Satisfied, Krok jerks his head towards the medic. "Spinister, shoot the generators. We're going."

Without questioning, Spinister takes out his rifle and immediately opens fire upon the generators. There's a small spark between the generators, a small indication of the impending explosion. Satisfied enough with his handiwork, Spinister follows Krok out, who works on guiding Fulcrum away from the shuttle.

The explosion is impressive as the Decepticons watch. Whatever hold the Cerebnum had on Fulcrum is gone and the K-Con glances down at himself miserably.

Krok places a firm hand to the K-Classer's shoulder; there doesn't seem to be any amount of blame that he has for Fulcrum in regards to the loss of the resource.

"C'mon. Let's check in with Crankcase and see about getting off this damned planet," Krok offers.

Fulcrum glances at the burning mess of the shuttle, then sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess that sounds good."

-=-=-

Though the shuttle had been a loss, Misfire had been able to scrounge up enough energon to spare for a cube each. Sort of a morbid celebration of getting off the planet and deactivating the beacon. Spinister himself had bundled up the medical supplies that had been found into his arms almost way too cheerfully, giddy at the addition to his humble medbay.

There's no blame. Krok doesn't even mention the hallucination to anyone else and Spinister is probably too confused about what happened; he'd been told to shoot the generators, so that was clearly the right decision, why blame anyone for anything? Nobody else knows, and Fulcrum supposes he's grateful, but he can't help but bear some guilt. He already feels some from Clemency, and he'd hoped to be more helpful since considering the trouble he's caused from the D.J.D.; his inability to cope with what the Cerebnum forced upon him has cost some resources that could have been really useful.

Krok had been shooed away to the medbay as soon as they got back to the W.A.P., giving a sympathetic glance to Fulcrum. If he had any intention of providing some inspirational words, it was going to have to wait until Spinister was satisfied with Krok resting first.

So instead, the K-Con had some time to feel bad for himself.

Miserably, he's sitting in the engine room, legs drawn up to himself. He's hungry enough, but he hasn't really touched the cube Misfire gave him, instead tracing the top with a fingertip. If Fulcrum could mope any harder, he supposes he'd spontaneously cause a raincloud or something in the middle of the ship.

He ducks his head a little as he hears the door open. Cautiously, he peers over his shoulder to see Misfire coming in.

Fulcrum sighs. He really doesn't have the energy to interact with him right now.

"Hey, you haven't... really touched your energon," Misfire notices, peering over the K-Con's shoulder.

"Nope," he mutters sourly.

"What's the matter, Fulcrum? You, uh. Feeling crummy?"

The forced pun just makes the ex-technician sigh and shake his head. "Now's not really a good time, Misfire."

There's a pause, the awkwardness hanging in the room. Fulcrum really didn't want anything else other than to feel terrible for himself and steep in that for awhile. Misfire being present and pestering him wasn't going to make that easy.

And the fact that the chipper jet wasn't leaving was not helping that goal of must feel bad for self.

Eventually, Misfire leans down enough to rest his chin on Fulcrum's shoulder. "Y'know why you're the worst Decepticon ever?"

"Misfire, I just said now's not really--"

"'Cuz you're all these, you know, things. Nice and friendly and one other thing." Misfire sets his hands to Fulcrum's waist. "And ticklish. You're that, too."

"Don't you dare--!"

But it seems that despite Fulcrum's attempts to stay miserable, they don't last. Once he feels Misfire's fingers wiggle over his abdomen, Fulcrum can't bite back the giggles forced out of him. He struggles, trying to bat away the damned jet's hands, but fails on all spots as Misfire tickles with sheer determination.

"Okay, okay-- stop!" Fulcrum wheezes through his vents in a stupid giggle fit.

"That's more like it." Satisfied, Misfire looks at Fulcrum's energon. "Y'gonna drink that or what, Pinhead?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll get to it." Most of his desire to sit and feel horrible for himself has been killed. Fulcrum huffs a little, picking up his cube and giving Misfire a look. "Thanks, I think."

"Hey, well. Whatever's botherin' you..." Misfire shrugs a bit, as if he's not sure, for once, how to put his thoughts to words. "You just didn't look like yourself. You're gonna confuse the big idiots like Spinister and Grimlock by lookin' like that."

"And you're not a big idiot?"

Misfire puts his hands on his hips. "Well, now that's just hurtful. I think someone needs more--"

Fulcrum shrinks back in his seat. "If you say tickling, I'm gonna ask Spinister for my original fuel pump back!"

"Jeez, be that way." The mouthy jet sits himself down next to the K-Con. "So here's a question. All those weird illusions everyone had. What was yours?"

"It's..." Fulcrum sighs, peering down at his cube. "It's really, really not important now, is it?"

"You got to see just about everyone else's! C'mon."

"It really..." Fulcrum traces his thumb over the top of the cube.

It doesn't matter, the way he sees it.

"Fine." Misfire sighs, a little over-dramatically. "Are you gonna sit there all day or are you gonna finish your energon, Fulcrum?"

-=-=-

There are two things he'd like more than anything.

First, he'd like his old frame back. Sure, his old alt-mode wasn't impressive, but it was better than being a dud bomb. That and he liked his old color scheme. He wasn't always a scraggly K-Con. No, Fulcrum had been a not-as-scraggly technician once.

The second is that he wants to be back on Cybertron, without anyone ordering them around. He wants to be home, safe, with these average, strange, unusual, and brilliant Decepticons, over a nice cube of high-grade.

It's how he'd known the difference, really.

"Are you gonna sit there all day or are you gonna finish your high-grade, Fulcrum?" the illusion of Misfire had said.

It was at that point that Fulcrum paused, mumbled an apology, and excused himself from the room.

Chapter Text

Misfire's bouts of interactions with Fulcrum range from weird to affectionate to back to being, uh, weird. The jet is ridiculous and at times he shows bits of brilliance and others are like this.

"I'm gonna get'cha, Fulcrum!"

"Augh, stop it! You idiot!"

For about thirty seconds if not less, the pair are wrestling. Fulcrum, by no means a combatant of any kind loses really damn quickly and finds himself on the floor, pinned down awkwardly with Misfire sitting on him and holding his ankles.

"Uh. Hi. You can let go now," Fulcrum suggests as sweetly as he can.

"Nuh-uh, I got you. I got your toesies."

"My..." Fulcrum squints at him. "Are you stupid? Those are my feet!"

Misfire just gives him a bright grin. "They're toesies! Look at these toesies. They are the cutest toesies."

"They're not-- hahaha holy CRAP stop tickling me!"

"This little toesie went to the market," Misfire coos, wiggling his thumb over the bottom of one foot. "This little toesie went and became a bomb!"

"You're the worst!"

Abruptly, the pair go into silence as Krok stands in the doorway, sort of squinting at the two of them for a moment. Slowly, he narrows his red optics to peer at Fulcrum and Misfire's situation, then sighs heavily and just says, "No." Turning, Krok continues down the hallway.

"This little toesie did... something else!" Misfire continues on.

"Haha I only have two feet you jerk hehehe STOP TICKLING ME!" Fulcrum shouts after their commanding officer desperately, "Krok! KROK COME BACK AND HELP!!"

"And this little toesie went allllll the way to Cybertron!"

"Stop tickling my toesies!!"

Down the hall, Krok just sighs and shakes his head as the ship echoes with Fulcrum's indignant shouting and gigglefits as Misfire continues his harmless torment of the K-Con.

Chapter Text

"So I was thinking about when we get back to Cybertron. No no, just hear me out! I mean, there's gotta be a lot of stuff we can do when we get back. Just think of all the possibilities! When we get back I thought well maybe I could work at a bar but, psh, I'm sure someone's opened up something by now. Post-war crazy times, I'm sure all anyone ever wants to do is get overcharged and forget about the whole thing or whatever. Talk about depressing! Then I thought well if stuff is so depressing, there should be something more cheerful and I decided maybe I could open a petro-rabbit petting zoo or some scrap. But that's soooo much work! Then I thought about a firing range--"

Crankcase snorts at Misfire. "Because that would work out in your favor."

"I was just thinking about it," Misfire mutters. Almost immediately, he perks right up. "What do you wanna do when we get back? Well?"

"Depends on who's won," Crankcase grates out. "If we got a bunch of Autobots waiting there or whatever happened."

No, none of them have felt very optimistic about the Decepticons winning, but they don't know enough to say anything definitively about how things have turned out either. Who the hell knows?

"Oh c'mon, no excuses! Angry 'Bots awaiting us or happy 'Cons or angry 'Cons whatever what have you always wanted to do? Tell me tell me tell me--"

Crankcase shoves Misfire back into his seat. "Shut it," he growls. "Anyway, that's none of your business."

"What? I told you all my ideas!"

"I really can't think of anything you've never told me, with all your yammering."

Misfire frowns briefly. Then he glances across the bridge to their leader. "Hey Krok! What is it you want to do when we get to Cybertron?"

There's a considerate pause, then a half-shrug. "Didn't give it much thought."

The tactician turns and leaves the bridge, trudging down the hall to head to the cargo bay.

He's thought about it briefly, what he'll tell the others when they all reach Cybertron. Krok knows what he needs to do. Keeping secrets is not a habit of his, particularly, but he hasn't felt that disclosing the information to his bunch of misfits is important just yet. No, he needs to keep this ship going until they reach their destination.

Krok looks down, clenching his fist.

What he'll do when he gets to Cybertron. He knows.

Krok has no intention of staying.

Chapter Text

When all is quiet on the Weak Anthropic Principle, that means something is terribly wrong. It means a lot of possibilities. Maybe Misfire got himself stuck halfway into a vent somewhere and talked to himself until he passed out. Maybe he ran into a wall and knocked himself out. Sleeping? Oh hell no, he takes fifteen minute naps and he's right back to chatting up a damned storm with the next available person. It's utterly ridiculous.

So the fact that the entire ship has been silent for two hours has caused a search for the jet by panicky orders from Krok. Not that he sounded panicked, but it's hard to not get that sense with the grim tone that he has whenever he's overly concerned for his unit.

"Where could he have..." Fulcrum trails off to himself, then pauses as he sees Grimlock flopped in front of the engine room floor. It's a strange position that the Dynobot has taken, nose shoved against the bottom of the door and his tail slowly wagging.

Hmm.

Without much fear of the Autobot, Fulcrum approaches and gives him a pat on the neck. "Hey. What's in the engine room, Big Guy?"

Grimlock gives a heavy huff from his vents, bumping his snout against Fulcrum's hand. Slowly, the Dynobot rises to his feet. "Him Misfire."

Huh. Good to know that if any of them go missing, apparently Grimlock can just sniff them out. A light pat goes to Grimlock's nose before Fulcrum helps himself inside. "Misfire?"

A response is a low, raggedy moan.

Oh, that does not sound good. Frowning, the K-Con steps inside and finds the jet huddled up right behind the warm engine, whimpering miserably. "What's gotten into you?"

"Fulcrum, I'm dying," Misfire mutters in the most pathetic voice that the technician's ever heard. "I feel awful and I'm dying I just know it."

"You're not dying." Fulcrum sighs and rubs his helm, watching the usually eccentric scavenger crawl and flop around on the floor melodramatically. "Let's just get Spinister to take a look at you, all right?"

"Noooo, just leave me to die."

With a shake of his head, Fulcrum helps Misfire to his feet. Fortunately, Grimlock is able to actually help with the carrying, considering the fact that Fulcrum's stature is not exactly suitable for much heavy lifting. He calls in to the others, assuring that he's found their wayward jet, and calls for Spinister's assistance. After some checking of vitals, some hmming and huhing, the medic is able to make a conclusion.

"It's a mild virus," Spinister concludes with a shrug. "His anti-virus software will kick in and knock it off on its own. He's just gonna feel like scrap for awhile."

"Figures. Probably got it from drinking something you shouldn't have," Crankcase snaps. "At least we'll get some fraggin' peace and quiet for now."

As the others shuffle out with undoubtedly better things to do than listen to Misfire moan and whine about how he feels, he reaches out and snags onto Fulcrum's wrist. "W-wait, Fulcrum."

"Uh." Fulcrum raises an optical ridge, gently prying Misfire's grip off of him. "I really have some work to do."

"No, please," Misfire practically begs. "Stay. Just in case I die." At the last word, he flops a hand to the berth.

The K-Con can't help but roll his optics a little before he sits down by him. "Fine. I'll stay. Just for awhile, though."

-=-=-

"Wow I feel great funny what a little bit of rest will do but I feel utterly smashing and hey Fulcrum? Loser? Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Ugh, I feel terrible," Fulcrum groans into his hands.

"Well, he was pretty contagious," Spinister points out. "How long were you with him?"

"Nearly the entire time? He wouldn't stop complaining every time I got up. He was needy." Fulcrum sighs. "This is awful."

"Well! The day is young! See you, pinheads!" Misfire practically dashes out of the medbay.

Fulcrum sputters, then shouts, "You glitch! I-- oh, ow ow, it should not hurt to talk. No wonder he was quiet the entire time."

After some coaxing to settle down from Spinister, Fulcrum lays on his side, dozing off. Like Misfire, really the only thing he can do is let the virus run its course and have his software kick in against it. Not much else can be done about it.

The next time he wakes up, he blearily sees a purple jet setting a cube of energon by his side before running out of the room. Fulcrum lays his head back down and smiles a little.

Chapter Text

Every bit of him is built for bulk. Besides Grimlock, Spinister is the largest of the crew and has been always since Krok had found him some planets ago. All of him, which made him a pretty decent grunt. No, Spinister probably isn't really the best soldier of all time, but he's got the power behind it, the size behind it, and he does all right. He remembers, distantly, about the gladiator fights going on back before the war. That kind of raw skill he doesn't really quite match, but still, all of him had been forged with strength in mind.

All of him, but his hands.

His fingers bend on his right hand, and he squints his optics.

"One, two, three, four, five..." He trails off for a moment, turning his head to looks at his left hand. "...Six? Or was it seven."

Six or seven. That seems troubling and he can't really remember the total.

"Attention please, every loser and pinhead in the ship! We'll be docking soon at the Jennix Spaceport! Whatever scrap you got that might be worth something might be a reeeeeally good idea to bring forth right now. Get yourselves-- ACK!" One.

"Quit messin' around on the comm," Crankcase snaps. Two.

The medic finds himself standing up, slowly stepping out into the hallway of the Weak Anthropic Principle. Mindful of the mostly-melted corpse of an Autobot still stick to the floor, Spinister steps over it automatically, having memorized its location. That and focus to his hands are far more important. He's still counting after all.

"Are you kidding me?" he hears Fulcrum complain from the open door of the engine room. "I haven't even been anywhere besides that damn planet with the Cerebnum. I can't even leave when we dock?" Three.

Krok's more familiar gruff voice comes trailing after. "This is an independent docking station ran by neutrals. We're lucky enough they're taking in a Decepticon vessel. There's no need to get them worked up over a K-Con, disarmed or otherwise." Four.

"If they're independents, they might not even recognize my frame. Blithe wouldn't have known until his medic spoke up."

"And if they do?" Krok points out patiently. "Don't get too worked up over this. Grimlock has to stay behind, too. So do I."

"Me... Grimlock stay?" Five.

Fulcrum sighs. "Yeah, you're staying, Grimlock. With Krok and me."

"Me Grimlock stay."

Spinister stops as he walks by the engine room. Five. He's up to five. Carefully, he points to himself.

"Six," he mutters. "Seven?"

That doesn't seem right. No, he miscounted.

He considers a moment. Krok staying behind is for the best and per his suggestion. Sure, Krok's tough, and that's not ever even a question. But there's also the aspect that Krok is more interested in avoiding confrontations for the moment. A lot of reasons, don't concern yourself over the details Krok had said before to him, which is fine, Krok knows best. Yet, at the same time, he fidgets at the idea of not being able to keep a proper optic on their injured leader.

That, and. Well. Krok is usually pretty good at prodding and reminding him. It was a tough decision, anyway. Krok didn't seem real happy about staying behind either while they split up.

Moving his feet again, Spinister works his way up to the bridge. He's counting, recounting, and it doesn't seem to be doing him any good. The count's always off, whether it's six or seven, and he can't make up his mind about it.

"I have enough to do without you screwing around up here!" Crankcase snaps at Misfire. "I'm trying to dock this big pile of scrap that's barely even worthy enough to be called a ship into the port, and I don't need you to--"

"Hey, Crankcase. Before you punch him," Spinister interrupts, holding up his hands. His left index finger bends and unbends as he can't make up his mind. "Is it six or seven?"

"What the hell are you even on about?"

"Is it six or seven?" Spinister repeats impatiently, narrowing his optics.

Misfire and Crankcase exchange glances. Then, with a sharp grin, the jet offers, "Why not eight or nine, Spin? How about forty-two?"

"No." That's just getting him angrier. "Six or seven."

"Look, I don't even know what you're trying to count!" Crankcase scoffs.

"Maybe it's how many nodes are still functioning in his brain," Misfire muses to himself.

"Forget it, I'll go ask Krok," Spinister grumbles, turning around and trudging his way back down the hall. "Six, seven..."

Trailing back towards the engine room, the medic finds himself pausing in the doorway, his broad shoulders not quite brushing against the frame but downright close to it. No, he doesn't see Krok and Fulcrum in the room anymore, but he hears them somewhere further down, maybe Fulcrum trying to plead his way off the ship for even just awhile and Krok refusing because even Spinister knows it's a terrible idea. K-Class wandering around on the station? Yeah, no.

But he sees Grimlock in his weird beast form curled up against one of the hot engines. If there's one thing that he'd noticed, it's that the Dynobot definitely appreciated a warmer climate, which doesn't make sense much because they're Cybertronians. What do they care about temperature much?

Still, it's worth a chat briefly.

Spinister crouches down in front of Grimlock, holding out his hands. "Six or seven?"

Grimlock lifts his head, staring back. "Me Grimlock."

"Uh-huh." Spinister frowns a little. "Hmm. Maybe it's just six. But that doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Me Grimlock?"

"It should really be seven. No, no. Wait. Six? Oh hell, maybe it really is five!"

"Me Grimlock."

"I know, it's a real thinker," Spinister agrees miserably.

"Me Grimlock," the Dynobot offers.

"It should probably be five. No offense."

Fortunately, Grimlock does not argue the point. He simply peers up at Spinister from his spot on the floor, watching the medic step out from the engine room. Continuing on, Spinister has a new debate in his hands. Five, six, or seven? This is getting bad.

"How many pit stops are we going to make on the way where I have to huddle up with Grimlock and hope nobody sees us?" Fulcrum complains as he follows Krok up the hallway. "I can't just stay on this ship until we make it to Cybertron!"

"Fulcrum, this really isn't up for a debate." Krok's stern tone is starting to turn impatient. Spinister knows that tone, though Krok usually only starts sounding that way with Misfire. "When I said you're staying on the ship, I meant you're staying on the ship. Grimlock is definitely staying no matter what, and I have to stay so we don't look too pathetic."

"Krok," Spinister speaks up, cutting his way into the conversation.

Both K-Con and commanding officer stop the argument and look up towards their hulking medic, who looks from his hands to the pair almost desperately. "Five, six, or seven?"

"What's he talking about?" Fulcrum mutters to Krok.

Spinister flexes his fingers, concerned as he stares down at Fulcrum. "Four...? No, wait. Krok, which is it?"

Before much investigation can be given to Spinister's question that seems to trouble him so, the ship trembles slightly as it finally docks its way to Jennix Station. A firm, solid grip makes its way to Spinister's upper arm. If it'd been anyone but Krok, Spinister probably would have at least punched them if not shot them.

"We'll talk about that when we're off the station," Krok informs Spinister. There's no room for doubt, as Krok always keeps his word. It's spoken like a promise.

It's not quite the answer Spinister had been hoping for, but it's better than nothing.

"Everyone, get your afts to the cargo hold," Krok calls out on his commlink. "That includes you, Spinister. Let's go."

With no argument, Spinister moves to the cargo bay, glancing around for a moment until he locates his box. He peers inside, then nods, satisfied. "You're all accounted for," he murmurs to himself.

"I don't know what the big deal is about this station anyway; I've never even heard of it," Fulcrum continues, still probably trying to get Krok to agree to let him go outside for awhile.

"It's neutral territory. Not much to say. A little bit of everything you could look for is there; organs, supplies, data." Krok glares at him. "But you know why you can't be there, Fulcrum. One bit more argument, and you're on rivet duty. With no magnetic clamps. Got it?"

"Er. Yeah, I got it." Fulcrum sighs and sulks. He glances towards the others as they arrive. "Have fun out there."

"Oh yeah. We'll have a real party," Crankcase answers.

Krok lifts his chin, peering at the trio in front of him. "Get your scrap together, and see what you can bring back."

-=-=-

Jennix Station is too noisy. It's too full of people. Most of them are Cybertronians, but Spinister can see a few organics around, too. Either way, most of them are suspicious and he really wishes that he had his hands free. His fingers twitch, wanting his gun, wanting a trigger to rest comfortably on. Instead, he's carrying a box, peering over the top and watching suspiciously.

He sees various types of Cybertronians. A few stray, exhausted Autobots that he narrows his optics at. Most of them are neutrals. None of them trustworthy. It aggravates him that he doesn't feel properly armed at the moment.

Misfire is talking and talking and the words trail away. Thirty words later and Crankcase finally punches him in the arm to get him to shut up. Spinister flexes his fingers again, wishing he had his hands free now so he could get back to counting as they stroll through the makeshift market, a fairly questionable place with people that make Spnister even more wary.

Seven, six, five, or four? Definitely no less than four, that much he knows.

"Four..." Spinister mutters to himself.

"Just a couple of shanix for the plating," Misfire muses in a disappointed tone. "Ah well, s'enough for a cube each. Hey, Spin; aren't you going to sell off your box of whatevers?"

"Not here," Spinister says, stepping past both Crankcase and the jet.

"Where the slag do you think you're going?" Crankcase grumbles, finding himself following the medic.

"Ahead. Duh."

Misfire rubs the back of his helm. "What do you even have in there, anyway?"

"Parts I'm not gonna need," Spinister answers.

Through the market, they eventually arrive at a specific stand that Spinister had been looking for. Perfect. The supplies aren't exactly up to snuff, but he knows what he's looking for.

He opens the box.

"T-Cogs?" Misfire raises an optic ridge.

"You came at a good time," the merchant muses. "They go for a decent price these days. Five of 'em?"

"Not gonna need 'em," Spinister repeats himself in a mutter. "Six. I counted six."

The merchant stands and peers into the box. "Hmm. No, you're right. Can't imagine how I missed that."

"You sure we aren't gonna need the spares?" Crankcase asks dubiously.

"Fulcrum's sure not gonna need one." Spinister shrugs. "Yeah, I can let these go."

Six. Was it six? No, definitely six. Maybe. Four?

He thinks for a moment, ignoring the chatter between the merchant, Misfire, and Crankcase. It's not like he's going to get the shanix in his own hand, anyway; Crankcase is taking care of that factor and Spinister isn't real interested in the money. The task was done because Krok said it was needed. That was good enough.

Besides, his hands are free. That's good.

He turns his head, staring down the aisle of the market. So far, he'd mainly seen neutrals that didn't mean much. A few stray Autobots he needed to be reminded to not shoot.

Now there's something else. He sees it; the emblem of a Decepticon, but cut into plating, a scar to cross out the symbol.

Spinister widens his optics and feels his engine growl.

"One," he mutters. "But there's gotta be more."

"What're you blabbering about-- HEY!" Crankcase snaps after him.

It's not good. Definitely not good. If he's right, they're not going to be able to stay around at this station for very long at all. He should contact Krok, but he needs to make sure first, which is why Spinister is running down after that one and shoving people out of his way. As he's barreling on through, he can't be bothered to pay attention to Misfire or Crankcase who are shouting after him.

"Well, he's gone completely mental," Misfire comments. Spinister can hear him, but he really doesn't care, can't care.

"Do you wanna try stopping him?! Spin, you idiot, get back here!"

Dozens. There's going to be dozens. He just knows it. That's how it is. They meld just fine amongst others and it'll be like ugly packs tearing into everything.

He won't bother counting, but he needs to know how many more than the one.

Spinister stops when he's met with a dead end, then peers up, the sight of a jet flying over the wall. There! There he is. Without pause, he transforms, rotors whirling as he flies after him.

"Not all of us can fly!" he hears Crankcase shouting after him. "Misfire don't you dare pick me up MISFIRE YOU FRAGGING--"

Okay, good. They're both following. A good idea, while Spinister is on this chase. He doesn't know what it'll result into, if there's more than this, but he knows what he has to do. He knows.

The flying Cybertronian in front of him seems to realize that he has a follower. Just as he begins to speed up, Spinister rises up sharply. He doesn't think about it, he just knows this is going to be the best way to handle this: the medic transforms back into his robot mode, diving down and slamming his full body weight into the one, bringing him down.

All way to the deck.

The both of them land with a loud crash and there's plenty of scrapes, but Spinister is fine for the most part. He's well armored enough and he's not particularly concerned about any lingering damages to his plating. Instead, he's rising off of the jet and picking him up by the head, glaring at him.

"How many?" Spinister demands. "I'm gonna kill you if you don't tell me."

"I-I don't--" the Cybertronian sputters. "Wait a fraggin' second... are you...?"

"Don't you drop me! SLAGGING PIT, MISFIRE!!" One loud crash later and that'd be Crankcase slamming into the ground.

Misfire lands nearby. "Sheesh, it's don't pick me up or don't drop me. Only Fulcrum complains louder than you." He squints at Spinister, then at the trapped Cybertronian. "Not that I know this guy or anything, but I'm pretty sure Krok's gonna throw a fit if you shoot anyone while we're here, you know."

"Not this one," Spinister snarls.

"Uh." Misfire holds up his hands with an awkward smile. "Easy, Spin! What's the deal? It's one of our own, even. Even you know that."

"Fraggin' lost his head," Crankcase snaps, picking himself back up.

"He's not ours. I'm not countin' him in." The surgeon takes off his rotor blade, tapping it against the slashed out symbol. "It's a mark on its own. He's not a Decepticon anymore. He's a Raider. And I wanna know just how many there are."

The Raider lets out a yelp when his helm is slammed against the wall again. "Stop! All right! I don't know the exact count, but there are dozens of us here, Spinister. Don't-- don't kill me!"

There's a brief pause before Crankcase decides to pry a little with, "You know this scrapheap?"

"Face kinda looks familiar," Spinister comments. There's a faint flinch from him, then he shakes his head. No, not important. "Probably had a different paint job. I dunno." He slams the Raider again. "Who's heading this raid?"

"S-Spoilsport. Not that, uh, I told you that. Got it?" The Raider tries to offer a winning smile. "Look, it was nothing personal, I swear!"

Him. That name brings a brief image in mind, but it's quickly gone.

"Okay," is all Spinister says before he impales his rotor through the Raider's forehead, very clearly through his brain module. "Thanks anyway."

Yanking his rotor out, Spinister turns and faces Misfire and Crankcase. They aren't particularly disgusted, no reason to be, but Crankcase looks a bit more annoyed than usual. Still, it doesn't matter so long as he can get this taken care of. "Should head back to the ship, get out of here."

"I think I'm about five steps behind you, which is the weirdest feeling in the world. What the frag is a Raider?" Misfire scratches his helm. "I'm assuming, of course, they raid things, but--"

"They ditched the war," Spinister explains simply. "Raiders could have been either one. Autobot or Decepticon. They quit and start their own team, and pick off of what's left over of the war. Ran into 'em before. And they're gonna raid this entire station, so we should hurry up and get back to Krok and the others. Sooner we get off of this station, then maybe we don't have to deal with them."

"If they're as bad as you say, well." Misfire cracks a wary smile. "Running away's sounding pretty good! I vote for running away."

The three of them go immediately quiet while an explosion off in the distance goes off, the aftershock causing a tremble in their footing.

"If we aren't too late," Crankcase mutters.

-=-=-

It started with seven, and it ended with one. Or did it begin with one, and ended with seven, and one standing?

That's the thing he forgets, on occasion.

-=-=-

Trying to make their way back to the Weak Anthropic Principle is a pain, but Spinister isn't waiting. The Raiders are throwing themselves into action. Former Decepticons and Autobots alike are tearing into stands and fighting amongst the residents and visitors of Jennix Station, but none of them can be bothered to stop. Even with some of the fighting happening in front of Spinister, the surgeon just gives an aggravated sound before he throws anyone in his way aside. He's not going to be wasting time by getting distracted. His entire focus is to get back to the ship and making sure that they can leave.

It can't be spent wasting time with these Raiders, as tempting as it is to shoot all of them. Spinister has a more important task and he knows it.

At the deck outside of the Weak Anthropic Princple, there are a few Raiders running out from the ship. Without even pausing, Spinister stabs one in the throat with his rotor and shoots the other in the head, not even twitching at the splatter of energon and brain module bits. The remaining Raiders he assumes are dealt with by Crankcase and Misfire, but he's not lingering to find out.

He sticks his head into the W.A.P. "Krok?" Spinister calls out.

"Here. I'm fine." The injured commanding officer slowly approaches with a Grimlock following.

"It's Raiders. We should probably go," Spinister suggests, glancing over his shoulder as Misfire and Crankcase catch up.

Krok narrows his optics slightly behind his bandages. "I'd agree, but Fulcrum's not on the ship. Seems like these Raiders took the no fear reputation to spark and decided it was better to take off. He decided to stand outside the ship and make sure no one else got on board. Worked, until he disappeared apparently. He hasn't responded to any of my pings."

"Grimlock could probably find him!" Misfire offers. "I mean, well, he has such a good sense of smell an' all. I can keep him in line, honest!"

"I'm not really fond of this idea, but seeing as how we don't have much of a choice?" Krok gives out a sigh. "Spinister, Misfire. Take Grimlock and find Fulcrum. Crankcase, we need to get this ship online and ready to go."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it," Crankcase grumbles as he steps inside.

"All right, Grimmy! Come to Misfire!" the jet enthusiastically calls out for the Dynobot, holding his arms out. The Autobot nearly knocks him over by stomping in so close, shoving his snout against the energetic Decepticon. "Close enough. Okay! I need you to help us find Fulcrum. Got it? You Grimlock find him Fulcrum."

"Muh... me Grimlock. Find him Fulcrum." The words seem to be a struggle, but the concept is accepted. Grimlock sniffs the air before stomping out from the ship.

It's a straightforward idea that Spinister can get behind. Let Grimlock seek out Fulcrum by smell, grab him, and get the frag off of the station.

It itches in the back of his mind. There are broken thoughts trickling in and out since he first saw the Raider. The words and images flickering in his mind are old, old and full of white noise and Spinister growls in his engine.

It's meaningless. No. Right, he needs to remember to focus. Just follow Grimlock, he's on the right track, he has to be.

They manage to charge through the fighting crowds and the retreating Raiders, several of them carrying various items and goods. It doesn't matter, they're irrelevant. They absolutely need to get everyone regrouped and he's thinking.

Spinister thinks.

One, two, three, four, five--

There's a snarl of rage from Grimlock and Spinister looks up. He hears Misfire shout and ramble some words, but they don't click together very well and make sense. Not as Spinister stares up, red optics wide. No, he sees it, he sees three of the Raiders. A battle tank is manhandling Fulcrum, dragging him along back to one of the ships. Another is irrelevant to him, but the third.

He remembers.

It clicks and Spinister moves, transforming and flying ahead.

It's clearer now and he knows that face. It feels like his body is out of control and he's charging, going up and up before he's diving down and slamming all of his body into the other mech.

"You!" Spinister practically bellows, and he can't focus on anything but trying to tear into him.

There's some shouting and he can't be bothered to listen. No, it doesn't matter, he just needs to destroy him, just needs to--

Something hard smashes into the side of his head. It doesn't make him pull away immediately; Spinister doesn't even pause as he wails the butt of his rifle into the Raider's face. It takes two more hits to his helm before he can hardly see, his optical sensors glitching and rebooting along with his directional sensors. Dizzied along with his blind fury, Spinister is thrown to the floor and pinned by two pairs of hands.

He can hear, though he's barely absorbing the words. Spinister can't see right away, but he remembers.

"You all right, Spoilsport?"

"Does my fraggin' face look like I'm okay?! And you, Barracks -- if you weren't fooling around trying to drag this K-Con back..."

He remembers that look.

"Huh." Roughly, there's a hand grabbing his chin, forcing his head up. "Switches and boards, how are you still alive after all this damn time?"

Words. Words are hard. He can only sputter and growl as his sight starts to boot itself back up. Beyond that face, he sees the tank holding Fulcrum. One hand is around his mouth and their optics meet, Fulcrum's wide and surprised and something else that Spinister can't think to connect. Worry? Or something. Right, no, he remembers, he had been counting.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

"Spinister," Spoilsport snorts. "How many were left after I was done with you?"

How many were left.

He thinks and through the static he recalls. It was cold, very cold. The entire squad was down. Several dying. Spinister's always been very good at combat, really very good, and he had been able to take down several of them. The ones with a slice through their badge, the Raiders. The ones who left either side in order to pick off everyone else.

They were dying. It had started with seven, Spinister included.

"Don't look at me," Spinister manages out.

It had started with seven left in the squad. He had nothing to work with to keep them alive. Spoilsport had taken everything that was useful, he made sure of that.

He remembers.

"Don't look at me like that!"

"Oh, don't worry." Spoilsport levels a rifle to Spinister's face. "I won't be looking for much longer."

"Ow!" Barracks jerks his hand away from Fulcrum's mouth. "You little glitch! You bit me!"

Spoilsport lets out an annoyed sigh. "Would you get him under control already? I can't believe I let you talk me into dragging him along."

"Don't shoot him!" Fulcrum shouts, struggling against the larger mech. "Don't--"

"Shut up, already," Barracks grumbles, throwing the K-Con on the ground. He lifts up a foot, slamming it down on top of Fulcrum. Under the weight, the K-Classer lets out a pained squeak, trying to push his pathetic level of strength against the weight to try to save himself. It isn't working. "You've got a bit more bearings than I remember. Feh. Sorry, Spoilsport. Go on, I'm good to see some brains fly."

Six.

He has it.

The heated end of the rifle presses against his forehead and Spinister tries to get a sense for his orientation. It's still flawed as he tries to pull at the hold on his arms and shoulders, weight that would not typically hold him down but the several blows to his head have thrown him off a bit more than usual. He hears the shouting from Fulcrum at each slam of Barracks' foot coming down.

"C'mon!" Another stomp. "Beg already. That ought to bring back some memories!" Clang and there's the sound of plating cracking as Fulcrum whimpers. "Like the good ol' days. Beg!"

There's a shot. Spinister knows the sound of rifle going off, what kind of Decepticon wouldn't? But his head isn't blown apart. He isn't hurt at all by the gun. Instead, he sees where the plasma struck: on the wall, about two feet above Spoilsport's head.

"I was, uh. Aiming for your hand. Or your body. Or any part of you, I suppose."

"M-Misfire," Fulcrum chokes out under the foot, staring in the general direction of the jet.

It's enough of a distraction. Spinister's recovered enough that he's tearing away from the Raiders holding him down. Leaping from his spot, he tackles Spoilsport with a furious snarl.

But not as furious as the enraged roar from Grimlock. The plating of the deck shakes as the Dynobot charges in. Spinister is indifferent to the fearful shouts and shrieks of the Raiders as they scramble to try to figure out how to deal with the angered Autobot.

He just wants to deal with Spoilsport.

Rotor in hand, Spinister swings it down, only to be caught at the wrists by Spoilsport. More than anything, he wants to beat that face in, tear out his optics, and make him stop looking at him like that.

Spoilsport is looking back briefly to the rest of his own team, cursing under an exvent as he sees them fleeing or dead. "Get off, you stupid piece of scrap!" he growls, finally kicking off Spinister. He transforms and practically barrels after the rest of the Raiders.

The surgeon is throwing himself onto his feet, grabbing for his rifle. No, he needs to shoot him, he--

"Spinister?"

He looks down, his optics resting on the three in front of him. Misfire, Fulcrum, and Grimlock. There's a drool of energon running down the Dynobot's jaws, pieces of left over Cybertronian across the deck. While Misfire looks more or less unharmed, parts of Fulcrum's plating looks cracked and he's trembling. Not that it's terribly unusual to see Fulcrum scared about anything, but it's still a bit sobering. It reminds him of now instead of then. What he has now, what has to be taken care of.

Slowly, Spinister looks up to see Spoilsport's ship start to take off.

Another time for him. Now with all six of them, it's more important.

All right, then.

"We should get back," is all Spinister has to say.

"I... I can't really..." Fulcrum only seems to shake more, as if the experience somehow got to him. Which is strange to Spinister, admittedly. Weren't the D.J.D. a bigger deal or whatever? "Ack, Misfire!"

The shout of surprise is probably due to the fact that Misfire is picking up the K-Con in his arms. "What, pinhead? You're gonna take forever to get back to the W.A.P.; I dunno about you, but I'm not making Krok wait."

"F-fine! Whatever, let's just go." Fulcrum sighs. "I'm ready to get off this station."

In his silence, Spinister agrees with that sentiment.

He'd been mixed up in letting what was old drive him into what is now and more important. The count isn't down to one, it's down to six; he knows the difference, he really does, but seeing Spoilsport again threw it all back.

He wasn't going to deal with the way the Raider leader looked at him again.

Now, though. Now it's about Krok and the others.

As they start to circle back towards the Weak Anthropic Principle, they stop to peer around the corner. Just because Spoilsport's ship has left doesn't mean, apparently, that the rest of the Raiders are quite following. There are still several of them picking up what's been left over.

And a few of them are trying to break into the ship.

"This looks bad. There's no way we can all taken them on, even with Grimlock here," Fulcrum mutters, frowning.

"We never run away fast enough," Misfire laments with a sigh. "All right, so what should we do?"

There's a quiet sense of consideration. Eventually, with some hesitation, Fulcrum addresses Spinister, "If I was in my alt-mode, could you manage my weight?"

"Yeah, suppose so." Spinister shrugs. "How come?"

"Well, I... I have an idea. I dunno if it's gonna work, but." Fulcrum smiles nervously. "It's worth a shot. Just make sure you don't drop me."

-=-=-

It doesn't take long to arrange, which is good because they don't have a whole lot of time. The W.A.P. is already in a rickety condition and they definitely can't bear under the pounding that the door is taking. Hell, if they get impatient enough, they might decide to break into the hull of the ship.

And no one is about to wait around and listen to the kind of complaining that Crankcase would dish out.

From up on top of some scaffolding, Fulcrum peers down at the Raiders briefly before looking over his shoulder back to Spinister. "You sure you're ready?"

"It's not hard to do," Spinister replies. "I won't let go or anything like that."

"Yeah." Fulcrum lets out a shaky exhale.

"Hey. Fulcrum?"

The K-Con tilts his head a little. "Yeah, Spin?"

"I got it figured out." Spinister winds the chain a little more over his hands. "It's six."

"Um. That's... good? That's good, Spinister."

"Yep." Spinister lifts his chin. "You'd better get started."

There's a moment's hesitation, if only so that Fulcrum can exhales again. He's afraid and that's nothing new, but he's doing that thing again. Thinking and planning and trying to keep all of them safe. That's something that Fulcrum's getting better about and Spinister, in all of his confusion of numbers and counting and hands and memories, knows this about him.

So he watches Fulcrum run and run before he leaps off the edge of the scaffolding, arms spread out as he dives. He hears the transformation sequence go and sees him turn into a bomb. There's several panicked shouts of surprise.

Spinister strains and grunts as he holds onto the chain.

At the other end of it, it's tied around a portion of Fulcrum, and so he is effectively dangling the K-Classer with the chain over the entire group of Raiders.

"If you don't back off, I'm going to have him drop me on top of all of you. And yes that would effectively kill all of us." Spinister is impressed that Fulcrum is able to keep most of his fear out of his voice, instead sounding way more stern than usual, kind of like when he's telling Misfire he's talking way too much or telling Grimlock to stop chewing on a piece of equipment. "I'm going to give you ten seconds to scram."

"I. I did hear that a K-Con was around," one of the other Raiders mentions. "I think I saw him, actually!"

"Why the scrap didn't anyone say anything?!"

The entire group of Raiders start to scramble away.

"I don't think they're movin' fast enough," Spinister gripes.

"You know? I agree with you. Misfire!" Fulcrum calls out, still dangling above in his bomb mode.

No more than two seconds later, stomping around the corner is Grimlock, letting out a booming roar. Riding his back and grinning broadly is Misfire, pumping his fist in the air. Flames soon pour out from Grimlock's mouth as the Dynobot helps either scare off the rest of the Raiders or outright tear into them.

All the while with Misfire hooting and shouting, "This is the best moment in my entire life! YESSSSS."

"Um. Pull me back up?" Fulcrum quietly calls out. "Please?"

Without hesitation, Spinister begins to pull up on the chain, helping the K-Con back onto the platform. Once Fulcrum manages to transform back into his root mode, the former technician gives a relieved sigh and brushes himself off.

"Guess that worked out okay." Fulcrum glances down nervously.

There's some satisfaction to see some of the Raiders gone. Better to see some of them dead, Spinister figures.

"Guess so," Spinister mumbles.

-=-=-

Report later. Handle repairs first. That's what Krok said, and that's what Spinister will do.

That's something that he can focus on, at least. It's better than what his mind wants to wander to. Old cold air, frost crawling up his plating, and his beaten body trying to repair six fallen teammates while Spoilsport laughed at him, giving him that. That look.

No. He's okay with trying to focus on the present.

For awhile, it's completely silent between the two of them. Spinister is focusing on fixing the more damaging cracks in Fulcrum's plating from the beating he'd received. It seems like more than usual, Fulcrum is sulking, so the surgeon didn't put up any kind of fuss in having Grimlock stay in the medbay with them. The Dynobot's head is in the K-Con's lap, tail absently wagging.

"Spin?" Fulcrum calls for the medic quietly.

"Huh?" Spinister looks up from his work. "What's wrong?"

"I..." Warily, Fulcrum looks over his shoulder at Spinister. "Did you know those guys? You seem like you did. At least Spoilsport."

"It was a long time ago." Spinister shrugs. "Gonna kill him next time I see him." Fulcrum flinches. There's a sigh and Spinister grabs his shoulders. "Try to calm down. I'm not done yet."

"Sorry." Fulcrum's fingers twitch. "Guess I shouldn't blame you. I don't know what he did to you, but if..."

The words just stop as the former technician trails off. The incomplete thought just confuses Spinister. "If what?"

"Nothing." The voice used is tiny, curled in, and absolutely fearful. Fulcrum pauses before he asks, "Do... do you know what happened to Styx?"

"Not really. Suppose maybe someone mentioned it, but I probably forgot."

"Ah. Yeah. I guess so." Fulcrum turns his attention back to Grimlock. "What did Spoilsport do to you?"

There's a lengthy pause, the only sound in the medbay being the noises of Spinister repairing Fulcrum and the quiet snuffle of Grimlock's tail as it waves against the floor.

What Spoilsport did.

"Bad things," is all Spinister can stand to say.

And that's all Fulcrum can stand to ask.

-=-=-

In the previous squad, it had started out with seven, just like another.

Raiders, Spinister had learned, are those become pirates and prey on those weakest in the war. Or try to, anyway.

What he remembers most of that day, when seven counted down to one, was Spoilsport and the funny look he gave him, smiling all the way.

For today, Spinister can safely say his count of his squad is six, and he hopes the number does not go down.

-=-=-

Sometime, during the scuffle, he'd placed it under the plating. Just in case it didn't all go according to plan.

Barracks leans back in his chair, checking the tracking signal.

"Another time," he promises with a grand smile.

Just not today.

Chapter Text

"So when the hell are we taking off?" Crankcase grumbles, as if he could have any other tone besides default grumpy. "I thought we were ready to go."

"I kinda like a place that's dumping free scrap on us," Misfire chirps in, holding up his box of random items as if it was nothing but shanix. "I didn't think that energon could even come in so many colors!"

Krok squints at Misfire, then at the box. "You're sure it's energon that they gave you?"

"I dunno. Probably? Hey, this one's practically black! I wonder what it tastes like. And this one's yellow with... yep, those sure are blue bubbles!" Misfire grins.

It's a bit unexpected, but it's pleasant enough as far as things go that's happened to them. After the Raiders took what they wanted and fled, it left the station in shambles. Seeing the scavengers attempt to defend themselves against the attackers meant, apparently, that they were valiant or some such in fighting back. Despite the merchants' lack of many items, they are being given random odd gifts.

Krok isn't so sure he can make much use of necklace with beads made out of the helms of Autobots, but sure, he'll hang it on a lamp or something. Okay.

"Can any of that be used to fuel the ship?" Crankcase dares to ask Misfire.

"Eh, no. I already asked." Misfire shrugs. "Oh, this one's brown! I can't even imagine what that'd taste like."

The gifts, at least, are a helpful distraction for almost half of them. Spinister's been more quiet than usual, which means Krok is forced to give him several tasks to keep him preoccupied. Fulcrum's been harder to find, slipping away occasionally and disappearing for hours with Grimlock. Spinister he gets; Krok isn't unwise to the medic's behaviors and the reasons behind them.

It's Fulcrum who's being the mystery and he doesn't like it.

"Misfire, put that box down. You aren't trying anything until you find Fulcrum," Krok orders. "Now." There's a small huff, but no argument. The box is set aside and the jet sighs as he heads off to go find the mission K-Con. Satisfied enough, Krok turns and addresses Crankcase, "We'll take whatever the merchants feel like they owe us. It won't be much, but it's something. Might be able to barter fuel from them eventually."

"They gave me," Crankcase grates out, "a helmet."

"I know. You showed me."

"It had floral designs, Krok."

"Crankcase--"

"And frills."

Krok sighs.

Well, they tried anyway.

Chapter Text

Finding Fulcrum isn't really difficult with enough effort. That effort, in particular, being that you just needed to find Grimlock. Sure, the Dynobot's getting used to being around the others, but he still tags along after the K-Con. It's hard to tell who takes care of who, sometimes.

Close enough to the cargo bay, he sees the Autobot flopped over in the hallway, occupying much of its space and effectively making himself Mt. Grimlock and a requirement to climb if one wants to reach their meager cargo. Not that it's really Misfire's goal; he can see how Grimlock is situation, flopped in front of an open ventilation shaft. With his snout and jaws near the open shaft, Grimlock is grunting and chomping his mouth, snorting and sniffing the air as he slowly wags his tail.

Only one mech on the ship is small and lanky enough to crawl in there. Even Krok has too broad of shoulders to even think about it.

"Hey, Grimmy. Is Fulcrum in there?" Misfire crouches down by the Dynobot fearlessly.

No verbal response. Just a low whine in a strange mix of a growl formed in the Autobot's belly.

Close enough of an answer.

"Lemme have a look." Misfire plops down on top of Grimlock's head, the Dynobot not even fighting back. "Pinhead! You in there?"

After a pause, there's a sigh in shaft before, "...Yeah. What is it?"

"Can't hide there forever, you know. Krok's wondering about you."

"I'm not on duty and my repairs are done."

Misfire raises an optical ridge. "But you're allowed off the ship. You were complaining awhile ago that you couldn't leave. Why do you wanna be stuffed up there?"

"Misfire, leave me alone. Please."

"You've been acting weird since the Raiders," Misfire mutters. "You and Spinister both."

"Just..."

"I don't like it."

Fulcrum sounds a bit more impatient, "You wouldn't get it."

"Fine, whatever, you don't have to tell me. But you don't have to hide in there either." Misfire reaches into the vent blindly, holding out his hand into the shaft. "You're being an idiot, y'know that? I know you're new, and I guess maybe things are weird right now, but there's something even Spinister gets. You don't have to act like you need to rely on just yourself."

They stood up to the Decepticon Justice Division all together. Even in the raw truth that was Fulcrum's secret, they stood their ground and fought for him as hard as they could. It wasn't much, but it was something, and there's at least one fact that Misfire can sort into this.

They aren't alone. None of them. That's the best feeling in the universe to Misfire, and he's glad for it. He wants-- he needs Fulcrum to understand that too, no matter how many ridiculous secrets they all have or how different they perceive things as they stare into space and all six of them seeing different things.

Satisfied, he feels a hand slip into his own, and Misfire helps Fulcrum out of the ventilation shaft.

Chapter Text

In an hour, they're finally taking off from Jennix Station. No doubt from how the events have bowled over Spinister and Fulcrum alike for reasons that still evade Misfire will finally start being left behind, but then they'll all be a little more relieved when Crankcase complains slightly less. Not for another hour, but still. It's something, at least.

With an hour to kill, Misfire's grabbed his box of clinking vials and practically prancing his way to the cargo bay. Literally throwing the door open, the jet sits down and sorts through the little bottles of various liquids, the only sound being glass tapping against each other and the slow whirl of the fans above.. At first, he has it sorted by size, though he realizes that's not a very practical manner in which to have them. It's hardly going to verify what kind of flavors they'll probably have, so he opens the cork on each and goes by scent instead. It seems like a good idea, but unsatisfied, he puts them in order of color.

Whatever. He should just test them out instead of dillydallying like this.

"Okay." Misfire picks up the strange glowing gray bottle, peering at it. The way it swirls makes it not quite so silvery as opposed to the visual appearance of melting steel. When he opens it he, he says, "Well, let's start with you."

It's not as smooth as energon as it goes down. It's bland as hell, a bit miserable actually. Like breathing in a mouthful of ash through his vents. Unpleasant and dry-tasting afterward.

Really unsatisfying. "Well. Glad it was free," Misfire remarks. He lifts up another vial, this one with blue-colored contents. "Wonder if--"

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees someone pass. He isn't sure who, but the color is catching. No one else has that color, no one else moves like that, and he already knows depth of that red. He's been familiar with it for awhile.

"Hmm." Misfire peers down at the vial in his hand.

All right, then.

It's him again.

"Hey now!" Misfire calls after him. "I know you're here! Just you wait!"

Silence.

What a jerk.

Running down the hallway, Misfire keeps just seeing glimpses. Brief moments of him, down and down and further into the ship. Slipping just out of eyesight, but enough of a glance that he can be seen and this time, this time for sure, Misfire's is going to track him down.

"Krok! Hey, Krok." Misfire is reaching for his commlink, peering around the corner. "I've got him this time!"

"Him? ...Oh. I see. The Necrobot." Krok sighs. "Are you gonna be back within the hour?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure, of course I will." Misfire tsks. "Don't go anywhere without me!"

"Come back in an hour and I won't. Make this short."

Good enough. He has Krok's go, so he'll make good on this chase.

Practically leaping out from the W.A.P., Misfire transforms and tears into the air, following undoubtedly his target. It's strange for a moment, as it feels like there's a rush of everything passing by him. It's fast, as fast as he can go, but as he tries to increase his speed, everything else slows down. The blur of stands and humble buildings of the station start to become clearer and more crisp, as if he isn't moving much at all. The mass of people below him are clear at first, but then they seem to mash together in some way. They're grayed out, nearly faceless, meaningless in comparison to the striking red of the Necrobot.

Yet, in the busy streets of Jennix Station, the Necrobot's back can still be seen as he slips down an alleyway.

"Fine, we'll do it this way," Misfire mutters to himself, transforming back to root mode. Landing onto his feet, he runs down the street, managing to squeeze by everyone hounding the roads.

When were there so many people here, anyway?

The detail is nearly forgotten as he sees his goal step through an open door. Grinning to himself, sure of the fact that he was going to succeed this time, Misfire runs through the entrance.

The door slams shut tight behind him. Eh, he'll figure it out later.

Stretching out before him is an incredibly long hallway. It's strange to him, because it doesn't look like it belongs on the station at all, much less in this building. It doesn't seem like it's been made to fit such a shack, and the rest of the station is grimy and barely holding together since the attack from the Raiders. Yet, this interior? It's... plush, almost. The paint is fresh and new, colorful and striking to the optic. It reminds him of the one time he'd ever seen where the higher class mechs stayed on Cybertron before the war. There's all that, plus also the fact that both walls are covered with dozens and dozens of doors.

He touches the wall curiously, then glances up as he sees him again, disappearing through one of those doors.

"Frag," Misfire curses to himself, dashing down the hall. Once he reaches it, swings it open.

Finding himself faced with a steel wall instead of an actual entrance waiting for him.

"What the...?" Misfire frowns and scratches his head. How is that even possible?

Backing up from the wall, the jet turns and glances down the seemingly endless hallway. Is it just him, or does it seem like it's growing longer and longer?

Hm.

Curiously, he tries one of the other doors, walking through it.

Only to come out the opposite side, almost comically.

"Hmm. A portal?" Misfire guesses to himself. "No, no. Clearly, it's magic."

Whatever it is, it's interesting. Amusing, even!

Each time Misfire opens a door, it either leads him to another door in the same hallway, or another wall. One of the doors even manages to drop him down to the floor, face first. Which is impressive, how does that even work? Stumbling back to his feet, his wings flicker in both curiosity and frustration.

"Oh, c'mon! I know you're here!" Misfire calls out.

He hasn't lost him yet. He can't have.

There's a pause and Misfire looks down at the vial still in his hand somehow. Despite all of the transforming and running around and falling, the glass is still there, full and unspilled, blue and glowing and inviting.

Well. He is a bit hungry.

Misfire downs the contents. He feels an uncomfortable shiver through his plating.

The walls immediately begin to rust over. It crawls and reaches, killing the once intriguing colors into nothing but grime and nothingness. It all crumbles away, the doors falling to the floor, one by one.

When the last door falls, there he is, turning and leaving through a dark entrance once again.

"I got you!" Misfire shouts, practically giddy, racing after the Necrobot into the entranceway. "I've got you now!"

Here, it's different, and it's immediately felt the further he runs inside. There is nothing but the blackness in here. It's almost suffocating the way it's all around him, sucking him in, yet it's wide and expansive and lonely. That chills him; it's like being lost in space with no stars to guide him by, nothing.

All he has to do is run forward, chasing a distant red figure before him.

This is the longest run he's had. He's going to do it this time!

At the elated feeling, he somehow feels steps for his feet. He climbs and climbs, the ground under his feet lighting up every time his feet touch the ground. At first the ground seems to glow blue, then to red, purple, and eventually it just starts to flash colors in no particular order or meaning.

The path before him brightens and givens a clear path now, leading hopefully closer to the Necrobot. Yet, it only seems like they're getting higher and higher, high enough to be completely surrounded by stars.

"Um," Misfire comments brilliantly, staring all around himself. Nebulas can be seen oddly not too far off, colors shifting and changing. Rushing through the darkness are apparently a series of comets.

Abruptly, one of the comets twists around into an impossible loop in the air. It smashes and lands onto the path in front of him; bursting forth from the sparkling remains is, somehow, Soundwave.

Sure. Why not. Misfire isn't even going to argue. He just grins and says, "Awesome."

Soundwave says nothing and simply throws some sort of string instrument at Misfire. The jet manages to catch it, and finds himself completely jamming out in the stars and lights and colors. The music feels like it's rushing through his plating and electrifying his entire sensory net. The stars are beginning to burst and explode around him in an impressive display.

The only appropriate thing Misfire feels like he can do now is shout out, "AW YEAHHHHHH!"

Everything dulls all at once and Misfire finds himself on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan slowly turn clockwise in the cargo bay of the Weak Anthropic Princple. The tingles in his body slowly stop and he frowns.

Oh. Well, frag, that was one hell of a trip.

Slowly, he sits himself up and looks down.

Two vials, empty on the floor.

Briefly, he checks his internal chronometer, squinting a little. Five minutes have passed, and he can't remember what part had started out to be real and when it stopped being reality. When did he lose sight of the Necrobot? He'd been there! Misfire had almost reached him finally.

He glances at his vials of various fuels, considering deeply for a moment. Whatever had happened, it felt close enough that he almost reached the Necrobot. With these, can he do it again? Can he get there?

Only five minutes passed. He has time before the ship takes off.

"All right, then." Misfire picks up one of the vials, peering at it. The way the colors swirl make it appear strange, almost kind of oily. "Let's give this another go, eh?"

The contents are taken in one shot. The texture definitely is strange, almost kind of filmy. He wrinkles his nose briefly, clicking his tongue, as if that'll somehow make the flavor more favorable. Misfire shakes his head a little. What the hell were the merchants doing with all of these, anyway?

He glances to his right and raises an optical ridge.

"Funny," Misfire muses to himself. "Never seen this before."

It's a door on the floor of the cargo bay. Strange, he's sure that Krok would have said something about it before. And it's not like they have so much equipment that it'd be easy to hide, either. So did it just suddenly appear?

Either way, his curiosity gets the best of him. With a grunt, Misfire manages to prop the door open. Down below seems, oddly enough, a tunnel. Logistically, it shouldn't go on for as long as it seems to, otherwise it'd just be a hole in the ship.

Fortunately, Misfire is not much on thinking about the logistics of things. Mentally, he waves it off as magic or some such before he grins to himself and hops down the tunnel. The way down has a way of making it sem lik it gets smallerand smaller, the sheer blackness juat almost consuming in some way. It's discomforting and he debates flying back up, but he can't even see the top of the hole anymore.

So it's time to go down.

Eventually light abruptly hits his optics, almost blinding him as he falls and hits the bottom. It takes a moment for his optics to readjust, but once they do, the sight he sees is a strange one no doubt. Looking up from the floor, Misfir see two of the biggest idiots sitting at a small, elegant table. The furniture is made of pristine metal, polished and flimmering as both Grimlock and Spinisiter sit back in equally fancyas-hell chairs. The designs carved into the damned things is far more intricate than it ought to be, and fefinitely does not suit the two at all.

SHeesh.

There's a small sniff from Grimlock as the Dynobot peers down at Misfire. "I do say, chap, you gave us nearly a fright there for a moment."

"Indeed," Spinister agrees, picking up his energon and giving it a sip, somehow delicately if that was possible for him.

"Well, I cab;t reakky tekk uf tgis is crepy or what," Misfire mutters to himself. He pauses for a moment, frowning to himself. His mind is starting to feel more and more muddled. What does that mean, exactly?

"Well. I, Grimlock, must say that youre making a fine interruption of my lunch date with our fine surgeon here, wot." Grimlock sighs. "In any case, can we perhaps assist you?"

Sluggishly, Misfire gives a shrug and says, "Don't suppose you've seen a red mech around here? Carrying a datapad. A list of some kind."

Spinister shakes his head gracefully. "Terribly sorry, but no. If it's the Necrobot again, Im afraid we're having non eof that at our lunch. Isn't that right, old boy?"

"Quite right," Grimlock agrees. "Perhaps try down there? I, Grimlock, did notice a smashing new door."

"Smashing indeed."

Somehow, he hadn't noticed it before, but it is there across the room. It's an odd door, completely out of place considering the rest of the artistic decor. It's bland, flat, and scraped up from use. Not much to look at, but it sticks out almost obnoxiously. Huh.

"All right, you guys are just wigging me out," Misfire grumbles. "I'll, uh. Use that door you mentioned."

"CHeers," Spinister muses.

It opens easily enough.

Just as it shuts behind Misfire easily enough.

[This portion of the ship truly makes no sense and should not, though with how things have been going, that should be no surprise. Although we can assume this is from the perspective of MISFIRE, as this should be pretty clearly different from the rest of the ship. The hallway is long, rectangular, and direct. Yet, at the same time, everything is discolored by age and beaten and worn. It is rusted and earthy and should give the distinct feeling of being unclean.]

At the lever is pulled, it is slow and grating, like rust against rust wailing out. It's almost like the statue is screaming. MISFIRE stands there for a moment, optics wide in surprise. He tries to tug the lever out or move it again, but it seems locked in place.]

The following room contains a taller corpse with the hands torn off, the fingers spread apart on the floor. The lever had been sticking out of the back until MISFIRE had pried it out.

That covered the right hand side of the hallway.

The next room had a much larger body, the head completely missing. Where the head should have been, the lever was there. After that, MISFIRE found the next room to be a little bit different, if only for the fact the body is actually sitting on a piece of furniture. The face is missing, as if ripped off, the lever sticking out of one of the holes in its chest.

It makes him uncomfortable to look at, but MISFIRE takes the lever anyway.

The last room on the left side of the hallway makes him stop completely.]

In its mouth is the final lever, clenched tight between teeth.

Warily, MISFIRE removes it, quickly stepping out of the room and facing the very last statue at the end of the hallway.

He isn't sure if he wants to use it, but he has no where else to go at this point. Slowly, he places the lever into the last statue. Wincing, MISFIRE pulls the lever.]

The scream is loud enough to cause an echo in the hallway. Misfire widens his optics and he can't seem to stop. Slower and slower, the lever moves down, the shriek ending in a gurgling moan until the lever is done moving.

He wants to take it back. Suddenly, he wants to take it all back and not be in this hallway, but he can't stop it now. He can't turn back, there's no where to turn back. Yet, he has such unease in his tanks, his spark twisting. He feels like, maybe, he's just made an enormous mistake.

Still, with no where else to be, Misfire opens the last door, stepping inside.

Strewn about the floor are several body parts, the plating gray and showing no sign of life in any of it. It's too familiar, maybe a dozen or so corpses in here, with broken guns scattered. Old, dried energon is splashed across the walls and terror rises in him.

Misfire turns around sharply to leave, finding himself facing him. Him.

The Necrobot stares down at Misfire.

"It was an accident," Misfire blurts out, backing up slowly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

The Necrobot stares.

"I was just curious! I didn't mean to do any of that." There's a yelp as Misfire trips over one of the pieces on the floor, landing squarely onto his aft.

The Necrobot stares and begins to approach Misfire.

"It was an accident!"

Slowly, the datapad in the Necrobot's hands turn. There on the list, there are many names, but Misfire sees many he recognizes.

He can't speak suddenly. It hurts to try. There's a prominent tremble in his body. He knows what was done and there's no excuse for it and he wants to undo it all and try again but that's impossible now, purely impossible and there's something. So horrible. Climbing over his plating.

With a hiccup in his vents, Misfire watches in horror as rust crawls up his legs, breaking him apart.

"No! No no no!"

He looks at his own hands crumble away, becoming dust to the floor.

The Decepticon known as Misfire is then nothing more than bits of forgettable metal.

Optics come online and Misfire is on his back again, staring up at the ceiling. He feels the fan turn, and it is moving counter-clockwise, air moving over him because its motions. For awhile, Misfire simply looks up, seeing it move, observing it. It doesn't make him calm, but it does make him feel introspective.

Slowly, he moves his hand down his own torso, letting it settle over a spot on his abdomen. Freshly sealed from sometime ago when Blithe and his crew attacked the W.A.P. and Fulcrum gave him, really gave him his fuel pump.

It draws him to think on the K-Con. There's the whole hey you nearly got us killed and also you sort of put us on the D.J.D.'s List factor, but otherwise, Fulcrum has been a good addition to the crew. He's not very strong, but he's smart and he's been adapting to life on the ship very well. There are various times when he's upset and Misfire has honestly no idea how to handle that very well, but he tries to stick by his side.

Because... well, because he does like Fulcrum. Very much. Even if he's a bit evasive on that topic.

He remembers his hallucination from the Cerebnum. Misfire knows what that means, and how much he'd rather have Fulcrum laughing than dwelling on every bad thing that happens to them.

Misfire knows how he feels.

Feeling something ignite in him, he sits up sharply and marches out from the cargo bay. This needs to happen now. He can't contain it.

Making his way onto the bridge, Misfire dramatically throws the door open. "Fulcrum!"

"...Misfire?" The K-Con turns and looks at him incredulously. "What's gotten into you?"

"We really need to talk!"

Fulcrum raises an optical ridge. "Okay, so... talk? Talk to me."

Rushing forward, Misfire grabs onto Fulcrum's shoulders. "You remember when we were on that planet? With the Cerebnum?" Fulcrum gives him a flat look. "Okay, stupid question. Of course you remember. That hallucination I had, well..."

"You said it could have been anyone."

"I lied! Completely lied. To your face. Because I was embarrassed. I was giving it a lot of thought, and how I feel about you. I really just want you to be happy with us. With me."

Fulcrum looks alarmed at the revelation. "Misfire?"

"You're the one for me, baby!" Abruptly, Misfire dips Fulcrum down and gives him an incredibly sloppy kiss.

Optics come online once more. The ceiling is hardly any different, only the fan is turning clockwise again. There's a tired sigh from Misfire as he reflects on the last hallucination briefly.

Complications are not a thing that Misfire particularly enjoys. He understands that coming to terms with thoughts and feelings require him to sit still and consider. Even if they are true, it's not wise to approach much further than his own mind. Not right now, anyway. He has no idea what he could say to Fulcrum. It's not like the Decepticon military trains you on this particular matter.

Misfire rolls onto his side, looking at the vials he's been drinking. He feels exhausted. He winces as he remembers the names on the list from the Necrobot. Real or not, it terrifies him to think about.

The chronometer states it's a half hour until launch.

After a small internal debate, he picks up a vial. Murky, brown, downright rust-colored.

Misfire downs it anyway. His optics shut off at the awful, stinging flavor afterward.

And he opens his optics.

Familiar, but different. The same, but not so much.

"Are you sure you have that?"

"I'm about as sure as I've ever been about this."

He finds himself on his back, staring up at faces he knows and can't remember knowing. Wary and weary optics look down at him and Misfire sees his own fuel pump in the hands of someone else.

Misfire squints up. No, he should remember a chin like that. Shouldn't he?

"Hello?" the jet tries.

"Pretty sure that corpse just talked."

"You sure you didn't imagine it?"

"You think that's the best my imagination can do?"

The bronze colored mech above him frowns and looks over his shoulder. "Flywheels is right. This one's alive, Krok."

Gradually making his approach, the one named Krok looks down. "Hm. Fully functional?"

"Got all his parts in order, according to Spinister. I'll, uh. Just put the fuel pump back?"

"Do that."

"What's going on?" Misfire glances around, more in confusion than fear. This doesn't seem right. Is this the right place?

"Hold still." There's a small huff of annoyance from the small, lanky-looking Decepticon tending to him. This feels awkwardly familiar. "Sorry. We came across you when we were looking for spare parts."

Not even remotely upset about that factor, Misfire gives his surroundings a look. Five different Decepticons, all barely holding together. Their optics are (familiarly) dim from lack of proper fuel. It seems like he should know this situation.

But he can't make the connection.

"So long as I get my parts back right where they ought to be, then." Misfire grins. "You should introduce me to everyone!"

"I, uh." The bronze mech peers at him. "I don't even know your name--"

"Misfire!"

"Oh. I'm Fulcrum." He shrugs. "Is your name accurate?"

Misfire grins sheepishly. "Well, that's a long story, actually."

Briefly, his mind reels. He remembers. The room with the body parts, that belonged to at least a dozen people. The list that was shown to him.

That. No. That doesn't matter now. Does it?

After some help to his feet, Misfire leans on Fulcrum's shoulder. "Go on! Tell me who everyone else is."

"Um." Fulcrum tries to shove him off, yet somehow the smaller mech's strength is so miniscule that he doesn't even budge the jet. "All right, guess I will."

It's like a sudden rush through Misfire.

He reaches out, grabbing Fulcrum's wrist. "Don't! Don't jump. You still have your--"

"Payload? I know." Fulcrum shakes his head. "I can't fight. I'm not that strong. I can jump, though."

Misfire, who can't aim at anything and misses.

Fulcrum, who supports underneath.

"Let me go, Misfire."

"I can't. I can't do it."

The list. He remembers the list.

Not from the D.J.D., but from Him and it's too much, and he can't let go.

He can't let any of them go.

"You big idiot." Though the way it's spoken, it's almost said fondly, with Fulcrum smiling a little bit. "I have to jump. That's how it goes."

Misfire can't seem to sort it out, how Fulcrum somehow escapes his grip no matter how tight he holds on. He watches as the K-Con leaps and transforms.

And it's all gone.

Misfire sits up sharply, exhaling. There's a tremor running through him so hard that he feels like his plating is going to come off. He looks up at the ceiling. The fan.

It's clockwise.

There are empty vials around him, though not all are gone. It doesn't matter now, though. He's had his chase. He's followed the Necrobot and found himself still unsatisfied. Frightened, now, so suddenly at the idea of loss. Before he'd been able to pass it off a little bit; if one of them fell, they could make use of the parts. That's how it goes.

But the idea of something happening to Fulcrum brings this weird sense of terror that bothers him.

Slowly, Misfire stands up. He'll sort out the vials a little bit later. For now, he checks up on his chronometer.

Ten minutes until launch.

The jet walks through the ship, looking in on the others. Krok is sitting with Spinister in the medbay patiently, the medic staring at the floor as their leader murmurs a story from one of the battles of the war to coax the violent surgeon. On the bridge, Crankcase grouses and grumbles as he tries to shove Grimlock off of the pilot chair with little success.

Fulcrum sits in the engine room, datapads piled around him. The K-Con glances up as Misfire steps inside.

"Sooo... what're you doing?" the jet asks, tapping his fingers against the doorway.

"The merchants gave me a lot of maps and data. I missed some years on the war, and while I'm sure Krok could fill me in on a lot of the more important bits, I like having some details down." Fulcrum shrugs. "What's up? Where have you been for the past hour? It was quiet."

"Just havin' a bit of me-time." Sliding into the room, the door closes behind Misfire. "Listen, loser -- uh. Fulcrum. I've been thinking about before."

"About what, exactly?" Fulcrum glances up from his datapads, as if hearing his name from Misfire means that's serious business.

Misfire shrugs a little. "You've been upset since the Raiders. I mean, you're better now, but you're still not quite yourself. And you were upset after what happened with the Cerebnum, too."

"I was stomped on by a guy that turns into a tank and I wasn't a big fan of everyone getting their minds messed with. I'm gonna be upset about it."

"That's not what you said before." Misfire rubs the back of his neck, trying to not sound frustrated or accusatory. "You said that I wouldn't understand. And maybe I wouldn't, not really, because I know we're all different and everything, but it's like I said. You aren't alone." There's a small sigh from the K-Con. The jet holds out his hands helplessly. "I want to help you. So, would you please talk to me?"

"Misfire..." Fulcrum looks down again at the datapads, then back up to the jet. "I've had a lot on my mind. And I mean that. I'm still bothered by what happened at Styx. I keep trying to turn away from it, but it just seems like there's a lot of reminders. I miss my old frame, and that tank, he..." His shoulders slump. "I knew him. From before. His name's Barracks, and... and he was one of the guards at Styx, okay? I recognized him, and he remembered me."

It all has to boil down to that. Styx and the K-Class. It's hard to forget and they all have their nightmares and demons, but most of them can hide from it most of the time.

Fulcrum just has to look in the mirror for his reminders and Misfire supposes that can't be very helpful.

"C'mere." Misfire holds out his arms.

Briefly, Fulcrum looks at the outstretched arms, then up to the jet. "...What?"

"C'mon! The offer's gonna expire if you keep waiting. Hurry up, pinhead."

"Um." Warily, Fulcrum stands up and approaches the jet. When he gets close enough, he gives off a small oof and Misfire is grabbing him up into a tight embrace. Not enough to crush the little K-Classer, but he's essentially blanketed in all that is Misfire due to his smaller size. To his satisfaction, Fulcrum is not struggling or fighting, but relaxing against him.

That's more like it.

"I know my focus isn't great," Misfire admits. "But I'm not stupid. We're friends, yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay." Fulcrum leans a little against him. "...Thanks, Misfire."

"Great. Fantastic. Now come here."

"What-- hey!"

Catching the technician by surprise, Misfire gathers up Fulcrum into his arms with a sharp smile. Without any mercy, he begins to wriggle his fingers over Fulcrum's torso and sides, all the while still holding him up.

"S-stop!" Fulcrum tries to kick, but it's completely effectless as he wriggles and laughs from the tickling. "I swear to fragging Primus--!! MISFIRE! You big idiot!"

"There you go! That's more like it, loser!"

When the chuckling escalates to outright screeching giggles, that's when the satisfaction hits Misfire. He stops and sits down, clutching the K-Con to himself. Tiredly, Fulcrum gives him an ineffective shove to the shoulder.

But there's no fighting. Fulcrum is still giving the aftershock of snickers from the tickling.

It's better to see him this way.

-=-=-

The Weak Anthropic Prinicple finally starts up. The repairs are done as much as can be, and on schedule, Crankcase pilots their rickety ship away from the station at long last.

As they go, things seem more relaxed by comparison. Not perfect, but Spinister seems to have forgotten why he was even upset to begin with and Fulcrum tolerates Misfire's teasing with more of a smile.

"You ever find him?" Krok asks as he passes by Misfire.

Him? Does Krok mean... the Necrobot? Did that transmission actually happen? Misfire looks at him for a moment, as if unsure how to respond, then he shrugs. "Didn't get what I was looking for. I'll go find 'im again another day, Krok."

There's a pause, then Krok nods. "Fair enough."

It's true, what Misfire says; he didn't really find what he was looking for. Not this time, anyway. But he did have some thought on what feels important right now. That ought to be good enough.

No. They're not perfect.

But this is all they have and they'll get by. They always do.

-=-=-

by Aircommanderp

Chapter Text

It's not that Misfire really expects to hear any kind of noise from his room while he's not in it, but the fact that he hears hysterical sobbing on the other side of the door as he makes his way back seems incredibly weird and incredibly spooky.

His first thought is maybe it's a ghost.

His second thought is maybe that's a dumb idea.

Warily, Misfire opens the door to peer inside, glancing around as he still hears the sounds of muffled crying. He notes that his stash of vials he'd gotten from the station are on display, which they shouldn't be. The box should be closed. Instead, it's open, and looking down to the floor, he spots the source of the whimpering.

"Loser?" Misfire pushes the door open completely, stepping inside to approach the crumpled form of the K-Con. "Hey, I thought you were feeling better. What's all this?"

"I feel terrible," Fulcrum groans out, burying his face into his hands.

A horrible feeling of realization hits him. Misfire stares at his open box of vials, then back down to Fulcrum. "You didn't..."

"I wanted to ask you something, and... and then I got kind of impatient and started to look around and I thought it was energon and... and got kinda upset, that maybe you were holding out on us...? Then... then..." Fulcrum trails off, his voice squeaking off into a mess of sniveling.

"So you got a vial, I take it," Misfire concludes with a wince, which is confirmed by a slow, depressed nod from Fulcrum. "Did you just have a sip or...?"

"Nuh-uh." Weakly, Fulcrum holds up an empty vial.

"Ohhhh no." Just one vial of contents of these various drinks wouldn't knock Misfire off his feet for long, but for someone like Fulcrum who probably hasn't had anything harder than maybe a bit of engex in his little technician life?

This is going to be awhile.

"My perspective's all off," Fulcrum garbles out words, voice distressed.

"Right, I know. C'mon." Slowly, Misfire yanks Fulcrum to his feet, dragging him over to the recharge slab. "You're gonna lay down on something proper until you get this out of your system."

"You want me to sleep?" Fulcrum practically shrieks, his optics widening.

There's a sheepish smile given to Fulcrum. "That's the idea. Here you go, get comfy." Gently, he lays the K-Classer down to the berth before he hops onto the other side. "No worries, you'll have some company."

"But... but what if I don't wake up?"

"You didn't drink anything that's gonna kill you. Just gonna put you out for awhile, pinhead." There's a pause of consideration from Misfire before he peers down at Fulcrum. "What did you want to talk to me about anyway?"

"I can't... words. Um." Tiredly, yellow optics look up at Misfire. "Don't-- don't let me forget. Styx."

"Styx?" What about it? Misfire shrugs. "All right. When you wake up, we'll talk about it.

"Okay." Finally, Fulcrum's optics go dim. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

Chapter Text

Slowly, he turns away from one of the rooms. Fulcrum, tired? Sick. Misfire, looking after Fulcrum. That's good. That is good enough. Misfire tell him: Not now, okay? He just needs some rest.

That is good.

He thinks hard on what happened before. The items that Fulcrum was sort, learning. Many of them were documents and words that he couldn't quite absorb, but Fulcrum wanted to learn. He kept reading, patting him on the head, and mumbling softly.

Then there was something important. Something he found that made him run to find Misfire.

There was an important thing.

Slowly, he makes his way back to Fulcrum's room, sniffing around. That item. That thing. What was it? What was so important for him?

There. On the workbench.

He finds himself transforming, slouching over as he peers down at the item. He does not understand it, like it's out of his reach. Something not quite connecting. But he knows that it is important for the Fulcrum.

So the item is grabbed. Held. Something pushes in. A button. A button is pushed.

A large picture displays. It is familiar to him, but not. Something ... something so close into his reach. The information is slowly taken in, processed. It is a picture of a place. Of a prison.

He knows of a prison. Far, far away.

Slowly, he sets the holographic projector back down to the workbench, and he glares as something familiar fills him. Anger. Rage.

Less familiar. Fear.

Hands curl into fists. His body trembles.

He remembers. Bits and pieces. Enough to terrify him, to entice fury. Bad things happened there. Bad things happen in prisons. Very very bad things. And Fulcrum was in a prison once. Like Grimlock. That is bad.

With a snarl, Grimlock exhales out a single word.

"Overlord."

Chapter Text

The Weak Anthropic Princple isn't very big for a Decepticon ship. It's not impressive, it's the biggest pile of scrap that Crankcase has, sadly, the misfortune of piloting. There have been countless times in which he's been forced to put the Pit-blasted thing back together. Each and every time, he spits at it, curses it for existing, and yet he still puts every fiber of concentration into putting the heap back together. Because their lives depend on it, because especially his life depends on it, and in reality he has little else to care about but an inanimate object.

It's not that he necessarily hates anyone on the ship, despite what he would have just about anyone else believe. Reluctantly, Krok has his respect, because anyone in their right mind on his crew would have a hard time not feeling it. It's also hard to not outright pity someone so loyal and stubborn. It's a factor that so few Decepticons have and it makes Crankcase feel immensely troubled. He doesn't want to like Krok. Sometimes, he really wishes he could hate him for it, but he just can't. So, no, Crankcase doesn't really loathe anyone in particular, but this crew is just.

Strange.

It also rubs him the wrong way.

"How's the inventory for spare body parts?"

"Not great? I mean, we spent a lot of them fixing you and Fulcrum up after Clemency. I don't have any optics left, but we have a few arms and stuff."

"Hmm. Here. Help me count them."

Crankcase doesn't pause for long outside the medbay, curling his fingers into loose fists as he steps further down the hallway.

"Are you serious? Killmaster? With the whole--"

"Yeah, with the wand and everything."

"Killmaster?"

"Don't get me started, he's really weird about the wand."

Outside the engine room, Grimlock sits in his robot mode, placing all of his concentration in looking at the floor with his optics narrowed. He barely glances up when Crankcase pauses there, hearing Fulcrum and Misfire chat it up together with the Dynobot sitting and waiting for them like some big dumb pet.

Crankcase scowls and shakes his head before he heads to the bridge. Practically collapsing into his seat, it gives a familiar creak as he kicks his feet up onto the console and stares out the front windows. All that greets his optics now is endless space.

He folds his fingers together, trying not to dwell, but when only the hum of the ship is there to greet him and keep him company, Crankcase snorts. Miserably, he folds his arms and leans his head back. Red optics dim and he grumbles, "Who needs 'em?"

Bitterness is nothing new to him.

Chapter Text

"Now, I don't usually say this often, loser. But this is a dumb plan. An incredibly stupid plan that will resolve aaaabsolutley nothing! Krok's never going to go for it."

"I really appreciate the vote of confidence, Misfire. Truly."

It seems like he really was an idiot, going to Misfire first. Logically, it would have been better to sort this kind of thing out with Krok; after all, he's the commanding officer, and Fulcrum can't technically do anything about the situation without getting approval from him first. Emotionally, though, it felt easier to just go to the jet before anyone else. Fulcrum is fond of everyone in ship, even Grimlock. That's not at all hard to see, but on some personal level he's most often spoken to or shared with Misfire.

Maybe it's just how insistent the jet is, trying his best to be supportive and be a good friend. For all of strangeness they've been through together, in the end, Misfire's tried, and that's really all Fulcrum could ask of anyone.

Still, sharing his findings and his plans probably wasn't the best idea. Not that Fulcrum is even sure what kind of response he'd been expecting.

"Come on, loser, it's just-- Fulcrum!" Misfire tries to snag the K-Con's shoulder, but it's a gesture smoothly avoided. "Would you even take a moment to think about what you're going to ask Krok?"

Fulcrum pauses midstride to look at his friend. Most would easily shrug off Misfire as a hyperactive idiot and, yeah sure, he can be at times. But it makes it easy to underestimate him. Makes it easy to forget that under the energy ball that is Misfire, he is also a very clever Decepticon.

It'd be stupid to not listen.

Right now, Fulcrum isn't feeling very smart.

"I know what I'm asking. And he doesn't need to say yes," Fulcrum informs him. With a frustrated sigh, he asks, "Would you just back me up? We're friends, right?"

Briefly, Misfire just says nothing, looking extremely uncomfortable. Then, he gives a helpless shrug. "Is it gonna help you?"

"It'd be a start."

Misfire rubs the back of his helm. "Then I suppose that I've got your back on this. Even if I think it's still a little nutty, but I'm here, yeah?"

Relief washes over Fulcrum at the agreement. "Thanks."

By the time that he arrives in Krok's quarters, he suddenly feels a bit less bold. Fulcrum respects Krok and making this kind of request is probably utterly unreasonable for several reasons. Wasting his commanding officer's time isn't going to benefit anyone and Krok waits with an expecting look, silently demanding to know why the K-Con is currently present.

Reminding himself of why he's here, though, is inspiring enough. With clenched hands, Fulcrum steels himself and explains. At his side, Misfire looks completely uncertain, but he bites his lip to refrain from speaking. That can't be easy for him to do and, quietly, Fulcrum appreciates it.

When he's done, Fulcrum doesn't feel any less fired up. He waits, staring at Krok as it seems he's taking his time processing the words just spoken. The wait aches hard enough to make Fulcrum's back plating twitch and throb, unsure of what to expect as a reaction.

Then, Krok slowly folds his hands together.

"So let me see if I understand." Calmly, Krok stares directly at Fulcrum, their optics locking. "You want to go back to Styx, rig an explosive in your old cell, and blow it up."

"When you say it like that, it makes it sound kind of lame," Fulcrum mumbles.

"Currently, I'm trying to think of how many ways I can tell you no."

"That's not your right," comes blurting out of Fulcrum before he can help it. Hesitantly, when Krok narrows his optics, he adds, "Sir." Fulcrum takes a moment to cycle some air in and out of his vents before he continues, "Look, no one told me that Styx was decommissioned after the K-Class was basically... well, you know, done."

A slow exhale escapes Krok. "I didn't really see a point. After what happened with the Cerebnum, it seemed like a better idea to keep it to myself."

Not maliciously done. Why would it have been? Krok's been nothing but protective over his crew, and he certainly would keep it that way by selectively sharing and not sharing information. Styx has been a sensitive topic, so why would he have bothered?

Fulcrum sighs a little. "I get that, and I appreciate you looking out for me. I still want to go. The information I got from the merchants on the station brought me up to speed on things that I've generally missed in the past few years, Styx being one of the brief topics. It's totally abandoned. If anything, we could probably pick up some scrap there while I'm doing my thing."

"That's a weak reason for us to go. All of us." With a shy bit more impatience, Krok leans back in his chair and peers at Fulcrum.

"I'm tired." For a moment, it just feels like his spark is burning. Anger, shame, and fear colliding together and part of him feeling like he could just burst. Not, of course, in a particularly explosive way, but he aches inside. "Krok, I'm tired of running and being scared all the time. What I want is to finally put a part of me to rest. I don't want to turn another corner tomorrow and be reminded of something horrible that's happened to me. I just want it to be done. Things would have gone a lot smoother if the Cerebnum didn't trigger something awful in my memories, or if I didn't freeze up on Jennix Station. I don't want to run and hide anymore."

There's another awful bout of silence in the room. The only noise is the squeak in Misfire's joints as he sways back and forth in some sort of strange effort to keep himself from vomiting up words that may or may not be relevant to the topic at hand. Still, he stands at Fulcrum's side, which is enough.

"Blowing up your old cell," Krok repeats, his tone a little more dry.

"I kinda feel like it's poetic justice," Fulcrum defends himself. "You guys did remove my payload, so we still have it. I want to use it. It's technically mine."

Whatever Krok is pondering is left as a mystery. He isn't sharing his thoughts, and it's a little hard to tell what else Fulcrum can interpret from his expression other than he is being incredibly thoughtful about this entire thing.

Eventually, he rises to his feet. "Don't get me wrong. I am not thrilled with this idea. But I understand it." With a tilt of his head, Krok proceeds with, "We'll make it quick as we can. I don't want a huge detour."

"I understand." Every bit of nervousness just leaves Fulcrum's frame suddenly. He wrings his hands together a little. "Thank you, Krok. I... just. Yeah."

"We all have our ghosts to deal with." Krok slowly looks down at his hand. "If you can deal with yours, well, then you're right. I don't have a place of telling you no."

"Krok..." What the hell can Fulcrum possibly say to that? To someone who still believes he can find his old crew?

"We're about ten hours out from Styx. I suggest you start getting yourself ready, and I'll let Crankcase know about our detour."

A bit helplessly, Fulcrum watches Krok leave the office. While he's glad that his point of view is understood, he can't help but feel a bit guilty for it in turn. Pit.

Misfire finally lets out a heavy exhale of relief. "Whew! Wow, that was a bit heavy!"

"Baggage usually is," Fulcrum mutters a little bitterly. "Don't you have any?"

"Too full of stuff. And bags. Awful bags of stuff." Misfire squints a little. "Some of us want to leave it behind rather than, you know, blowing it up and all."

-=-=-

Some grousing from Crankcase is to be expected at the order to make the stop, and Fulcrum accepts the grumbling, well learned from the embodiment of grouchiness of what to anticipate. Still, no one is really giving him a hard time about it, and he supposes that it's just gradually sinking in as to what he hopes to accomplish on Styx. A way for him to have a final farewell to his fears linked to the damned place.

Or maybe they sympathize in some way. It's hard to tell. In retrospect, Fulcrum admittedly doesn't know much about everyone's history. He's the one that's expressed his the most, although that's mostly because he didn't have a choice in the heat of the moment. He knows Spinister got a little worked up about the Raiders, and something happened to Krok's previous crew. But, really, that's it.

He supposes that, in the end, it doesn't matter how they all got here on the Weak Anthropic Principle under the command of one very paternal war historian and tactician. Still, it just weighs on him a little what Krok and Misfire said, in regards to ghosts and baggage. It seems like they all have their different ways of dealing with it.

Or just not at all.

With a weary sigh, Fulcrum stares out one of the muggy windows of the ship, watching familiar star alignments and trying not to shiver in anxiety of their approach. They can't be too far off from Styx now. Not that he's particularly eager to go back there, ever, but he thinks he might be relieved to get this confrontation over with.

There's a slow thudding noise of heavy feet, a familiar sound of Grimlock's weight as he slowly walks. Gradually, the Dynobot steps closer to Fulcrum, stopping to stare down at him. Fulcrum turns and looks up, yellow optics a little wider now in confusion of the Autobot's presence. Even more so, Grimlock isn't in his usual reptilian mode at the moment. Was something wrong?

"Grimlock?" Fulcrum frowns a little. "Are you okay?"

In what appears to be very careful, very considerate pacing, Grimlock is lifting his chin gradually and peering out the window behind the K-Con. There's a slow, fiery huff of air from his vents. "Prison."

That's strange. Did someone tell Grimlock about it? "That's right," Fulcrum states warily. "We're going to a prison. But no one's there anymore."

Eventually, Grimlock's fierce red optics look down at Fulcrum. "Prison, bad."

It feels like Fulcrum's mind just goes blank at the statement, the very basic description. It's not inaccurate. He turns around, facing the window again with his back to Grimlock as he wraps his arms around himself. "That's right. It's... it's a very bad place."

A firm hand settles to Fulcrum's shoulder, almost causing him to jump. Grimlock's engine gives a soft growl before he speaks again, struggling with the words. "Mmm. Me Grimlock, go to bad prison. With you Fulcrum."

Oh. Fulcrum turns his head a little to look up at the Dynobot, offering a hesitant smile. "Grimlock, you don't have to go with me," he speaks slowly, enunciating to make sure that the Autobot understands.

"Me Grimlock go with you Fulcrum," is repeated more simply, more sternly. "Prison, bad."

It's a bit strange to think, but there's the feeling that there's probably something more to what Grimlock is trying to say. Unfortunately, trying to get him to say the right words to properly describe anything would be a challenge too difficult for Fulcrum right now. Yet, he wants to say that Grimlock has a motive for going.

What could that possibly be, though? Grimlock barely remembered anything beyond his own name when they found him.

"Okay, okay. You can come with us," Fulcrum confirms.

There's a strong squeeze to his shoulder, a grip that's almost too tight. Not surprising, since at times Grimlock often forgets his own strength. With a nervous laugh, Fulcrum pats the Dynobot's hand. "Uh, easy. Easy there. My plating's not that strong, you know."

A soft grunt emits from Grimlock before the hand is eventually removed. With the pressure gone, Fulcrum smiles a little more easily.

No, he doesn't quite understand why the Dynobot is insisting on going, but he won't argue about having a little extra protection.

"There's a small problem with landing on Styx," Crankcase abruptly announces over the intercom, not in the least hiding a snide tone.

Fulcrum sighs and lifts his wrist, speaking into his commlink. "What's the problem?"

"This place is supposed to be abandoned, but I'm detecting a shuttle that's already there."

Who in the Pit--?

"I suggest we turn around," Crankcase states.

"No," Fulcrum replies immediately. "Krok, please! I--"

"Fulcrum," Krok says, implying a warning. "Crankcase, stay the course." There's a pause of consideration before Krok adds, "I don't like this idea, but it seems safest if we split off. Some stay behind, some go. I don't intend for this to be a very long trip."

"What you plan and what actually happens don't tend to meet even halfway," Crankcase grumbles.

Krok sighs over the network. "Then watch over the ship while we're gone."

"Don't mind if I do. I'm not getting involved in this place. Frankly, I don't think any of us should be."

The intercom cuts out, and Fulcrum slowly turns towards a window to peer out at the familiar planet. He remembers how long he'd been here, waiting for his trial. He remembers even longer, how much time he'd spent in the prison.

No. Not now. Fulcrum clenches his hands into fists.

With a steady exhale, he heads down into the cargo bay. Right behind him, Grimlock follows, his heavy footsteps easy for him to recognize. Oddly enough, it's something of a comfort to have at his back, knowing that the Dynobot is coming along.

It's time to get this over with.

-=-=-

To both his relief and anxiety, the Weak Anthropic Principle lands as close as possible to the facility that once was also Fulcrum's prison. When the cargo bay doors open, all he can do at first is stand there, optics ahead as he's speechless at the sight of the abandoned prison. Aside from their ship and the shuttle that's here, the landing zone is just full of dust and so much scrap metal that most of it is useless even to them. He remembers being here, the last place he was on Styx, each member of the K-Class lined up and commanded into a salute. Their last farewell to their prison, to their camp, and to their lives. Already he feels numb, but he's told himself already several times: he doesn't want to be afraid anymore.

Slowly, he steps forward.

Krok hadn't been keen at all about the group splitting up and it's not really a surprise to him. It seems like each time they do, it's a disaster waiting to happen, and that's probably something that Krok personalizes in some way. Honestly, it makes Fulcrum feel a little guilty, but they're here now. It's just them and... and whoever owns that shuttle.

"Spinister and I will have a look at it," Crankcase reluctantly caves in over their commlinks. No one's really more well suited to find out amongst them, after all, considering the mechanic's background knowledge on aircrafts.

"Make sure you do," Krok returns gruffly, his tone very clear in his dissatisfaction in this situation. It makes Fulcrum cringe a little in guilt. "If anything seems strange, you leave it alone and you call us."

Absently, Fulcrum rubs his arm as he slowly steps out into the area, trying not to think too much about what it reminds him of. The steady pace of Grimlock's heavy footsteps are still behind him, and he can see Misfire out of the corner of an optic. He isn't in this alone; he's going to be okay.

As Krok steps up alongside Fulcrum, he peers at him momentarily before inclining with his head. "Show us the way."

"Right." Fulcrum cycles out some nervous air from his vents. "Sure. I'll just, you know, go do that."

Gradually, he works up the nerve to head towards the giant gate. Closed, locked, but not impossible to gain entry to. Quietly, Fulcrum turns his attention to the nearby control panel, prying off the loose, rusty controls to work with the wires underneath. Eventually, with enough tweaking, the gates open, like the gaping maw of a beast opening, inviting its prey to its belly.

Not really the metaphor that's helping him feel better.

The hallway still has a taste of a memory for him as well as he starts to lead the way down. He remembers his very first arrival to Styx, how frightened he'd been then, how naive enough he was to think that maybe blabbering and begging for his life would have been enough. The guards had their laugh, and the day had been spent with him in cuffs, fearing for his life at the hands of his own faction, eventually being introduced to a cell that started one of many days here.

"Anyone else unsettled by the silence here?" Misfire asks, huffing slightly.

Grimlock gives a low growl in his engine while Fulcrum snorts a little, "The planet's been abandoned for a while, Misfire."

"I mean us. A little conversation wouldn't hurt."

"I'm not really up for talking," Fulcrum grumbles, still trotting along. "I kind of have a lot going on in my head right now."

"Well, then it'd make for a good distraction, at least!" Misfire sighs. "The more you're lost in your own loser head, the worse you're gonna feel, I just know it."

"I really don't feel like chatting. All right? Just leave me alone with this."

There's a low offended snort. "Fine."

Krok gives a weary glance to Fulcrum, optics narrowed slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Somehow, that's worse than Misfire's mild hurt at Fulcrum's insistence, knowing that right at this moment Krok is studying him, judging him for whatever. Maybe for dragging everyone down here to deal with his personal issues, maybe for brushing off Misfire, who the hell knows. Fulcrum is perfectly aware that he isn't the only one that suffers from some kind of tragedy, but he's the only one whose story was told to the entire crew, because he'd been a liar and a coward. Spinister has something or other to do with the Raiders, Krok seems convinced that he'll find his unit, and Fulcrum has no idea what's going on in Grimlock's head. That leaves Misfire and Crankcase to their whatever-they-have in terms of an unfortunate history, which he should probably expect.

Frankly, in the war, who wouldn't have had something terrible happen to them? It's just, for Fulcrum, on the day when he'd been found by Krok and the others, Styx was just a day prior to that. What had been over a thousand years ago still feels like no time at all for him.

So while others have had time to start welding their wounds, Fulcrum is still dealing with all of this.

Great, now he just feels paranoid along with his growing fear and sense of dread.

"Krok, we had a look at the shuttle. I couldn't tell you exactly what it means, but I can tell you it belongs to an Autobot," Crankcase mentions to the their commlink.

A wary look forms in Krok's optics. "Can you figure out where the shuttle's been or who it belongs to specifically?"

"We'll see what I can dig up. Figured you wanted to know."

"Suppose if we see an Autobot, just shoot him?" Misfire offers. Behind him, Grimlock gives a low growl. "Oh, not you, Grimsie."

"I'm willing to keep that as a possibility," Krok accepts, his tone paced as he thinks over the options.

Fulcrum shakes his head. "Why the hell would an Autobot have any interest in being in a place like this?"

"Why would a former convict?" Krok questions back, his voice sounding less confrontational and more thoughtful. "In any case, I'm not interested in a motivation. If the Autobot stays out of our way, then shooting won't become a problem. Crankcase, Spinister; if the Autobot comes back, feel free to take care of it."

"We'll keep it in mind."

The conversation ends and Krok has a new, contemplative look on his face. The additional complication is, undoubtedly, not favorable in the least and Fulcrum doesn't want to admit to feeling a bit responsible for it. Keeping out of trouble is what they prefer, not really getting involved in it.

But Fulcrum says nothing, and Krok doesn't call him out on it. So their walk continues.

Gradually, they reach three different potential directions to go in. Each pathway isn't unfamiliar to Fulcrum. Not in the least.

"Which way?" Krok calmly requests.

Immediately, Fulcrum nods to the right. "That way to the prison cells and execution chambers. Ahead is the archives, and to the left is where they held their trials. For all the good they did."

"What would they need an archives section for?" Misfire holds up his hands, palms out. A gesture, as if to tell Fulcrum take it easy now. "Just curious."

"Prisoners list. General data. And I suppose probably the data for the modifications to become the K-Class." Fulcrum shrugs. "I don't know what else. It's not like I was really given that detailed of a tour and all."

"I, uh. I didn't mean--"

"I know," Fulcrum mutters. "You were just curious. Let's get this over with, okay?"

There's a hand that falls to Fulcrum's shoulder, nearly making the K-Con jump. There's a jerk and he finds himself looking at Krok, whose optics are narrowed again. Unwilling to put up more of a fight, Fulcrum just goes silent before he returns to leading.

The trek down the hallway is silent, save for their footsteps. It probably irritates Misfire, who has the zealous need to fill in everything with chatter, but right now it suits Fulcrum just fine. Not that he wants to remember this place, but he wants to be left alone to his own devices for the moment.

He remembers walking down this way for the first time when he'd been arrested. Sent away to his holding cell, to wait and wait and wait dreadfully until the day of his sorry excuse of a trial arrived. Waiting was terrible, the trial was worse, and everything that came after.

Though Fulcrum would prefer to press on, he pauses only see that Grimlock has completely stopped. He's staring into one of the display windows of the hallway. A clear view of one of the execution chambers. No entryway to it, just a visual.

"Grimlock?" Fulcrum calls for him, and he can't help but feel softer in a way for the Dynobot's behavior. When they had first found him, he was afraid of Grimlock -- hard not to be -- but things have changed over the course of time. And the way Grimlock specifically asked to come? He's still trying to understand that.

Eventually, the K-Con places a hand to Grimlock's arm.

The Dynobot peers down at him, then looks back out the window.

"That's where they killed everyone," Fulcrum says quietly. "Not... quickly. But eventually. When the order for the K-Class configuration came down, pushed the equipment back and made this area a place of instruction, supposedly. More like they wanted us to be grateful that the K-Class would be a cleaner death than what was originally in order for us."

"Torture," is all Grimlock has to say to that. Somehow, the word surprises Fulcrum, as if the way it's said seems personal. Intimate.

Then, Fulcrum nods slowly as he warily looks out the display window. "Yeah. It was."

Grimlock goes silent, peering out the window for a moment longer before he snorts. Eventually, he turns, looking down at Fulcrum. Maybe a silent indication to keep leading. It's hard to say, but Fulcrum doesn't entirely understand the Dynobot and he doubts anyone on the Weak Anthropic Principle really does, to be honest. Yet, he can't help but feel like there'd been something important that happened here for Grimlock. Something going on in his poor broken mind.

Gradually, Fulcrum turns to lead down the hallway again until it splits off. One way for the cells, the other for the execution chamber.

"So you get all nice when Grimlock gets nosy, but you throw a little fit when I ask questions," Misfire huffs.

Krok sighs, rubbing his helm. "Misfire," he says, tone guarded.

Fulcrum whirls around, peering at the jet. "Grimlock was just looking out the window!"

"Krok, there's a problem! Well, two problems," Crankcase hollers through the commlink.

"Please tell me it can wait," Krok grumbles as he glares at his present crewmembers.

"Not at all."

Misfire's wings twitch irritably. "All I did was ask you a question or two and you get all angry at me! But you go easy on the Autobot Dynobot. That's not really fair."

"Grimlock doesn't know any better!" Fulcrum snaps defensively. "And you do! You know what this place means to me."

"There was another shuttle. Not in the same landing bay as us, but we detected. It landed probably just an hour before us," Crankcase's voice sputters through.

"Knock it off, you two!" Krok orders.

Yet, it continues, with Misfire huffing, "Why would you even want to come back here, anyway? Wanna reminisce about the good ol' times, hmm?"

"Because I'm sick of being scared! All the time, at every little reminder!" Fulcrum argues back, completely ignoring Krok. "I told you about Barracks because I trust you. And now you're throwing this back in my face?!"

"Who is Barracks? And I swear to the Pit if you two don't--" Krok snarls.

"The other shuttle belongs to--" Crankcase tries to edge in.

Misfire throws his hands up in the air. "Trust me, do you? Is that why you're snapping at me ever since we got here?!"

"I thought you'd understand, but apparently Grimlock's picked up on that sentiment better than you!" Fulcrum hisses.

"Well, fine! You might as well just do this stupid masochistic little task on your own!"

"Maybe I will!" Blind rage and frustration fills Fulcrum as he heads further down the hallway towards the split-off.

"SHUT IT!" their commanding officer shouts at them.

Behind Fulcrum, blast doors slam closed, completely cutting him off from the others. Before he can help himself, tremors flow through Fulcrum's body, fear clenching around his spark as he turns and looks at the doors. A shaking hand presses against the door.

"Guys?" he whispers into the commlink. "Please. Please open it. I wasn't serious, please!"

"It--it wasn't us, pinhead," Misfire responds.

There's a steady roar from the other side of the door that even Fulcrum can hear. It belongs to Grimlock. The door shakes as the Dynobot slams into it, maybe trying to open it. It's hard to tell.

"Grimlock!" Fulcrum calls out. "G-get me out! Please!"

For all of the might the Dynobot has, it's not enough to force the door to open. Which makes sense, in retrospect. Why would it open? It was made to withstand even the toughest of Decepticon criminals of all sizes. Not just small, lanky, weak technicians, but powerful tank-based grunt soldiers who decided to go rogue. There's no way that Grimlock can open it.

Yet, the Autobot tries, all of his fury spilled onto the door. Fulcrum can faintly feel heat against it. Maybe Grimlock is trying to melt it, but he isn't successful.

Grimlock won't be able to get through. He won't be able to help Fulcrum.

"Stop. You can stop," Fulcrum mumbles into the commlink. "Grimlock..."

It's gradual, but he feels less pounding fury against the door.

A sigh breaks through the commlink. "Like I was trying to say, another shuttle landed here an hour ago. It belongs to one of the Raiders from Jennix Station. Soon as we found out, Spinister took off." Crankcase's tone is seething and impatient. "What the hell happened on your side?"

"A door shut, cutting us off from Fulcrum. Crankcase, we need you to direct us a way to open that door. Spinister, answer your fragging comm!" The utter fury in Krok's voice is not something that Fulcrum hopes to deal with anytime soon.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please-- please open it," Fulcrum sputters out, rambling, his voice hiccuping in fright. "Don't leave me here!"

"Shut up and listen to me, Fulcrum." The K-Con shuts his mouth obediently, trying to stifle any unwanted noises that would indicate how scared he is. "We'll get you out of there. But you need to be patient. Hide, if you have to. But I'm not going to leave you behind. Understand?"

Fulcrum feels like collapsing into a heap, no matter how pathetic that notion is. Pressing his forehead against the door, he exhales sharply before he forces a word out, "Okay."

"Can't Fulcrum just, you know, hijack the door like before?" Misfire mentions.

A small bitter laugh escapes from Fulcrum. "There's no control panel nearby this door. It's meant to shut prisoners inside, Misfire."

"Oh... Um. For the record, I. I'm really sorry. For being a twit," Misfire offers quietly.

"I was an idiot, too," Fulcrum mumbles miserably.

"You both were. Believe me, you'll make up for it later. Crankcase, guide us," Krok commands.

There's a grumble from the mechanic. "Hold on, I'm opening up the map."

"And Spinister, answer already!"

As the silence settles in, it gradually starts to strike Fulcrum as strange that Spinister simply won't respond. Granted, he can be violence-prone and he seems to be somewhat single-minded about the Raiders, but he never disobeys Krok. He listens to him. So why is Spinister so quiet?

The commlink sputters with static suddenly. Fulcrum winces, peering down reluctantly at his wrist, then he feels an awful shiver through his plating as he listens to an incredibly familiar chuckle, deep and yet off-kilter. He forgets to cycle his vents.

"Please tell me you're going to run, Fulcrum," Barracks whispers into their communications.

A strangled sounding shriek escapes from the K-Con as he finds himself taking off blindly down the hallway.

-=-=-

"Fulcrum! Answer me!" Krok demands through his commlink. Behind him, Misfire paces in a small circle nervously while Grimlock gives a groan of confusion over the entire matter. "Fulcrum!!"

"I'm not terribly interested in the rest of you, but if you get in the way, you'll die."

"When I find you, you'll die," Krok promises coldly.

All he receives in response is a burst of static. Presumably, it was the Raider who owns that shuttle that Crankcase had discovered. So one shuttle belonged to some Autobot, then another to a Raider. Are they at all connected? Either way, Krok would be fine about killing both of them for this trouble!

Misfire rushes up to Krok, wings trembling in a panic. "I can't tell you possibly how terrible this is! On a scale from one to ten, this is off the scale right into the Pit full of horrible and awful and whosits and whatsits! Krok, what do we do?"

"Settle," the historian instructs him sternly. "And listen to me. Grimlock, follow me as much as you can. There's no control panel for this door, which means we need to find a way to disconnect the power for most of the section for the cells and the execution chambers. Crankcase could guide us, in theory."

"But the Raider can hear us," Misfire adds warily.

Krok nods slowly. "With that in mind, Crankcase could try to give us the directions anyway, or more likely we'll have to do it on our own. Misfire, tell me about this Raider. Now."

"I, um. I don't know much," Misfire admits. "He used to be a guard here? Fulcrum knew him. Then we ran into him during the raiding party on Jennix Station. He was after Fulcrum then. I seriously don't know anything else other than that."

"It's safe to say that he's interested in harming him and that's enough to know." Krok folds his arms. "Spinister's also out there and silent."

"So...? What, we just try to run around blindly? We don't know where anything is here!"

Krok peers at him. "It stands to reason that we can find information probably in the archives section. So, that's where we're headed." Bringing up his wrist, he speaks warily though the commlink. "Crankcase, forget all of my orders. No arguing. Don't reply. Krok, out."

This isn't a simple matter for him, to keep a cool head. It bothered him enough to split up upon arriving here, in an abandoned prison, but now it's gotten incredibly worse. Spinister is out there, somewhere, being uncharacteristically quiet. Which means he's in trouble. Crankase is on his own, and Fulcrum is being chased around by an old foe who means to do him harm. Rage boils inside his tanks, but Krok does his best to keep calm.

Anything else will just get his unit killed. He can't bear to let that happen.

Clenching his fists, he sets off to backtrack, glancing briefly over his shoulders to make sure that both Grimlock and Misfire are following. They are, though each of them occasionally look reluctantly back at the blast doors. He isn't a fool and it's his business to know what his crew is up to; Krok is well aware of how fond of the K-Con each of them are, in their own ways. Misfire and Grimlock are no exception. Hell, despite the trouble Fulcrum can occasionally cause them, none of them are innocent of that trait.

He's part of the unit. Krok won't let him go.

Warily, Krok squints as they make their way into the archives. All of the computers are humming, alive and functional. Frankly, the fact that electricity is running at all in this place seems strange to him, considering it had been abandoned some years ago.

Which means, someone went out of their way to power everything on.

"Misfire, help me try to find anything that might help us figure out how to open those doors. Grimlock, just..." Krok peers up at the Dynobot. "Just stay put."

There's a dissatisfied snort from the Autobot. The apparent recovering intelligence from Grimlock does not thrill Krok in the least.

The war historian pulls up a chair and settles in front of one of the consoles. It seems to have been recently used, Krok realizes. From the way it reacts as he begins his searches, he can determine a search history from the previous user.

Most of them on the K-Class. Who the hell was looking up data on the K-Class? If Misfire's right about Barracks, there's no need; he was a guard here at Styx. He has no reason to want to know anything about the K-Class because he already knows. So why the interest?

"Oh, so that's what he looked like."

Krok turns his head to peer at Misfire, who sounds interested in whatever he's looking at. He peers up at the screen, and it looks like a screen of data on Fulcrum. General stats, previous military positions he held, primary function, reason for conviction, his death sentence, and a picture of him. Pre-modification. It's not hard to recognize him; the chin stands out, and Krok has, technically, seen Fulcrum in his previous body before when they were dealing with the Cerebnum.

"I told you to try to find information on getting the doors open," Krok reminds him, trying to not let his annoyance filter into his tone.

"I am! Honest!" Alarmed, Misfire's wings twitch and he waves his hands. "I thought, maybe, if we did a search, we could figure out where Fulcrum could end up here or something on Barracks or whatever."

Absently, Krok rubs the front of his helm. "By doing a search on Fulcrum."

"It was a perfectly logical line of thinking, I'll have you know." Misfire huffs. "He was sort of colorful, wasn't he? For a Decepticon, I mean."

"Focus."

"Fine, fine."

It's not hard to find a map of the complex they're currently in, and that helps immensely, at least. As Krok peers up at the screen, he tries to not let himself be distracted with the fact that Misfire is looking up information on their lost K-Classer. It's not that Krok isn't curious; he inherently is when it comes to his unit. However, he also understands when something is private, to be respected and not investigated. He doesn't need to know all of the details about the horrible things that have happened to everyone, because it inevitably has happened in this crew. Hell, he suspects that includes Grimlock, who he shouldn't feel sorry for in the least.

Krok peers over the map in front of him, following where the main power is located. That's an alternative, but he's more interested in finding the access codes.

In the next moment, he regrets trusting Misfire's ability to focus, because he doesn't always. The jet is clever and more intelligent than he lets on, but he can be single-minded in the worst of ways and often very flighty.

This, he realizes, because suddenly the speakers are blaring with awful noise of something previously recorded: an all-too-familiar whimper, and what sounds like drills whirring through metal and liquid.

Krok can't help but look up.

The traitor's wheel, with enormous drills turning inside of the palms and feet of its victim as they are so slowly torn limb from limb. It's not so hard to figure out what the video is of, who is supposed to be executed.

"How long until his spark gives out?"

"This guy? I'm thinking just a day. Most of 'em last at least a few days, but--"

"Misfire," Krok growls.

"I didn't think--" Misfire starts.

The whirring grows louder, and the screaming starts. It's an awful series of reactions thereafter. Misfire sputters and scrambles to turn it off, all the while it somehow triggers Grimlock into letting out a thunderous snarl of rage before running off. Cursing under a vent of air, Krok shoves Misfire away from the console.

"Stop," Krok orders, "and go after Grimlock!"

"I. Uh." Misfire's wings flick. "Right, I'm on it!"

Trying to not let seething anger take over his entire processor, Krok scowls as he watches the jet take off after Grimlock, calling after the Dynobot. Despite being flawed in the ways of focusing on particular tasks, Misfire and Fulcrum perform well enough in regards to getting the Autobot to listen to them. He'll have to trust that Misfire will be successful.

He lets out steady air from his vents, then glances at the data that Misfire's pulled up on their missing technician. Krok pauses, then considers.

He considers what he should do with the open data.

-=-=-

This is the exact opposite of everything he'd been hoping for by coming here.

Panic screams throughout Fulcrum's entire body as he runs through the complex. He doesn't pay much attention as to where he's going, not as long as he can get to somewhere that's a good hiding place. Somewhere that can get him as far as he can from Barracks. Fear makes it feel like there's a clenching sensation around his spark, and he nearly stumbles as he keeps running, and running, and running.

Memories bite at the back of his mind and he tries his best to not recall his stay at Styx. The guards had always been unbearable. Most of them sneered and taunted him amongst the other prisoners. Some would go out of their way to make it worse. The most prominent he can recall amongst them had been Barracks. Nothing but a psychopathic bully, one of the best examples he can think of that he'd personally experienced of the deranged side of the Decepticon military. Fulcrum, a technician who'd been convicted of cowardice, was the traitor while Barracks, a violent sadistic guard of Styx, was never charged of a single thing.

Just doing his job.

Fulcrum slows himself down, and he steps in a nervous circle, turning and trying to figure out where he is. This, this is where the modifications happened for the K-Class. For all of the prisoners.

Cycling his vents quickly, Fulcrum backs up slowly until the back of his thighs bump against the edge of one of the berths. He tries to not stare too long, his optics darting around the room that had changed his entire body. Somewhere on the floor are scattered remains of a former life for him, amongst others who had been modified.

He tries to not think about it.

Abruptly, he hears transformation sounds right behind him, and he feels the berth pull away. Alarmed, Fulcrum starts to try to turn around, but a hand slams over his mouth and a strong arm wraps around his midsection. He screams, his voice completely muffled by the hand. Frantically, he kicks and struggles, trying to throw off the superior weight and strength.

"Don't move, K-Con." The voice by his audial is cold-sounding, tired. Not Barracks, but still familiar and that's definitely a bad thing!

He tries to kick and struggle, but he's firmly pinned by the larger mech's grip. There's the sound of something whirring behind him, and slowly coming into view is a buzzsaw on some sort of mechanical arm extension, turning and inching towards his face. Fulcrum shrieks against the palm over his mouth, trying to beg for his life.

"I'll be right there, Fulcrum," Barracks promises through his commlink, and his body trembles as he feels a pleading, shameful sob break cry out agianst the hand.

The buzzsaw stops, then slowly withdraws. "Fulcrum?"

Suddenly Fulcrum is being released and he nearly trips over his own feet as he scrambles away, turning around to face his attacker. Then, he just stares in confusion. "Gladbag?"

That's where he's heard the voice before. The one Autobot that they had let go in the attack from Blithe not that long ago. The Autobot medic peers down at Fulcrum, his bland looking optics narrowed slightly. He remembers how unremarkable Gladbag's paintjob had been, all graytone, and it seems like that hasn't changed. Somehow he'd missed it when they first met -- then again, Fulcrum was busy trying to not die and not let Misfire die at the time -- but there's a third arm on Gladbag's back, ending in a buzzsaw. It slowly withdraws, snapping back into some sort of location on the Autobot's back.

What has changed is that his Autobot badge is missing.

Not that Fulcrum cares too much at the moment.

"What-- what the hell are you doing here?" Fulcrum stammers out.

"Am I not free to go where I choose?" Gladbag folds his arms. "And what about you?"

"Right now?" Fulcrum gives a humorless laugh. "I'm trying to run away right now!"

"Wasn't one of your crewmates coming for you?"

"That wasn't-- that is definitely not one of them!" Fulcrum glances around nervously. "Look, this is bad for you and me both. There's an ex-Decepticon looking for me and I'm pretty sure he isn't going to have any problem looking to kill you when he does!"

There's a brief pause as Gladbag continues to stare down at Fulcrum, processing that data, then he nods. "Then I understand. If we cross paths, he would immediately become my problem. I'll help you escape from him, but then you'll have to answer my questions."

"I... look, whatever! Fine! Just help me get away from him."

"Do exactly as I say, and I will." Taking a step back, Gladbag's plating shifts as he transforms. Thinking back, Fulcrum had assumed that he was a groundpounder of some kind, but apparently, this medic's alt-mode is...

"A berth?" Fulcrum sputters out.

"Autopsy table," Gladbag clarifies with a weary sigh. Well, that doesn't sound terrifying!

"How do you get anywhere?"

"How do you?"

Fulcrum squints at him. "...Touché."

"Now lay down on me."

"Excuse me?" This is quickly sounding like a bad idea.

"Fulcrum, lay down on your back on top of me. Hurry."

There's a hesitant look as the K-Con peers down at the table in front of him. He might not have much time, though. Not from the way Barracks made his approach sound so definite. With a defeated slump of his posture, he slowly crawls on top of the table, turning to lay down onto his back. As he settles his weight, cuffs abruptly snap close over his wrists and ankles, trapping Fulcrum on top of Gladbag.

"Wh-what?! Let me go!" Panicking, Fulcrum starts to struggle, hyperventing air in and out.

"I know this is hard, but please try to trust me."

He almost yells at Gladbag to let him go, but he stops when he feels it. There's a tremor under him, as if something big and heavy is approaching. That's one of two possible people, and he doubts it's Grimlock.

Fulcrum tries to stifle his whimper. He fails.

Slowly stepping through one of the doors is him. All too familiar. Too damned big, with his shoulders nearly scraping against the doorframe. Little has changed about his appearance other than more scrapes and scars than before -- some of them oddly fresh -- as well as the giant gash across his Decepticon emblem, signifying his place as a Raider. Otherwise? Otherwise, not much is different about him. The treads on Barracks' back turning slightly, as if his interest is piqued. Uncomfortably, their optics meet as Barracks steps inside. Yellow glows in fear, red shines fiercely in amusement, and he wears a familiar grin.

Dangling in his hand is an arm, dripping with freshly spilt energon. It occurs to Fulcrum very quickly who it belongs to, and how Barracks managed to speak to them through the commlinks.

"Where's Spinister?" Fulcrum tries his best to sound brave. He knows he doesn't, but he abruptly feels more frightened about the fate of the surgeon than being trapped to Barracks' violent whims.

Barracks rolls back his enormous shoulders. "Somewhere. I didn't really keep track of him. Really, though, I'm surprised to see you like this. Thrilled! But surprised. What, did the rest of the crew leave you like this?"

"No!" he answers angrily. "They're not like you."

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter. Does it?" Barracks approaches him, the smile eerily growing wider. "No one is going to be able to find you."

Suddenly, the cuffs around Fulcrum's limbs release and he finds himself tumbling to the floor as he's shoved away. He can hear Gladbag transforming, and he rolls over onto his back to see the Autobot leaping at Barracks. The ex-guard of Styx stumbles back, looking mostly shocked as Gladbag tries to tackle him, although it just ends up being strange to see the medic grabbing onto the larger tank's shoulders and treads. The buzzsaw arm extends out and jams into Barracks' face.

There's a furious and pained snarl from the tank, and he thrashes about, stomping in the room. Fulcrum lets out a short, frightened shriek and manages to get out of the way. Finally, Barracks throws Gladbag off, and Fulcrum watches as the Autobot tumbles across the floor.

"C-C'mon!" Not about to ditch his only line of defense against Barracks, Fulcrum reaches Gladbag, trying to pull him up. "Get up!"

There's a low, enraged roar of Barracks' engine, and Fulcrum stares up, gaping as he feels himself tremble in fear. Where the buzzsaw landed, it's left a giant wound on Barracks' face, from the edge of his left optic down to his jaw. It gushes with energon, and it looks positively painful. Not that Fulcrum has any sympathy for him, but it's hardly enough to stop the tank.

"Fulcrum," the tank says, glaring.

Quickly, Fulcrum finds himself being scooped up under Gladbag's arm as the Autobot leaps out from the room. Although a bit slower than the medic, Barracks' angry charge can be seen and heard.

"Not exactly as I hoped things would go," Gladbag admits under a huff of air. "Bear with me."

"Like I have a choice!"

Gladbag runs and continues to carry Fulcrum under his arm, eventually stopping as they cross another set of blast doors. Roughly, Fulcrum is deposited back to his feet, and he watches the Autobot open his wrist, inputting a code.

Blast doors slam closed in front of them, cutting Barracks off from them.

"Did you-- did you close these before? Back by the entrance to the execution chamber and cells," Fulcrum asks, looking at Gladbag suspiciously.

Gladbag frowns and shakes his head. "No. I only downloaded the access codes for this complex just in case I needed to open anything."

"Then that means..." Barracks. Barracks definitely still has access to Styx. Fulcrum curses and scrapes his fingers over the wall by the blast doors. "These won't hold! He was a guard here. He can get in!"

"Oh." That's hell of a muted response to a really, really bad situation. Either way, Gladbag is peering over him as Fulcrum tries to dig his fingers into the door. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if there's a loose panel! If I can hardwire the door, I can keep it closed!"

"Ah." A firm hand goes to Fulcrum's shoulder, pulling him back. "Allow me to help."

The third arm on Gladbag's back extends out, the buzzsaw whirling again. It flicks specks of energon from his earlier attack on Barracks, the blade digging into the wall. Eventually, enough comes apart before Gladbag tears off a piece of the wall, exposing the wires and cables inside.

Just as Fulcrum reaches inside, he struggles to ignore the grating voice on his commlink. "That won't help you, Fulcrum. I'm coming inside," Barracks informs him.

He focuses inside, rearranging the wires, trying to not let panic prevent him from working. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispers to himself.

"Don't you lay a hand on him," Krok growls.

Hearing the voice of his commanding officer surprises him, more than it should. As a tactician, Fulcrum assumes that Krok would have kept dead air on his side, but it seems like Krok's attachment to his crew wins over his military function.

"Who's going to stop me? Your pathetic little crew? I told you to leave, genericon."

"I think I got it," Fulcrum whispers, pulling his hands from the wall.

There's a moment of terrifying silence. Fulcrum is frozen in his footsteps as he stares at the blaster doors, halfway expecting them to open with Barracks looming over him. It never happens, though; the doors remain shut.

Then, there's a snarl over the commlink, "That won't help you. It's only a matter of time. I'll find a way to you."

Slowly, Fulcrum backs away from the door.

"I know where you are. I'll know how to find you. I found you at the station, and I found you here."

"Krok," Fulcrum whispers nervously to his commlink.

"We're going to get you, and we're going to leave," Krok promises.

"He has Spinister's arm," Fulcrum informs him, voice trembling. "I think Spin's in trouble."

A soft curse is heard on the other side of the broadcast. "Just stay safe."

With a soft exhale, Fulcrum is met with silence again. Slowly, he wraps his arms around himself. A part of him feels like just collapsing and waiting for Krok and the others, but he can't stand that idea either. It's his fault -- again -- that they're in such a bad mess. While Barracks isn't quite as bad as the D.J.D., Fulcrum doesn't think he could ever forgive himself if Spinister is dead because of him. At times, he still finds himself regretting what happened with Flywheels, and he'd hardly spent much time with the religious mech.

Gladbag is settling his hands to Fulcrum's shoulders, turning him and walking him towards a wall. He doesn't fight him off, and just lets the medic force him to sit down. However, when he feels the Autobot's fingers digging slightly into his back, Fulcrum squirms a little.

"What the hell are you doing?" Fulcrum snaps irritably.

"Hold still," Gladbag advices, his tone distant. "It appears that your foe is able to find you almost effortlessly, if I heard him right."

Barracks, able to locate him. From Jennix Station to here, and he was able to find Fulcrum in a matter of minutes. He was able to cut him off from Krok and the others.

"He bugged me," Fulcrum concludes, feeling entirely disturbed.

Fingers continue to dig under his plating uncomfortably, but he tries to convince himself that he can trust Gladbag. So he tries to not struggle, sitting tight as the Autobot attempts to locate the tracking device that Barracks must has placed on him.

"So..." Fulcrum peers over his shoulder.

"Stay still," Gladbag repeats, tone bland.

Fulcrum frowns at him. "Have you been here the whole time since that thing with Blithe?"

"More or less. I considered what to do with myself in a post-war life, and I had no answers. I hoped to find them here, actually."

"Uh." That's weird. "Why would an Autobot come to Styx?"

"Why would you?" Gladbag asks, his voice becoming a little more cold. "If I understand the archives correctly, very few of the K-Class were reconfigured willingly. What could you hope to find here, Fulcrum?"

"Closure, I guess."

"And that's what I'm looking for as well." There's a pause, then a weary sigh. "I was at Clemency, all those years ago. Not to do battle, although I've done my fair share of fighting. I was helping the medics at that time. All of the Autobots' best and brightest surgeons. I asked myself constantly what the point of it all was. We were nothing but numbers, all of us. Decepticon and Autobot alike. Our names, our faces, our alt-modes -- none of it mattered. We became nothing in that span of time, and all that separated anything was who was dead and who was alive."

As he listens, Fulcrum remembers how Krok explained it. How many of the planets had turned out that way, during that point of the war. Where the commanders of the Autobots and Decepticons were calculating and feeding orders. Optimus Prime and Megatron trying to out manoeuver each other.

"When the K-Class first dropped, I watched thousands of Decepticons explode all around us, and thousands of Autobots die." Gladbag finally pulls his hands away. "While I counted the dead before we left Clemency, I realized a bit of me died on that planet as well."

It explains a bit, actually, as to why Gladbag had so quickly recognized his frametype when Blithe and his Autobots invaded the Weak Anthropic Principle.

"I still don't really get why you're here," Fulcrum admits. "What, are you mad at the K-Class?"

"No," Gladbag responds, leaning over and offering the tracking device to Fulcrum. "I guess I wasn't sure what else to do. I've spent most of the war collecting the dead. Clemency had been the last straw for me. I suppose I hoped that by coming here, I might find something to remind me why I had even taken part in the war."

That's a sentiment that Fulcrum can relate to. Somewhere, along the way, his resolve and his stance in the Decepticons whittled and nearly expired, especially after his conviction and forced modification. It was the scavengers that inspired him again and revived his belief. Gladbag, however, did not have that benefit, and had no qualms about leaving behind his insane, violent crew to Krok and the others.

Something stuck out to him.

"Uh, collecting the dead?" Fulcrum peers at him.

"I'm a pathologist. I did say that I turned into an autopsy table, did I not?"

Oh. Oh, gross, Fulcrum laid down on top of him and he bets that's where all of the autopsies that Gladbag had ever done were and ew ew ew.

"I kinda assumed you were a medic?" Fulcrum offers.

Gladbag shrugs. "Well. I'm not. I've spent nearly my entire life around dead bodies."

"Um. Yikes." Okay then. Talk about depressing. Fulcrum turns his gaze down to the tracking device. Frankly, he's kind of sorry he even asked.

"Why is that tank after you?"

Fulcrum debates informing him of anything. On one hand? Gladbag was part of a crew that had been set out to probably kill him and the others in likely very terrible ways. On the other hand, Gladbag ditched them and has been fairly helpful for the most part. Even if he's scared Fulcrum out of his wits at least twice so far.

Relenting, Fulcrum gives in. He debates destroying the device in his hand, but he holds that off for now.

"I don't know how familiar you made yourself with the trial system here," Fulcrum starts warily.

"I skimmed the database," Gladbag admits. "Most of them went the same way, no matter the crime. The individual is arrested, then placed into holding until his trial. This could take several weeks to months. Perhaps even years, depending on how many were arrested. The trial system often would include torture until admittance to said crime, pleading guilty. The conviction would then take place, and the convict would be sentenced to death. Method of death would vary, anywhere from slow devouring from scraplets to bleeding out to--"

"Thank you! Thank you for the morbid retelling." Fulcrum winces. "Anyway. During my time here, most of the guards were the same. Bullies, most of the time. Some were worse than others. Barracks was one of the worst. I spent almost an entire year waiting for my trial, and I was often moved from cell to cell, being juggled around to make space for other prisoners. Barracks almost always escorted me and he wasn't exactly polite about it. That's... that's the one who's chasing us."

"I don't need to know more." Gladbag folds his arms. "I suspect he isn't much improved from Blithe and his hobbies."

"No. Not really."

"I don't have much to give, but whatever I have left of them, you have my sympathies."

It isn't much, but it's something. Fulcrum isn't sure he much cares for the fact that the Autobot feels sorry for him -- it's a bit irritating, really -- but he just sighs and looks down at the tracking device in his hands. They can't stay here, that's the bottom line.

"What do you intend to do with that?" Gladbag asks, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Gonna hang onto it until I can figure out what to do about Barracks." Fulcrum stands up. "For now, I need to find a way back to Krok and the others. Would you help me?"

There's a pause as the undertaker considers, then his blue optics dim before he nods. "I'll do what I can. I'd rather find answers in peace, after all."

"Fair enough." Fulcrum rubs the front of his helm. "But as far as I know, I blocked off our only way to get out of this sector. If we try to open the door, Barracks is gonna be there."

"Hiding is perhaps a viable option," Gladbag offers, shrugging.

Briefly, Fulcrum sincerely considers it. Then he exhales and shakes his head. No. He came here to try to put things to rest, to stop being as frightened as he is. As tempting as hiding is, he needs to fix this. He's put everyone else in danger, again. Fulcrum needs to fix it himself.

"No," he murmurs, his voice tiny. "I... I need tools. That's what I need."

Gladbag tilts his head, then turns his head. "The execution chamber is your best bet."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

-=-=-

All of the access codes have been downloaded directly into his core processor. Pinched between two fingers is a data slug. It doesn't have much space to offer, but it contains enough.

Krok peers at the consoles, optics narrowed. Then he takes out his gun; he points and fires at all of the screens and keyboards.

"Just in case," he mutters to himself.

Carefully, he slides the data slug into his arm, hidden away and secure. He peers his head out from the archives room, glancing around. Misfire hasn't returned yet with Grimlock, and he can see why; the hallway is absolutely tarnished from undoubtedly a Dynobot stampede of some kind. All things considered, Grimlock has been relatively tame until now, and considering the warrior's history he didn't anticipate such a reaction. Maybe it was the content of the video, maybe not. Either way, Krok isn't going to spend his time speculating.

No. Right now, he needs to get his crew back together.

Fulcrum is still alive despite being hunted down by a Raider. Spinister is out there, armless. Misfire is trying to calm down an infuriated Dynobot. Crankcase has been left to his own devices. There's still an Autobot to account for in the mess of this as well.

Not a good day.

With a determined pace in his step, Krok starts his trek down the hall after Misfire and Grimlock. Time to get his unit back together again.

It's hard to resist calling them and making sure that everyone is still alive. It's harder to resist a bit of panic. Krok is not comfortable with how split up they are with blockades and enemies around.

The hallway is twisted in some ways, as if Grimlock couldn't decide how exactly to mark his rage. There are claw marks scraping up the floor and patches of scorched metal to show where he had breathed fire. Then there are dents to show his fury while in root mode, and the pattern continues in that way.

Must have been a hell of a thing for Misfire to follow.

Krok comes across the display window for the execution chamber again, peering out into it briefly. Something was different--

Oh. Pit.

There's a trail of energon leading up to an injured mech, and he can see Spinister struggling to stand. Optics are flickering, clearly trying to remain online. Krok is doubtful that it's due to a missing limb -- they've all had worse -- but rather due to depleted energon.

"Spinister!" Krok can't just pass on and keep working to get to everyone. He can't help but find himself hitting the glass, hoping the surgeon can hear him thumping for his attention.

It works. Spinister is good at noticing noises. He turns his head, at first with anger at the sound disturbing him, then immediately relaxes at the sight of his commanding officer.

Krok presses his hand flat against the glass, fighting off any feeling of desperation. He wishes he could just break open the glass and get to his medic, but that isn't possible; the glass is far too durable. As much as he hates it, Spinister has to wait.

"I'm coming to get you," Krok promises, regardless of whether or not Spinister can hear him.

As if things weren't already urgent, Krok finds himself running down the hallway.

The walls almost tremble as he can hear Grimlock roar in the distance.

-=-=-

Warily, Fulcrum glances over his shoulder. That's a noise that he recognizes easily.

"Grimlock?" he murmurs. Honestly, Fulcrum can't help but worry, even though he probably has nothing to fear when it comes to the Dynobot's safety. He's durable, large, and strong. There's no way Barracks would stand a chance against him. But in a lot of ways, he can't help but fret a little over Grimlock. It's complicated.

Still, he wonders why Grimlock asked to come with him. Because he was also worried? Or something else? It just seemed strange that Grimlock had enough self-awareness to ask to do something like that. Fulcrum isn't really sure what to make it of that. On one hand, Grimlock's brain damage makes it easy enough to be around him. He's docile, a little more intelligent than animal in most occasions. On the other hand? Fulcrum can't help but pity the poor Autobot and wonder if there's something he could do to improve his mental state.

Which is a dangerous thought. Fulcrum suspects that, unfortunately, if Grimlock ever went back to normal? He'd probably just kill all of them.

Yet, here he is silently worrying about the Dynobot like he's some big dumb newly sparked Cybertronian. Sheesh.

"I still don't know what to make of him being on your ship." Gladbag raises an optical ridge. "Though I suppose it's none of my business."

"It's not," Fulcrum tells him firmly.

The pathologist shrugs, acknowledging the statement and insisting nothing else.

Each step that they take through the complex is still filled with dread every movement Fulcrum takes. Clutched in his hand is still the tracking device, knowing that it's still signalling off to Barracks. He wants to crush it, but he can't yet. Not yet.

A hand goes to Fulcrum's chest, Gladbag silently signalling him to go still. He turns to a small storage closet, entering a code before it slides open; the Autobot nods to the closet.

"Most of it's full of tools meant for torture, considering their design or remodification, but I suspect whatever it is that you're looking to do might be in here." Gladbag gestures vaguely to the closet before stepping back.

Warily, Fulcrum approaches it, glancing inside. Set up along shelves and drawers are a series of equipment. Most of it is rusted over, splattered with old, dried energon. A brief shudder moves through his body as he remembers too well about the other executions. At times, other prisoners would be forced to watch.

To remind them. To know what to expect.

He tries to steel himself, reaching in and taking what he needs with quivering hands. When he's done, he backs away, as if the closet had bitten him.

Squinting down at the K-Con, Gladbag remarks, "You have... a condenser and a solderer."

"It's enough." Fulcrum tips his head down as he starts to focus on the tracking device in his hand, starting to pry it open as gently as he can with the end of the condenser. "We're still stuck, though. And I-I expect that Barracks will find a way to get to us."

"I suggest we find a way to make a stand, then. Two against one should be doable."

There's a soft snort from Fulcrum. "Did you not ever take note of what kind of person I am?"

"I watched you stand up to Blithe and the others on your ship when it was invaded." Gladbag shrugs. "No. I don't know you well, K-Con, but I know enough."

"He was strong enough to tear off Spinister's arm and ditch him. Spinister did some damage, but not much. And his face is all fragged up, which at least might mean his sight isn't great." Fulcrum sighs as he considers. "We could probably hold him off until the others finally catch up with us somehow."

Not that it feels like a very intelligent plan at all. Fulcrum doesn't feel strong or fearless; he feels just as cowardly as ever. If it came down to his life or Gladbag's, he feels like he would probably leave the Autobot behind. Though if it was Krok or Misfire or... or any of the others, that would be different, he supposes. They are what make him feel brave.

But he has no other choice. They need to find a way to protect themselves.

With great reluctance, Fulcrum finds that they both are stepping into the main execution chamber. As Gladbag walks just a bit ahead of him, it allows Fulcrum to bear witness to what happens next: a dark colored mech slams his entire body weight into the pathologist, knocking him to the floor. What allows him to be quickly recognizable is the rotor on his back and the missing arm.

"Spinister!" Fulcrum calls out, optics wide.

Medic and undertaker wrestle on the floor for a moment, Spinister's engine snarling loudly while Gladbag narrows his optics. Slipping out from his back is the third arm, buzzsaw whirling in threat as it aims for Spinister's neck, and the sharp edge of the surgeon's rotor is starting to come down for Gladbag's face.

"Don't hurt him!"

Spinister looks up at the K-Con, frowning. The buzzsaw just stops short of his neck, its rotations slowing. Pulling his body weight back, Spinister slumps onto the floor on his aft, grunting.

After sighing in relief, Fulcrum goes to Spinister's side. "You're still leaking from your arm."

"Was looking for you guys, but I got all turned around." Spinister peers over Fulcrum, glaring at Gladbag. "That guy's face looks kinda familiar."

"Look, don't worry about that right now, Spin." Fulcrum rests a hand to the medic's shoulder. "Gladbag, can you fix him?"

"I'm not much of a doctor," Gladbag advises warily. "I should be able to stop the leak, though."

"That's all that I'm asking for." The K-Con lightly taps Spinister's shoulder for his attention. "Look, Spin. Listen to me carefully. Unless he attacks you, don't hurt Gladbag. Okay? I'm going to try to find Krok and everyone else."

There's almost a dubious look from Spinister, though for what reason Fulcrum can't decide. There are times he's genuinely terrified of the trigger happy surgeon, but he's fixed up Fulcrum more than once. That and he feels like they, unfortunately, probably have a few things in common, considering the Raiders. Regardless, he isn't sure how to determine the gaze Spinister is giving him.

Eventually, there's a nod. "Yeah, okay. Can you try to get my arm back, too? It's a pretty good arm and I won't be able to make one like it."

"Sure. Sure, I'll try." Fulcrum smiles hesitantly. "Hang in there, Spin."

As he stands up, Gladbag carefully kneels down by Spinister. The Autobot looks at the tracking device in Fulcrum's hand, then up to lock his optics with the K-Classer. "Are you certain that this is what you want to do?"

Slowly, Fulcrum nods. "Spinister needs the help and I'm not qualified for it. Besides, if I stay..."

There's a pause, then Gladbag nods once. "I understand. I'll try to make sure we stay out of the way, then."

All that Fulcrum feels that he can say is, "Yep."

What else is there to say? It's better if Spinister is out of the way of Barracks' path. It's better if all of them stay out of it.

Primus knows Fulcrum's brought enough complications to the scavengers. Between this and the Decepticon Justice Division? Pit, he actually feels guilty.

And mostly? Mostly, he'd just like to stay and hide behind both of them, for all of the good it would do him. Instead, his body trembles as he turns away from both of them. Pacing himself, he steps away, heading further into the execution chamber. He tries his best to just focus on the tracking device on his hand, still working away on it with the meager tools he has.

It always seemed enormous then while he was still a prisoner, and it still seems large now. Fulcrum remembers what it was like before the order came in for the K-Class. Prior to his sentence, he'd been pulled over into the chamber, forced to watch one of the other prisoners be executed. Watched him slowly smelt to death, his plating melt away, and gurgled screaming. Fulcrum had purged his tanks then.

The guards laughed. Barracks just smiled.

Eventually, his own sentence came in. The traitor's wheel.

At each continued step, Fulcrum's feet start to feel heavier and heavier. A stifled whimper is choked down and he knows what to anticipate as he enters the next room.

For Fulcrum's execution, it was in a confined room, because he hated confined spaces anyway. He'd screamed at first, and it had been a source of entertainment for the guards of Styx. To them, it had been a reward when the shrieks broke away into pleading sobs and pained moans.

Fulcrum tries to not look at it, still propped up and abandoned. Instead, he looks around in the room, trying to determine what to do. On the ceiling is a ventilation shaft, and below that...

Below that is the traitor's wheel. Rusted over, still stained with his energon. The spikes are still attached to it, and he remembers how they turned and turned to gradually pull him apart. Down below, there was a drain for his bleeding energon and the previous prisoners that were executed before he was supposed to be.

Fulcrum forgets about the device in his hands and feels himself shaking.

"You had a better paint job then."

The only thing that Fulcrum feels proud of is that he doesn't scream. He immediately whirls around to try to run out the way he came, but the door slams shut. It locks immediately.

He stands frozen for a moment as he stares helplessly at the locked door. Fulcrum debates shouting for Spinister and Gladbag for help.

Instead, he looks over his shoulder, looking at the looming Raider standing in the room with him. The enormous gaping wound in Barracks' face is still drooling with energon, running down his face, but Barracks doesn't react to it, not voluntarily. There are small spasms and flinches, but otherwise, he acts as if there is nothing wrong. Not in the least.

"The door was locked," Fulcrum manages say, in reference the wiring he'd done.

Barracks snorts a little. "You don't think Styx had a series of emergency doors? We were dealing with traitors, after all. Not all of them were weak, like you."

Traitors. The irony doesn't escape Fulcrum. He himself still wears the symbol proudly, yet Barracks abandoned it, trading it in for a life of pirating and pillaging the weak. It's true to his personality.

For just a brief moment, they stare at each other. Fulcrum is cornered, Barracks smugly knows it, and he has nothing he can do.

So it seems.

Fulcrum lunges forward, dashing to try to make it to the traitor's wheel. Although big and powerful, Barracks is not quick and that's what Fulcrum is counting on; he manages to evade the tank's grab, scrambling up the side of the torturous execution device. Using the spikes as leverage, he grabs for the ventilation shaft, tearing off the grate. Once he snags onto the edge of the shaft, he feels a hand grab onto his ankle.

Now he lets out a shriek of surprise, his other foot kicking out as he tries to get away. He looks down, seeing Barracks' face formed with a broad smile of satisfaction. There's no way that he can fight off the tank's strength, and he gives a panicked yelp as he's yanked down further, too close! Fulcrum struggles, his throat clenching up and being the only reason why he doesn't scream as he's pulled down from the shaft.

Barracks laughs.

"Get off of me!" Fulcrum shouts, his tone struggling to find some balance between the fear claiming his sensors and attempting to sound fierce. Whipping around, he slaps the tracking device onto Barracks' arm.

It'd been reworked but incomplete. He is a technician and no matter the reconfiguration he still always will be, his curious mind finding ways to reprogram and repurpose material. It's what he was doing as project manager, and it's what he'd done now. Fulcrum watches as Barracks bellows in pain, an electrical shock coursing through his body. It'll be a brief explosion of volts, but it's enough that Barracks has let go of him, as well as Spinister's severed arm.

He clutches the limb immediately, stumbling to scale the traitor's wheel again. As fast as he can go, Fulcrum practically throws himself into the ventilation duct.

"There's only one place that goes!" Barracks calls after him, his voice tight with frustration. "And I'll be there when you reach it!"

Nervously, Fulcrum works his way through the ducts, his body partly curled around Spinister's arm. "Krok!" he whispers into the commlink, voice trembling. "Someone?! I-I'm in the vents! I don't know where I'm going! Please--"

"Where did you go in?" Krok answers. He sounds fairly calm. It's a good comfort to have.

"From the execution chamber. Where the traitor's wheel was. I, um. I have Spinister's arm, so he can't hear us."

"Good. I'm pulling up the map right now."

Internally, he begs for Krok to hurry as he continues to crawl clumsily through the vents. Eventually, he hears his commanding officer inform him, "The prison cells. I've been trying to chase down your rusting Dynobot, but if that's the case, I'm heading over to the cells myself. Crankcase, if you can hear us, get your aft over there."

It makes some horrifying sense to him, that the ventilation shaft is designed this way. Not really for a flow of air in mind, but rather to let sound travel from the execution chamber to the cells. He remembers the noises. He never questioned the technical aspect of why.

It'd just been in the design.

Finally, as he makes it to the other side of the vents, Fulcrum peers down. With the limited range of sight, all he can guess is that Barracks may not be there yet.

Or he's waiting for him.

Either way, he doesn't have whole lot of a choice. Fulcrum is, effectively, trapped and cornered. Steeling himself for whatever is to come, Fulcrum shoves the vent open before dropping down to the floor below.

The prison cells are set up in such a way that they're almost stacked up on each other, facing just a blank wall. They would never face each other, and they would have little way of contact. Not that Fulcrum had ever really any desire to converse with another convict; several of them were just as bad as the guards. Still, the way it was all positioned ensured a lack of confidence for escape.

Styx was a void, stealing any intention of having a future.

"Glitch mouse, where do you think you can scurry off to?"

As if it was somehow going to protect him, Fulcrum clutches the limb closer to himself. He turns slowly, having no choice but to see Barracks standing in the way of the only other exit. The door, in fact, shuts tight behind the tank.

"It's locked. You have nowhere else to go."

The truth settles in and Fulcrum almost feels like collapsing. At every step closer that Barracks takes, he keeps himself from making a sound, hoping that someone will show, someone will do something. He has little else left to rely upon, and for the briefest moment he wonders, truly questions himself on whether or not anyone will come for him.

But if there's one thing he should know, it is Krok's loyalty, and his ability to inspire it.

Behind Barracks, the door opens suddenly and the tank stumbles forward as he's shot in the back. It's a brief glimpse, but Fulcrum can see Krok behind the former guard of Styx, aiming and shooting his rifle. If the shots do anything to Barracks, it's not apparent as he stands up and lets out a furious roar of his engine. He turns and unleashes a powerful punch to the war historian's midsection, sending him careening out of the room.

"Krok!" Fulcrum calls after him in a panic, momentarily forgetting about his own safety as he tries to dodge around Barracks and get to him. He lets out a shrill of dread, feet kicking out as the back of his neck is grabbed onto by the tank.

"Really, I'm truly baffled why anyone would come to save your aft," Barracks growls, "but if that's all that you have--"

Behind both of them, the wall almost seems to burst open, which seems accurate enough considering the fact that as Fulcrum tries to look over his shoulder, it looks like a shuttle crashed inside. The front of it opens, revealing an incredibly put out Crankcase, holding up his gun as he fires twice at Barracks.

A pained snarl is twisted out of the Raider, his shoulder impacted by the blasts as Fulcrum is dropped to the ground again. Quickly, he scrambles away to run after his commanding officer.

"Krok?!" Fulcrum kneels down and sets Spinister's arm aside, then shakes the tactician's shoulder. "Krok!"

"Fine. I'm fine." Krok grumbles and peers down at himself, particularly towards his recently punched abdomen. "Hmph, that's dented."

"I'm sorry, I'm--"

Krok narrows his optics. "Save it. We don't have time to talk about who ought to be apologizing for what."

"Okay," Fulcrum mumbles out. He looks up nervously towards the prison cells, silently fretting over the mechanic. "If... if we head back towards the execution chamber, I think we can make it back towards Spinister and Gladbag."

Briefly, Krok spares him a baffled look by the mention of the Autobot, then snorts and shakes his head. Now, clearly, is not the time for questions. "It's for the best. We need strength in numbers right now. You get going, I'll follow."

Fulcrum jerks his head back. "But-- I...?"

Spinister's arm is shoved back into Fulcrum's hands and Krok scowls at him. "That's an order, soldier. Move it!"

For a moment, he debates that order, because he can't bear the idea of leaving behind Crankcase or Krok. Because they came back for him, and this time? This time, he doesn't want to run away. He wants to stay, because they deserve better.

"With all due respect, Krok, we're better off sticking together." Fulcrum's voice still shakes with fear, but he knows what he's chosen.

He won't run again. Not without them.

"Rust and scrap!" Crankcase spits as he runs out. "I am not a fan of tankers as this rate!"

"Well, you and me both." Fulcrum pulls Krok to his feet. "C'mon!"

As all three of them start to make their way back towards the execution chamber, Fulcrum can hear Barracks start to barrel after them. Probably the only reason that he can guess that Barracks doesn't just transform into his alt-mode and destroy them is that he doesn't want the K-Con dead. The others don't matter, not to the Raider.

It's tempting to look over his shoulder, but he knows that there's no point. He feels the pounding steps of the enormous mech behind them, following, letting out a thunderous roar from his engine that promises to corner them soon enough.

Blocking their way is another closed door. This one that Fulcrum knows no amount of access codes will open, considering he'd hardwired it closed.

"Pit!" Fulcrum hisses. "I forgot about-- we're stuck!"

"Fantastic," Crankcase growls. "I hope you know that if I die first, I'm haunting your aft."

Behind the closed door, he can hear something. Something like the guttural snarl that undoubtedly belongs to a Dynobot.

Fulcrum places his hand to the door. "Grimlock?!"

There are two sets of heavy footsteps. The charge from Barracks, and the stomp of one impatient, furious Autobot.

Desperately, he shouts for him. "Grimlock!"

The sealed doors are meant to prevent prisoners from breaking them down, escaping. Yet, he recognizes a fist tearing through the metal, and Grimlock tears it open. Immediately, he reaches in and grabs for Fulcrum, who lets out a surprised yelp as he's carried off by the Dynobot.

Peering nervously over Grimlock's shoulder, he watches Crankcase and Krok scramble through the gaping hole in the door, just in time as Barracks continues his charge. As they hurry, Grimlock continues an impatient, perpetual growl in his systems.

Finally, they make it back to the execution chamber. Fulcrum can see Gladbag kneeling by a slumped over Spinister. Panic and worry fills him, and Fulcrum squirms in Grimlock's hold. Misfire is, thankfully, close by as well.

The Dynobot warrior drops him by them, engine rumbling before he says, "You Fulcrum, stay."

"Grimlock--" Fulcrum looks after him nervously as the warrior takes off. "Grimlock, be careful!"

"You know, there was never a day I thought I was ever gonna hear one of us say those words?" Misfire offers with a half-grin. "Glad to see you in one piece, pinhead. Can't say the same for Spin, though."

"Is he okay?" Fulcrum crouches by the unconscious surgeon.

"He's low on fuel reserves. He bled out a lot of energon," Gladbag responds. "He'll live, assuming we can find him any fuel."

As Fulcrum touches Spinister's shoulder, he glances back towards Misfire, addressing him with, "How the hell did you and Grimlock end up in here, anyway?"

Strangely silent, all Misfire does is point. Following the direction with his optics, Fulcrum sees what used to be the viewing window. It was meant to be impenetrable, of course, much like several other things in the entire complex. The window in which he and Grimlock stood briefly to speak, though he isn't sure if that had any impact on Grimlock's outrage and need to find him. In any case, he's immensely grateful for the Dynobot's strength and memory of the K-Con.

He watches Barracks fly across the room as Grimlock throws him, an enraged howl emitting from the Autobot. "Me Grimlock smash stupid tank!"

Just as the Raider starts to push himself back up, Grimlock leaps from a crouch, landing on top of the struggling ex-Decepticon. Relentlessly, Grimlock pounds his fists over Barracks, and there's a thrilling sense of satisfaction in Fulcrum. The fear remains, but he's elated by the strange group of comrades he's acquired, scavengers and Dynobot and all.

There's a familiar clicking noise and he watches Barracks transform into his alt-mode. Dread hums in Fulcrum's circuits as he watches his cannons level with Grimlock, shooting him pointblank in the chest. The impact thrusts the Dynobot across the room, hitting the wall.

"Grimlock!" Fulcrum almost runs after him, but he feels Gladbag's hands come down to his shoulders, keeping him there.

Transforming back to his root mode, Barracks sneers, "What else do you have?"

"Shoot him!" Krok commands, as he once again opens fire.

"Like you even need to say it!" Crankcase comments, grimacing.

As Barracks begins to turn his attention towards the two of them, Fulcrum jerks as he watches Misfire take off suddenly, his thrusters coming online. It's then that in the mess of things that he notices what's in Misfire's hands: stasis cuffs.

One cuff snaps over the Raider's wrist, but the other doesn't quite make it. Barracks peers down at Misfire, then backhands him away. The jet tumbles across the floor, and Fulcrum finally tears himself out of Gladbag's hold, finding his hands grabbing up Spinister's dropped rotor.

Despite all sense and any need to protect himself, Fulcrum stands in front of Misfire, who's struggling to get his senses back from the powerful strike. Despite how much Crankcase and Krok are shooting up Barracks' treads, the Raider still looms over the technician and jet.

"I am mystified by your sudden spinal strut, glitch mouse," Barracks muses. "Aren't you scared?"

"Not as scared as you're about to be," Fulcrum promises, clutching the oversized rotor tightly in his hands.

A blast of fire hits Barracks in the back, Grimlock now in his beast form, jaws gaping open. Stomping closer, the stream of fire stops, and he snaps his toothy mouth over Barracks' head, chewing and biting, growling all the while. Barracks curses and struggles with the Dynobot. It gives Fulcrum enough time to get closer, with Misfire sputtering his name after him. The technician is able to use the end of the rotary blade to shove the end of the stasis cuffs up, enough so that the other end of the cuff snaps closed over Barracks' other wrist, causing him to go completely limp.

Realizing that there's sudden extra dead weight in his mouth, Grimlock drops the tank and steps back transforming to his root mode. Barracks lands onto his back, gritting his teeth. His head is disfigured from both Gladbag's buzzsaw and now Grimlock's powerful jaws and sharp teeth. Plating is scarred and shot from the rest of his fellow unit.

Yet, it's not enough.

Maybe it'll never be enough.

He doesn't think about it. All that happens is that he can hear himself suddenly screaming, swinging down the blade in his hands onto the helm of his ex-guard. The former prisoner of Styx cries out in fear, despair, and fury as he continues to swing the weapon down, over and over, onto the face that he remembers from this place.

It's not enough, still, when he loses the strength to hold the blade, because he is physically weak. He will always be weaker than others, and he has no choice but to rely on everyone else.

Fulcrum sinks to his knees, shaking, wishing he could stop being so afraid.

-=-=-

Ultimately, it was his idea.

No one mocked him or teased him during the breakdown, and he's glad. No one's nosy. Maybe no one cares, and Fulcrum feels like he's okay with that too. All in all, he just doesn't want to be coddled right at the moment. But he's proud, at least, that he'd determined this. With the stasis cuffs on, Barrack's is helpless. He isn't silent, but he's helpless. With his face as deformed as it is, he can't speak, but he can scream.

And so when Krok gives Misfire permission to siphon Barracks of most of his fuel, that's what he does. Fulcrum sits and watches him siphon and he listens to Barracks scream. Satisfaction curls inside of him, and he doesn't care what Gladbag must be thinking or feeling. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters while he revels in the suffering of the Raider.

"This is what you want?" Krok asks him next, when Misfire is done retrieving the energon.

"Yeah. Yeah it is," Fulcrum confirms.

It doesn't take him long to find his own cell. Grimlock has no problem carrying Barracks over his shoulder, following Fulcrum's lead. There, Barracks is deposited.

"Open his mouth," Fulcrum orders the Dynobot.

Unquestionably, Grimlock does it, prying the Raider's mouth open. Fulcrum rests a hand to Grimlock's forearm in silent thanks.

Shuffling up behind him is Misfire, who places a device into his hand. "Think this is it. Yeah, pretty sure it is. Though I guess you'd know, huh?"

"Mm-hmm. Thank you." Fulcrum looks down at it, then nods. He holds it over Barracks's optics. "Do you know what this is? This is the payload that every single member of the K-Class were forced to have. These people removed it from me. I know it wasn't out of kindness; it was to save themselves. But you know what? They have done more for me than anyone ever has. So to think that you would ever lay a hand on them repulses me, Barracks. I'm going to put this in here--" With a small grunt, Fulcrum shoves the explosive into the open mouth. "--and when I feel like it, it'll detonate. It'll kill you. And no one will care."

Once Grimlock releases the tank, they leave the cell. Fulcrum sees the fear in Barracks' optics as he shuts the door closed, locking it.

He enjoys it.

In his hand, he clutches the detonator, and Fulcrum turns away. He doesn't look back as he rolls the detonator in his palm, not triggering it yet. Not yet.

They regroup in the landing pad. There's a distrustful gaze that Krok gives Gladbag; the pathologist simply looks back at him with an air of detachment, unconcerned with just about anything at the moment.

"I suppose," Krok grates out, holding out his hand stiffly, "that I should thank you for reattaching Spinister's arm and refuelling him."

"I didn't appreciate him trying to beat my face in when he woke up," Gladbag replies calmly, taking Krok's hand politely. "But you're welcome."

"We'll leave you alive for what you did."

"Then out of courtesy, I thank you." Gladbag nods to him, and their hands release. Slowly, he turns to Fulcrum. "Did you find what you were looking for here?"

For a moment, Fulcrum is silent. His gaze falls to the detonator in his hand, then he sighs. "I. I don't know. What about you, Gladbag?"

"I don't think that I did. And I'm not certain either of our answers were meant to be found here." The pathologist holds out a data slug. "I would like it if you took this."

A wary scowl forms on Krok's face as Fulcrum accepts it. "What is it?"

"Coordinates. Supposedly, to a neutral settlement. I've had it for a few decades, so who is to say that the location is still accurate, or if the Cybertronians who created it are still there after the war?" Gladbag shrugs. "But it's where I think I'm going to go. If you should ever decide that you need somewhere to be, I would do what I can to make you feel welcome."

"Um." Fulcrum squints at him. "You were chased around with me in an abandoned prison by a psychopathic ex-Decepticon and then you witnessed us pretty much torture him while draining him for fuel. Fuel that you used for Spinister. Also, I'm going to basically murder him in a few minutes. I think I'm a little confused here."

Gladbag tilts his head. "For what it's worth, I value the aspect that your crew did everything they could to protect you. And I already knew you'd do anything to protect them. Whether I think what you and your crew did with the Raider was right or wrong doesn't really matter."

"If you say so."

No other words are exchanged as Fulcrum watches Gladbag return to his own shuttle. There are no good-byes. There isn't anything pleasant. Just the assurance that Barracks' life is in his hand right now.

The trigger is still yet not pulled.

Krok's hand rests on Fulcrum's shoulder, and the K-Con is guided back to the ship. Fulcrum finds himself standing in the cargo bay, giving Styx one last look as the doors shut. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, and the quaking in his body returns.

He says nothing. A whimper squeezes out when he feels Misfire sit next to him. It's a comfort, but it feels far away and all he can do is curl against the jet. He can't look at him, he can't talk to him. Perhaps pathetically, Fulcrum wants to cry out and dwell.

Instead, he tries to grit his teeth and focus on ahead.

Fulcrum clutches the detonator in his hands and he pulls the trigger.

Chapter Text

It's been hardly a day out since they left Styx. The mood of the ship has been somber, and Krok has not been fond of how things had gone down. They gained some resources from their visit, but it's was too much of a close call for his liking. The way the group split apart, and how close they'd come to losing each other. Fulcrum, most of all.

It bothers him. He highly doubts they quite achieved what the little technician was looking for.

"Krok?"

Slowly, the tactician lifts his head up, peering at his door. It creaks open, Fulcrum's head warily looking in. Krok leans back in his chair and nods once.

"Get in here. Shut the door," he orders, voice rough.

Immediately, Fulcrum obeys; he ducks inside and makes sure the room is sealed off. With an uneasy sigh, the K-Con asks, "Is this about the, uh, punishment you mentioned before?"

"Worry about that later. For now, you and I need to have words. Sit."

Fulcrum slides into the seat stiffly, his hands settling into tight, anxious fists onto his own lap. "I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know--"

"How does it feel?" Krok cuts him off gruffly. "Do you feel stronger? Tougher? Fearless?"

"I..." Fulcrum lowers his head. "I don't know. I don't really know how I feel at all. But I know I don't feel any stronger than before."

"If you want my opinion? The fear will never go away. You can keep tryng, but in your spark, it's going to be there." Krok leans forward, his elbows against his desk. There's a snort before he follows with, "We're all afraid of something. We all have that in common. It's a sure thing you're hell of a lot more scared than us--"

"I'm pretty sure that's not a compliment."

"--but you stand up when it counts. Even if you don't think so." Krok settles a small object onto his desk. "You want to have a stronger backstrut? Great. Who am I to tell you no? But we're getting this sorted out my way."

"Er." Fulcrum squints at the object. "Pretty sure that's a pistol."

"Glad to know your optics are in excellent condition," Krok says flatly. "Yes, it is. And it's going to be your pistol."

"Um. Granted, I'm sure my aim is better than Misfire's, but I haven't really shot anyone before."

"Blithe," the historian reminds.

"Lucky shot," Fulcrum mutters.

"Either way, all soldiers start somewhere. You're gonna learn how to shoot, and you're gonna learn right. Take it." Slowly, red optics narrow at the K-Classer until the gun is taken. "Crankcase will mostly be helping you, but I'll do what I can to assist. You'll learn to shoot and protect yourself."

There's sound of discomfort from Fulcrum until he mumbles, "Yeah. Okay."

"Good. There's... one other thing." With a heavy exhale, like a weight being lifted off of his shoulders, Krok settles a data slug down in front of Fulcrum. "This."

Squinting nervously but also with curiosity, Fulcrum warily picks up the memory device in his fingers. "What is it?"

"Information. Videos. Pictures. All of you." There's a roll of Krok's shoulders as he sits back in his chair. "Styx had plenty of detailed information on you. I downloaded it to that, then destroyed the computers. Whatever you decide to do with it is up to you, but I wanted you to have a choice. Just bear in mind that not much on there is going to make you very happy."

"Oh." There's a trembling trail of air venting out from Fulcrum. "I-- okay. Thank you."

Krok grunts quietly in acknowledgement. "I'll discuss your punishment at a later point. For now, get your aft to the cargo bay to meet with Crankcase."

"Yes, sir." Fulcrum stands gradually. "Thank you? Thanks."

"Mm. Don't thank me yet," Krok responds, tone wry. "You haven't heard what I have in mind for your punishment."

Chapter Text

It is time, and it can't be avoided. They can't run and they sure as hell have no where to hide.

The two of them stand outside of Krok's office, wary about going inside. Misfire has his hands on his hips, giving an uneasy groan as he peers at the door. Miserably, Fulcrum folds his arms and shifts his weight from foot to foot as he gazes at the entrance. An awful mood hangs in the air between them. Although they've both already apologized to each other, the fact that their bickering caused this doesn't help. Misfire had been very demanding of his attention and Fulcrum had been too hung up on the past to be able to tolerate it. It caused a series of rather unfortunate events, and Krok was sure to remember to punish them for it.

"Dare you to knock first," Misfire mutters.

"Hell no!" Fulcrum hisses at him. "You knock!"

"Okay, okay. Tell you what, pinhead: we'll count from three and knock together."

Fulcrum squints at him. "Uh, no. We'll count and then I'll just be the one knocking, you big dumb jerk. I'm not falling for that."

"Aw, c'mon! You can trust this face, loser!"

"As if I can!"

"Oh, hey. You're both here for the thing with Krok, huh?"

At the last voice, both Misfire and Fulcrum turn and look up to Spinister who's standing directly behind them. The surgeon looks a bit thoughtful, then reaches over the pair of them easily in order to slam his fist against the door a few times, easily causing a new dent. Then, he gives the both of them an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder. "There y'go," Spinister offers helpfully before walking off.

"That son of a glitch," Misfire grumbles before the door opens.

-=-=-

The punishment doesn't seem all that awful in theory, not with how Krok laid it out for them. As it stands, for the next 80 hours, they would accept any and all orders from two specific people. Misfire was assigned under Grimlock, and Fulcrum himself under Spinister, much to his disappointment. In his view, Misfire's gotten it easy, but considering how Fulcrum's been working closely with Grimlock for the past few months, he supposes there's some bias in that point of view.

Now, it's not that he hates Spinister. Not in the least, it's just that Spinister in general seems very difficult to work with, what with his immediate reaction to most strange, unfamiliar things is to shoot it until it stops having any inkling of being threatening. He likes him well enough, but he's not easy to predict. So the fact that he's forced to take any orders from him could turn out to be dangerous to his health, especially when he's trying to assist him in making sure that all of his surgical tools are in working order and Spinister decides to punch a tray because it was supposedly looking at him funny.

Yikes.

"Hmm, you know what you could do for me?" Spinister muses, squinting down at the dented tray as if he can't figure out why it's dented. Because of your fist, Fulcrum wants to say, but he wisely does not remark.

"What, Spin?"

Spinister looks up, optics widening. "I could really go for some pudding."

"I-- what? Pudding? Do we even have anything like that?"

"Well, no, you'd have to make it." Spinister picks up the tray and peers at it, then tries to punch the dent out of it. "But you're a smart guy, I bet you could do it."

"You know, I'm really more of a techie kind of a guy. I could help you fix your tools or--"

"Did I stutter?"

That earns a tiny, nervous laugh from Fulcrum. "Um. Okay. Energon pudding, coming right up."

Immediately relaxing at Fulcrum's agreement, Spinister nods once. "That's more like it. Thanks! You're so nice, you know that?"

In return, Fulcrum grins awkwardly before excusing himself out from the medbay.

-=-=-

Taking orders from big, dumb Grimlock. Right. How hard could that be? That's what Misfire had asked himself when Krok announced his punishment. Hell, he's been dealing with Spinister for ages, this should have been easy! That's what he assumed, anyway. Even after Grimlock said he wanted a bath.

Easy. Sure.

Somewhere along the line, Fulcrum had managed to convince Crankcase to help him create a big tub in order to properly scrub Grimlock in, because for some reason the K-Con is really incredibly soft on the big hulking Dynobot. Fortunately, the cargo bay is enough space for the task and Misfire has managed to shove the tub into place. After getting hopefully enough solvent into it, Misfire turns and gestures to the tub.

"All right, Grimsie! Get inside."

Narrowing his optics, Grimlock gives a disgruntled growl before transforming into his reptilian mode. There's almost a sneer in his muzzle before the Dynobot turns his head away. "You not Fulcrum. Me Grimlock need him Fulcrum to give bath."

Misfire puts his hands on his hips. "Yeah, well, Fulcrum is busy with Spin. So, hop right into the tub."

There's a loud, disagreeing groan from Grimlock. "Me Grimlock not have bath without him Fulcrum."

"Him Fulcrum busy! You Grimmy, in tub!"

Abruptly, Grimlock just flops heavily onto the floor of the ship, as if he is giving up completely on living. With a loud, huffy breath, he states firmly, "Me Grimlock want him Fulcrum to give bath!"

"You said you wanted a bath! Why do you need Fulcrum?"

"Him Fulcrum give me Grimlock bath now!"

"HIM FULCRUM NOT HERE!!"

"ME GRIMLOCK WANT HIM FULCRUM TO GIVE BATH!!"

Maybe a shouting match isn't going to go anywhere. Misfire groans and rubs his helm. How the hell does Fulcrum manage him?!

-=-=-

First of all, Fulcrum hasn't really dealt with trying to make a variation on energon consumables. Is it in liquid form? Yeah, okay, he can refuel on that, nothing special needs to be done. He himself has never really experimented, so the fact that Spinister is ordering him to create pudding is going to be hell of a challenge. Scrap, Misfire would be so much more suited to this random whim that the surgeon is going off of right now.

The first step had been to do research, which in itself took a lot of time because Fulcrum has no idea what he's doing. At least a couple of hours passed away while he grumbled and sorted through data to try to figure out how the hell to make energon pudding. The second was part had been actually putting it into practice.

Turns out that due to the molecular structure of energon itself, getting it thick enough takes an incredibly long time and care and patience. Hours of research, then hours of just stirring and boiling the damn stuff.

Fulcrum stares tiredly into the pot of slowly thickening fuel as he slowly stirs, frowning. He doesn't even look away when he hears Crankcase step inside.

"What in the Pit are you doing?" the mechanic asks, baffled.

"Making pudding," Fulcrum mumbles.

"What the hell would possess you to make pudding?"

"Because Crankcase," Fulcrum grates out, "I've lost control of my life."

Eventually, the pudding seems like the right consistency. Pouring it into a bowl, he finally makes his way back into the medbay, leaving behind a baffled pilot. Peering inside warily, Fulcrum holds out the bowl.

"Spin?" he calls out.

The surgeon looks over to Fulcrum, tilting his head in confusion. "Whaddaya have that for?"

"Er. You told me to make it? Remember?"

"Oh. Oh yeahhhh! I remember that!" Spinister scratches his helm. "Thanks, Fulcrum! But I don't need it anymore. I got tired of waitin', so I just refueled like normal."

Fulcrum squints at Spinister. "...You don't want it now."

"Nope! Sure don't!"

It takes all of Fulcrum's willpower to not shriek.

Undoubtedly, he and Misfire will be more careful to not tick off Krok in the future.

Chapter Text

It's his idea to begin with. Mostly because he's not really ever interested in running into trouble if they can try to avoid it, and not in no way how ever related to how fragging complicated things get with this crew. It can get way too exciting around here and Crankcase opts to avoid problems when he can.

Which brings him to working with Fulcrum in the cargo bay.

"You know," Fulcrum says in amusement, "despite the fact that you designed this with garbage in mind, this is pretty brilliant."

"Be better if we weren't working with a bunch of junk, but you get used to it," Crankcase says with a snort. "Think it'll work?"

Fulcrum nods. "Yeah, I think so. We wouldn't want to keep it on all the time."

"Well, obviously. It'd just short out," Crankcase grumbles.

A wry smile forms on the K-Con's face. "And we'd be out on a signal dampener."

"Right. Should work even if another slagging Raider slaps a tracking device on you." There's a pause in their conversation as Crankcase grabs a nearby box of scraps so that they can keep building. "What the hell did Barracks want you for, anyway?"

"I, er." Fulcrum winces. "That's kind of a heavy topic, isn't it?"

Crankcase shoves the box in Fulcrum's direction. "Look, we risked our afts making sure you got out alive. Spinister misses the tracking device, but apparently your Autobot pal Gladbag could find a tracking device on you. The guy was following us since Jennix Station. Why?"

"I assume it's because he was crazy."

"No one here's denying that," Crankcase snorts. "But even crazies have a motive. You don't even know, do you?"

"Look, he was one of the worst of the guards at Styx. He was always... awful." White technician hands clench anxiously. "Okay. So I don't know exactly what he wanted. Not exactly. I don't care. He's dead. He's dead and I don't have to worry about it now."

There's a pause as Crankcase considers, peering over the K-Classer. Usually, the friendly and easygoing nature of Fulcrum is tolerable and maybe even preferable at times, but right now he looks a bit miserable at the topic. Frankly, Crankcase was curious about what had happened, why it did happen, if Barracks had a personal motive or if it had anything to do with the Raiders.

Maybe it didn't matter now like Fulcrum said. It just strikes Crankcase as odd. He has zero doubts that Barracks was sadistic and likely had horrible intentions, but that's still hell of a lot of effort to go through just to chase one little K-Con across the galaxy! Still, he doesn't nag.

Now probably isn't a good time. Never is probably the better option.

That doesn't mean that Crankcase doesn't take note.

"All right." The mechanic snags the other Decepticon by the arm. "C'mon. Let's get those shooting lessons out of the way."

"What? Oh, c'mon." Fulcrum, undoubtedly, prefers to work on something more technically inclined, but orders are orders. Crankcase has to help teach him how to shoot a gun.

"Like you have any room to whine!" Crankcase scoffs. "Let's just get this done, then we'll get back to our project."

Chapter Text

"Hmm, close. Try again, okay?"

"Hrrrrgh."

"C'mon, don't give me that face. Do you want me to go first?"

"..." A slow nod.

"Okay. Now, say it like I do: I am Fulcrum."

"M-muh..." A huff of air. "Aaaiieee. I am. Grimlock?"

"Good, good! And?"

"You am-- you are Fulcrum."

It's the smallest thing, but a swell of pride forms in Fulcrum's chest and he smiles up at the Dynobot warmly. Now, technically speaking, Grimlock has been part-time hostage, part-time crewmember, and part-time bodyguard for all of them. In the beginning, he'd been interested in helping him up because... well, because it seemed like the best thing to do. There isn't a war anymore and sure, they used Grimlock as a defense against the D.J.D., but he'd still technically helped. For his part in it, Fulcrum is honestly interested in Grimlock's well-being. Ever since what happened with Blithe and his crew, the others started to warm up to him, too. Even Krok's been getting more comfortable around him after the matter with the Cerebnum.

After Styx, Fulcrum can't deny that there's something going on in Grimlock's head. He's both terrified and curious about it; a big dumb Dynobot is easier to control than one that's healthy, angry, and hateful of Decepticons. Still, he'd feel better if they did go the extra step to help Grimlock. That, and he wants to learn more about him. Something happened to him to make Grimlock this way. And he's not completely stupid; Grimlock did everything he could to try to protect them.

So the first thing he's working on is trying to clean up the grammar a little in his spare time, bit by bit.

"Everyone, down to the cargo bay. Emergency huddle," Krok commands through the speakers.

Fulcrum sighs and pats Grimlock's arm. "We'll keep going at it again sometime later, okay? Good job, Grimlock."

The Dynobot gives a low grunt of acknowledgement.

"All right. Let's go see what the others are up to."

Once upon a time, it'd been easier to just cram the lumbering Autobot into a corner so he didn't interfere or mess with anything. True, Grimlock hasn't been too useful yet in terms of scavenging, but he's been help enough when dealing with potential enemies in the past. His worth, in Fulcrum's opinion, is unquestionable. Although the others might grumble about it, he doubts they disagree. Hell, Misfire sometimes coddles Grimlock worse than he does!

Leading the way out of the warmth of the engine room, Fulcrum guides the much larger mech down to the cargo bay. Not that he probably needs to, anymore. At this point, Grimlock has had no trouble navigating himself lately. Before, the big lug had gotten confused off and on in regards of where to go on the ship, but that'd been months ago in the beginning when they first found him.

Settling onto one of the crates comfortably, Fulcrum sits and waits for everyone else to arrive. Grimlock sits down with a hard thump to the floor that causes a light tremor. Hardly surprising due to the Dynobot's size and weight. What once would have probably caused terror in Fulcrum is actually a welcome presence by now.

Gradually, one by one, the others trickle in and become comfortable in their respective spots as well as they can be. Almost immediately, Misfire practically jogs on over to try to cram himself up onto the crate to sit next to Fulcrum. Not that there's much room, but it seems that his friend is intent on making things difficult. Fulcrum just snorts in amusement, scooting over to try to make room for the other Decepticon. Positioning himself directly across from the others, Crankcase leans against the wall and folds his arms, looking about as cheerful as ever.

Not long after, Spinister and Krok finally arrive; although the surgeon is much larger and taller than Krok, that doesn't seem to dispute the fact that the tactician still manages to carry some weight of authority with him. Unlike all other commanding officers that Fulcrum's had, he doesn't throw it around nearly as much, doesn't flaunt it, and definitely doesn't make a big deal of it. Somehow, Krok just has the skill to be in charge, to make you acknowledge it, but still feel like he's on the same level as his unit. So really, the fact that Grimlock and Spinister are enormous in comparison to him hardly ever makes Krok flinch.

"Thanks, all of you." Krok sets his hands onto his hips and peers down at the floor momentarily, then squints at his crew. "Gonna make this pretty clear for all of you and what it means. Right now, we aren't that far off from D.J.D. territory. Not that it's a real surprise, but you all deserve to know that. As far as we know, they're busy chasing down a target. That's a relief for us; they're preoccupied. So here's the kicker: Crankcase has picked up a distress signal. Not Decepticon in origin, not from what we were able to make out of it. Now, we haven't exactly had a whole lot of luck in regards to deviating from our course, or paying much heed to distress signals. Been a real pain in the aft, actually."

Curiously, Fulcrum rubs his chin. "If it's not Decepticon, then that means it's probably Autobot?"

"Seems to match," Krok confirms. "In any case, I didn't feel like I could make this call on my own. So, here we are. I'm putting it to a vote. Do we carry on, or do we head on down and hope the D.J.D. are still busy with their current target?"

Crankcase snorts. "You already know what I think. Who cares who's down there? It's not our problem and if we go down, I just guarantee it's gonna be another huge fragging mess. So, no. I don't think we should go."

"Place has a medical facility. Sure, it's Autobot, but if it's comin' from there, could use the supplies." Spinister shrugs. "Yeah. Yeah, I wanna go down there. I'm not real worried about the D.J.D."

"Besides, even if Tarn and the others are active out here, which I really don't think that they are, then we can try to use that signal mask that Crankcase and I have been working on. This is a good chance for another test run." Fulcrum nods to himself. "I think we should check it out."

Misfire throws his hands up in the air. "Uh, really? Did you forget the scary, weird stuff from that ship we found on Clemency? And all of the bad things after that? Oh, right, and the stuff at Cerebnum and when we decided to make a stop at Styx. No no no no! We should skip out!"

When the room goes silent, Spinister peers down at Krok curiously. "Aren't you gonna vote?"

A brief pause takes place as the tactician folds his arms and looks at the floor steadily. Then, he shakes his head and addresses the room. "I abstain. I want to know what you all want to do."

"Well, that doesn't really help when we're completely divided like this," Crankcase points out.

"Wait." Fulcrum holds up his head, then turns his head to look at Grimlock. "What about you?"

There's a small pause. Much to his surprise, no one puts up a fuss about the validity of allowing the Dynobot to vote; for a moment, Fulcrum anticipates Crankcase or Krok refusing to accept any input from the Autobot, but no one says a word. They just look and they wait.

Eventually, Grimlock's engine rumbles and he shifts a little before answering, "Go to fah-sil-ity."

"Oh c'mon! Of course he'd take Fulcrum's vote!" Misfire whines, dragging his fingers down the sides of his face.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Fulcrum demands, folding his arms.

"I'll bet he'd stand up and spin in a circle if he thought that's what you wanted."

"That's not true; Grimlock has a mind of his own. It's just... damaged, that's all. He deserves the right to vote."

Misfire huffs a little. "Fine, let's test my theory! Hey, Grimsie -- Fulcrum would really love it if you spun in a circle."

As the large Autobot slowly starts to stand up, Fulcrum ducks his head for a moment. Unwilling to admit that Misfire might have some inclination to being correct, he raises his hands and tries to settle Grimlock down. "Ah, no no! You can sit down. Don't listen to Misfire." Looking over his shoulder desperately, he calls for their commanding officer, "Look, I know Grimlock can be a little slow, but his vote should count. He's smarter than he acts, I swear!"

"Settle down," Krok orders gruffly. "If that's his vote, then that's his vote, Misfire. Far as I'm concerned, he's saved our afts more than enough times to pitch in a word or two."

"Great. Crazy D.J.D. hangout spot it is," Crankcase sneers. "Thank you for your votes. I swear, if that signal mask doesn't work..."

"Hopefully, my mechanic and technician both were able to work out something," Krok says flatly. "Get to the bridge, and get us to Delphi."

As the others start to break off, Fulcrum reaches out and snags Misfire by the arm, frowning at him. He doesn't really mean for this to come out as a confrontation, but he can't help but feel irritable that the jet tried to get his way like that. Maybe it shouldn't surprise him, but still!

"Just what is your deal, anyway?" the K-Con asks, hissing at him.

"What? That I like us living? I kinda thought you were a big fan yourself," Misfire says, snorting. "Why are you so eager to get down there?"

There's a half-shrug. "Look, does it matter?"

"Of course it does! You got this real nasty curious habit of yours, y'know that? The big ship on Clemency, wanting to go back to Styx for really stupid reasons, and now you want to explore where the D.J.D. practically live!" Misfire gives a big sigh. "I want a nice quiet ride back to Cybertron and you want to stick your nose in other people's business and nearly get yourself killed half the time."

Slowly, it starts to occur to Fulcrum that maybe it wasn't a selfish inclination so much on Misfire's part that he was trying to fight to keep away from Delphi. Okay, partly selfish; Misfire isn't real fond of danger. None of them really are. But it sounds like Misfire is worried about Fulcrum's safety, too. Feeling a bit guilty, the K-Classer rubs the back of his helm, muttering, "It's not like I go looking for trouble. I just... I guess I was thinking a lot about what would help Grimlock. An Autobot medical facility would be a good start."

"Help him?" Misfire squints over to the Dynobot. Currently, the giant Autobot seems interested in the the scratches on the floor, grunting as he pokes at it. "He's perfectly healthy! Look at 'im, he's super good."

"No, I mean his--his head. His mind."

"You want to make him not-so-stupid?" Misfire peers at Fulcrum. "You do realize the reason why we can manage him so far is because he's totally dead in the head, right?"

Fulcrum folds his arms. "Not totally. Like it or not, Grimlock is slowly getting better on his own, anyway. He's able to say more words, and he has opinions of his own. Even if they seem really basic, they're his own. I just-- I'd feel better if we did something about it instead of ignoring it. I want to know why he ended up this way, and if there's anything we can do about it."

"Wow, that's... super fantastic and all." Misfire certainly doesn't sound like he approves. "Except, you know, the moment he gets his brain back in order, he's going to pretty much kill us all. Just keep that in mind, okay?"

It feels like the end of the conversation when Fulcrum doesn't feel like he can respond back properly and Misfire gives him an unusually stern look. It's not that he quite feels like Misfire is wrong -- maybe if Grimlock did completely recover, he wouldn't be so grateful -- but at the same time, he doesn't feel like he can't not do something for him. To just sit by and do nothing for someone who's been perpetually looking out for him?

He couldn't do that.

Fulcrum remains silent as he watches Misfire leave the cargo bay, then he folds his arms over himself as he looks to the Dynobot.

"I'll do my best," he promises softly.

-=-=-

The Weak Anthropic Principle isn't really equipped with anything fancy like M.A.R.B.s, much to everyone's dismay. Essentially, this means that they need to actually bring down the entire ship to Delphi, land it, and really hope with all of their sparks that the D.J.D. aren't home and are still busy chasing other traitors in space.

Somewhere in the ship, at least two Decepticons are regretting democracy.

Once in orbit of the planet, Fulcrum and Krok are in the bridge with Crankcase piloting the ship. Krok peers at his mechanic and technician alike. "How's it holding up?"

"I think the signal dampener is working. I mean, don't get me wrong -- Crankcase and I have tested it before and it seems to mask us pretty well," Fulcrum explains, pointing at the device that's been slapped together out of junk and garbage.

"The problem," Crankcase gripes, "is that it eats up a ton of energy. It's not very fuel efficient. If it powers down..."

Fulcrum winces. "Yeah, there's that. I mean, if we had better equipment, it probably wouldn't be a problem, but that's not very realistic."

A patient grunt is emitted from Krok. "We'll just make this as quick as possible. Take us in, Crankcase."

"Whatever. If we all die horribly, I know who I'm blaming," Crankcase growls.

As the pilot starts to direct the ship to touch down towards Delphi, Fulcrum winces a bit while rubbing the back of his head. No going back now, though.

Entering the atmosphere isn't difficult, not even for their rickety ship. There isn't a blizzard going on nearby the facility, much to everyone's relief. They watch the windows as snowflakes drift and dot against the glass, melting quickly due to the warmth the Weak Anthropic Principle gives off.

"No D.J.D.," Fulcrum notes, watching over the sensors. "Not from what I can tell, anyway."

Krok nods in approval. "Bring us as close as you can to the facility, Crankcase. Once we land, we'll head on out."

Gradually, speed decreases for the ship as they come in closer and closer to source of the distress signal. Satisfied that his device with Crankcase is working, Fulcrum heads down to the cargo bay, feeling Krok following behind him.

"You know, I'm sort of curious," Fulcrum says honestly. "What would you have voted for, Krok?"

"Is now the time?" Krok mutters.

Fulcrum frowns. "Why not? We have a few minutes and I'm kind of wondering."

There's a pause from Krok in their stride, which causes Fulcrum to stop and turn around to look at his commanding officer. Eventually, Krok speaks after sighing once, "Truth is, there were too many pros and cons for me to make a strong decision." He shakes his head. "I want this unit to stay away from danger, not go looking for it. All the same, if we could get better medical supplies from assisting some Autobots..."

"The medbay is kind of lacking," Fulcrum agrees quietly.

"Spinister does well with what little he has. But supplies dwindle and periodic stops to neutral stations are only so helpful for what little money we do have. Most ships and outposts that are abandoned don't leave much behind in terms of medical tools, either." Krok shrugs. "And when trouble somehow manages to find us, we pay for it. We got lucky last time with Gladbag around. Still, I'm not exactly up for meeting with Tarn and his crew again anytime soon. It wasn't an easy choice, and I wouldn't force this crew to go."

Which explains why Krok was determined to abstain from voting, Fulcrum notes quietly. It's a difficult choice to make; Krok has always been protective of everyone in this ship, but it's hard to weigh in potential benefits when it might risk too much. So he had his crew vote instead.

Makes sense, but that still doesn't answer what Krok would have chosen. Either he's being vague on purpose, or he really just couldn't decide.

"Good enough of an answer for me," Fulcrum says with a small smile. "We'd better get going, I guess."

Once the pair of them arrive in the cargo bay, there's already Spinister, Misfire, and Grimlock ready. Briefly, Fulcrum glances to the jet, tilting his head a little. It seems like Misfire is coaxing Grimlock to get up and transform back into his root mode. Despite their little argument, Fulcrum has to remind himself that it's not like Misfire doesn't give a scrap about Grimlock.

No, he's just looking out for himself, maybe the rest of the crew, too. Grimlock is still technically dangerous, they all just got used to him being tameable and useful. Still, Fulcrum firmly believes that Grimlock won't be a danger to them. Not with how much time they've spent together now.

Krok approaches Spinister and puts a hand to his surgeon's arm. "You'll be fine?"

"What?" Spinister looks down at him, bewildered.

"The snow. Are you going to be okay?"

"Oh. That." There's a small huff of air from him, and Fulcrum feels like he's missing something. "Yeah, I'm fine, Krok. I'm not real mad at snow anymore. Plus it's not that satisfying to shoot."

There's a satisfied nod from Krok. "Good enough for me."

The ship creaks as it finally lands. Krok punches a button in order to open the doors, and immediately the chilly air swarms inside their usually warm ship. It doesn't bother any of them particularly, but it's still a surprise. Most places Fulcrum's been to lately have been humid and hot in some way, some more than the other. The temperature difference is unexpected, but not really unpleasant.

They wait first as gradually Crankcase finally makes his way down. With a deep scowl, he places a helmet on his head, strapping it on.

Misfire peers at him. "Hey, now isn't that the thing you got from the Jennix Station--"

"Yes," Crankcase snaps. "I don't exactly want to short-circuit or have any glitches when we're in a place full of snow, all right? Not exactly good for the brain module."

Fulcrum winces sympathetically. Yikes, just add that to the list of reasons why Crankcase didn't want to come here.

"Well, good to see that the flowers are still painted all over it!" Misfire muses cheerfully.

"I don't exactly have paint to waste right now on this, now do I?" Crankcase snorts.

Spinister offers, "I could help take off the frills!"

"All right, enough," Krok orders. "All of you, move out. Stay behind me."

Immediately, the unit go silent and step out into the snow after Krok. The distance isn't far to get to the facility, fortunately, but there's something immediately wrong.

"Now, this might be a silly question, but where's the door?" Misfire voices his thoughts. Silently, the rest of them agree. That's not exactly what they were expecting.

Peering at the broken in door, Krok hums to himself as he observes. "Someone rammed their way inside. Not sure if it was from one of ours, Autobots, or otherwise."

"Stop."

All heads turn to Spinister as the medic approaches, narrowing his optics. He kneels down, picking up one of the pieces of the door off of the snow covered floor. Brushing it off, there's a clear red mark through it. As Spinister looks up, the rest of them observe over his bulky frame. Most of the room is covered in snow, with old, old tracks indenting where someone may have come in, or out. That, and there are several tables set up, implying frames. Corpses, maybe.

"Think it's abandoned?" Crankcase muses.

"Dunno, but I know this." Spinister holds up the piece. "This door was marked. It's a bad sign, real bad sign. You know, medically bad."

"What do you think, then?" Krok asks.

"I think," Spinister says, grunting as he stands up, "I should go in, have a look, and maybe see if it's infected. I'll scan and shoot anything weird."

There's a snort from Misfire. "You wanna go in unsupervised?"

"You wanna go in with me? Could be full of viruses and stuff."

"Eh, no thanks." Misfire gives a nervous giggle.

There's a brief pause from Krok, his arms folding and he vents in and out patiently. Then, he gives a light nod. "Go in. Have a look. If you're in trouble, radio me. Don't shoot to kill if you see anything."

"Yeah. Okay, I can remember that." Spinister gives a wave. "Just wait here. Don't touch anything! Seriously, it might kill you."

They watch as Spinister makes his way further into the facility, disappearing into the hallway. Almost anxiously, Krok watches him, clutching his fists tightly. Splitting up hasn't faired well for them lately, so no doubt he's feeling wary about letting Spinister go. Fulcrum doesn't blame him, and he isn't sure if he should say anything.

All they can do is stand at the doorway without stepping inside, and wait for him.

This doesn't appeal well to Misfire no doubt as he sighs and wanders off a few feet away and starts to doodle into the snow with Grimlock watching curiously. While Krok starts to pace at the entrance, Fulcrum stands beside Crankcase as the K-Con opens his wrist to keep tabs on their signal mask's power.

"How bad is it?" Crankcase wonders, peering over his shoulder.

"Not great. We're at about 30% power." Fulcrum shakes his head. "It's still functional of course, but I wasn't expecting the trouble."

That earns a bark of laughter from Crankcase. "You ought'a know by now, Fulcrum: things aren't ever that smooth."

"Yeah. I know." The technician sighs and closes the screen. "Sorry."

"Whatever. We can't take it back now-- ACK!"

Immediately, Fulcrum turns his head sharply to the side to look at the mechanic, expecting the worst. Instead, he's met with bafflement of seeing chunks of snow slide down Crankcase's floral painted helmet, as if someone had thrown a snowball.

Both of them turn towards the direction it'd come from.

"I swear, I was aiming for Fulcrum!" Misfire says almost desperately.

Crankcase dusts off the snow from his helmet. "Yeah. I believe that. Let's get 'im."

Realizing that both resident tech-heads are about to tackle him into the snow, Misfire turns and starts to make a break for it, but he's too late. The pair of them manage to bring him down quickly enough before the jet is able to either run or fly off.

"I'm sorry no really I'm super sorry I was just bored you know how I get when I'm bored Krok help help help!" Misfire cries out, kicking his feet before Fulcrum and Crankcase shove his face into a snow bank.

"That's for the snowball, moron," Crankcase says with a smirk.

"And for aiming at me to begin with. Or, I guess, trying to," Fulcrum adds.

Two more SPLAT!s emit into the air as a snowball each land smack dab in the back of both of their heads. Surprised, Fulcrum and Crankcase whirl around, staring in their leader's vicinity.

"And that, Misfire," Krok says sternly, peering at the jet that manages to wriggle free of the snow, "is how it's done."

"Did he just seriously--" Fulcrum starts.

"Yes, and I'm thinking we better kick their afts," Crankcase growls. "Ever make a fort before?"

"Novara-12. Nothing but snow there, too." Fulcrum nods once to him. "Let's do it."

Realizing that he's made a deadly mistake, Misfire scrambles away from the two engineers. Practically flailing, he shouts, "Grimsie! Grimsie, c'mere! We're teaming up!"

As Grimlock lifts up his head, he mostly appears confused as he grunts softly. Baffled by the amount of action going on, he looks back and forth before eventually he follows after Misfire as he's called for. Deciding apparently to work on his own, Krok immediately hops over a snow bank and ducks down.

To Misfire's dismay, Crankcase and Fulcrum are horribly efficient. It's terrible, absolutely awful as they manage to somehow organize with each other in utter silence to construct a fort out of the snow so fast that Blurr would be blown off his stupid quick feet. Krok has the advantage of not needing to make cover for himself, but he's a lone mech working.

Which leaves Misfire with Grimlock.

"C'mon, Grimmy! Just pile it up, then pat it down. Big enough to cover us both!" Briefly, Misfire just debates using the Dynobot as cover, but no, maybe he'll be useful soon against the oncoming barrage of snowballs. Still, the big dumb Autobot can pile up the snow, but patting it down for proper shielding seems complicated for the poor stupid Dynobot.

"You make the ammo, I throw," Crankcase states.

"Just let me know if your arm gets tired, we can switch off," Fulcrum offers.

Deciding that the cover is enough for at least himself, Misfire manages to coax Grimlock to stop trying to build it up higher and try to focus on making snowballs. The effort seems fruitless as Grimlock looks puzzled and frustrated when the snow crumbles in his hands and melts.

"No no, like this! C'mon, watch." Misfire pats down the ball into his hands. "Okay?"

Grimlock gives a rumble of dismay.

Already, Krok is starting to fling out shots at his crew with deadly accuracy, which Fulcrum's face can already attest to. The technician gives a whine of complaint before he's handing off snowballs to Crankcase, who begins to seek snow-ridden vengeance.

Misfire peers up from behind his fort of snowy shambles before he flings blindly at Crankcase and Fulcrum, missing terribly. Meanwhile, Grimlock is still having difficulty, snarling at the snow and punching it in irritation, as if that will somehow teach it a lesson.

A snowball lands in Misfire's face and he wails, "That's snow fair!"

There's a collective pause from everyone at the comment. Then, abruptly, Misfire finds himself being rained down upon by several splattering bursts of snow, enough that knocks him over. Misfire yelps and flails under the snow.

"Well, if he can't hit us with snowballs, he'll hit us with puns," Fulcrum grumbles as he takes another shot.

"Shut it, Misfire! Only some lame Autobot would make that joke," Crankcase shouts at him, throwing another. There's a brief pause before he reluctantly adds, "Grimlock excluded."

Between all three positions, the crew of the Weak Anthropic Principle continue to throw snow at each other.

It abruptly comes to a stop when there's a shout of, "What the hell are you all doing?"

Optics adjust to stare at Spinister, who's standing at the entrance of the facility. He looks furious.

"You're having a fight without me," Spinister laments.

"Get over here," Krok orders gruffly. "I need another hand, anyway."

Eager to join in, Spinister makes a running leap to huddle down behind the snow bank with Krok.

"Pit, time to start throwing!" Crankcase hisses to Fulcrum.

As the Decepticons continue to go all out on each other as best as they can with the snowball fight, Grimlock huffs next to Misfire. There's an irritated groan from him as he keeps trying to form the right shape of the snowball.

Eventually, the Dynobot shoves his hands into the snow, pulling out an enormous pack of it. He hollers out, "Me Grimlock snow king!" The huge bundle of snow is thrown right onto Spinister and Krok.

"Aw yes! I knew I made a great choice-- ack!" Abruptly, Misfire feels himself being picked up by Grimlock as the Autobot charges Crankcase and Fulcrum. Only a few seconds later, and the bundle of three of them are being shoved into a pile of snow with Grimlock on top.

It earns no anger or ire from any of them; instead, Fulcrum is laughing freely alongside Misfire's giggling. Unable to help himself much, Crankcase is smirking. As if noticing their amusement, Grimlock's engine purrs in content. The pile only grows when Spinister bursts out from under the snow that'd been thrown onto him and Krok, and he charges towards the group with Krok in his arms before he slams right into the bundle of Decepticons and one Dynobot.

Yes. This was the right thing to do.

"All right, all right." Krok gets up and dusts himself off. "Back to attention, all of you. Spinister?"

The surgeon perks up and gets back to his feet. "Yeah?"

"Ahem. The results of the facility?"

Spinister tilts his head, then nods. "Oh, right! Okay, yeah, the place is clear. Got a lot of dead bodies. Two alive ones, too. Found 'em currently in stasis. There was an infection here, but it looks like the place was vaccinated. Dunno what exactly happened, though."

"Mm." Krok folds his arms and nods. "Autobots?"

"Yep."

Krok tilts his head. "Well. Suppose we ought to see how grateful they are for a rescue from the Decepticons. We'll chat them up and see how much we can take. Fulcrum, stay with Grimlock and the ship."

"What? Are you serious?" Fulcrum brushes a final chunk of snow off of his shoulder. "Why can't I come?"

"You're staying here. You understand me?" A pair of optics narrow down as Krok peers at the K-Con.

There's a brief urge to complain, and he gives up immediately. There isn't any use trying to fight back on this and Fulcrum sighs and shrugs helplessly. "Yeah. Okay, Krok. I understand."

"Good. The rest of you? With me."

-=-=-

The interior of the medical facility is, for the most part, still in incredibly good condition. It's really mostly the fact that they were in a morgue to begin with that could have been unsettling. Frankly, though, they've seen enough dead and none of them think much of it. The only disappointment, in Krok's opinion, is that the corpses were so corroded with rust that they were completely useless.

"It's right down here," Spinister says, pointing and hustling through the hallway to get to what was apparently the emergency room, according to their resident surgeon. "One of 'em looks like he's been in stasis for awhile, but the other one looks like he's in a self-induced stasis. I could probably bring 'em out of it, if you wanted."

"Hmm." Krok gives a tap to his chin. "Suppose it depends on who they are and what they have to say. Let's have a look."

While Spinister continues to lead the way, he's only briefly distracted by a flickering light -- briefly, because he's quick to shooting it before getting back on track. It earns a slight shake of Krok's head and a roll of Crankcase's optics.

Eventually, they finally arrive to their goal. As Spinister had indicated, there are two bodies in stasis: one of them is a green mech with missing eyes, a Predabot by the looks of it considering his frame. That much Krok can analyze. The other one...

"Pharma," Crankcase points out helpfully.

"Oh. Yeah. That's Pharma. I guess I didn't say that, did I?" Spinister shrugs. "Missing his hands. Dunno what happened."

"Suppose it's safe to assume he's the one that put himself into stasis then, eh?" Misfire pipes up.

Krok lets out a steady vent. "Safe to say."

"Well, what do you want to do? Bring him out of it?" Crankcase folds his arms. "It wouldn't hurt to have another hostage like Grimlock."

"Like Grimlock," Krok repeats after him flatly.

"You know what I mean," Crankcase grumbles. "Pharma's supposed to be one of the best Autobot medics. Why wouldn't they want him back? If we're gonna bring him out of it, we might as well make use of it."

A hand raises up from Krok, which immediately earns silence from Crankcase. "I'll consider our options after we've had a chat. What's the condition on the Predabot?"

"Healthy. Durable. Has a lot of scrappy work, though." Spinister points down at where the green mech's body was put back together with a bit of a crooked welding job. "Otherwise, it looks like he's been recovering for awhile. A few months, maybe. Pharma's fine, just lacking hands. Looks like they were cut off pretty cleanly, actually."

There's a steady vent cycle from Krok as he peers down at the two unconscious Autobots. They could just rob the facility of whatever might be useful and leave the two of them here. The Autobots might eventually come for them. Maybe. All the way out in D.J.D. territory. Who knows? Yet, all the same, he's wary of the idea. Krok has no love for the Autobots, but blast his spark he doesn't hate Grimlock, not with how long they've had him and how incredibly useful he's been, even if he's stupid as hell. Waking the Autobots could be helpful or could be a very poor decision.

"Wake Pharma up," Krok instructs Spinister. "If he pulls anything, kill him."

-=-=-

It's hard to not be irritated at Krok for being forced to stay behind, but he supposes he understands. Fulcrum can't go on every single expedition, and this more or less counts, he supposes. Bottom line? Krok has his reasons and he really has no choice but to respect them. Still, he'd hoped to go inside and have Grimlock look around. Maybe something would be familiar, something that would help. If there are really Autobots that are alive, maybe they can assist the Dynobot.

Still, it leaves them to sit in the ship with Fulcrum trying his best to not mope. He sits on a box in the cargo bay, frowning.

Ironically, Grimlock seems more patient than him, and he's stting next to Fulcrum and still managing to hulk over him no problem. Fulcrum glances at the Autobot and gently places a hand to his arm.

"How are you holding up, Grimlock?" Fulcrum asks.

Slowly, the Dynobot tips his head up and peers at Fulcrum. "Mmuh?"

"Are you okay?"

"Me Grimlock not hurt."

Fulcrum grins wryly. "Not really what I meant, but I'm gonna assume you're okay. Did you have fun with the snow?"

There's a look of deep concentration from the Dynobot, his dark red visor narrowing, as if he's squinting. "Have... fun? Snow am fun."

An index finger is held up by Fulcrum. "Snow was fun."

"Snow... wwwwas fun? Snow is fun." The expression adjusts in Grimlock's visor, as if he's pleased with himself.

"That's better." A bright smile forms on Fulcrum's face. "Good job, buddy. I'm glad you had fun. I know it was kinda spontaneous."

"Spon-tane-ee-us?"

"Guess that's a fifty shannix word for you right now." Fulcrum shrugs helplessly. "It happened suddenly."

Grimlock gives a huff of air. "Spon-tane-ee-us," he repeats.

"In any case," Fulcrum muses, folding his hands together, "it looked like you had a good time."

There's a slow nod of confirmation.

On Fulcrum's end, the K-Con pauses as he considers for a moment. There are many things that are a mystery about the Dynobot. How he ended up on that ship, why he is the way he is now, and why there seem to be missing pieces in his memory. Or rather, maybe Grimlock just doesn't want to say it or focus on any of it. In any case, Fulcrum can't help but wonder one thing, at least.

"Um. Hey, Grimlock?" Fulcrum leans back on his seat. "Are you happy with us?"

"Happy?"

"Do you like being here?" Fulcrum tries to clarify. It's funny, how things ended up turning out. In the beginning, they had used Grimlock to protect themselves, but eventually when it came down to it, when Crankcase asked him what they should do with Grimlock, he chose to help. Because if the war really is over, he didn't see the need to turn his back on Grimlock.

Sure, they agreed to take him in as a prisoner, but at this rate, he might as well be part of the crew.

"Me Grimlock... like you Fulcrum," the Dynobot offers. "Him Misfire, and him Krok, and him Cranky, and him Spin. Me Grimlock like. Mm."

"I don't know how the others feel, but I'm pretty glad to have you here, too. I wasn't sure, but back at Styx... you seemed to react badly to the prison. Not that I blame you, but--"

"Prison bad," Grimlock growls, optics glowing fiercely. "Bad."

Quickly, Fulcrum raises his hands. "I know, I know. I agree with you. Were you at a Decepticon prison before? Is... is that why you were in the ship?"

"Prison." Slowly, Grimlock looks down at his own hands, flexing them carefully. "Overlord. Bad."

That earns a jerk of Fulcrum's head. "Overlord?"

There's a deep, angry snarl in Grimlock's engine and Fulcrum thinks. He'd spent his time trying to catch up on what happened while he was out of the war for awhile. Now, it's hard to not know who the hell Overlord is. Anyone with half a processor knows who he is, after all. Still, he's trying to connect the words. Prison and Overlord -- where did the two connect? No one ever captured Overlord, so why...

Why indeed. No, Fulcrum remembers briefly glazing over one of the many reports, on how Decepticons broke loose in Garrus-9. Rogue Decepticons, as they followed Overlord after all. The details escape him for now, but it was grisly. That much he recalls, and Fulcrum couldn't bear to read the details at the time. It gave him too many flashbacks to Styx.

Is that what Grimlock is referring to, though? Garrus-9?

Fulcrum debates asking, but he refrains. Not with how Grimlock looks right now, peering at his own hands anxiously. Before he can think better of it, Fulcrum leans forward and puts his arms around Grimlock's neck.

"I'm sorry. It's okay. Don't think about it," Fulcrum tells him. "You're here now. Got it?"

It's silent for a moment, but he can hear how fast Grimlock is venting hot air, furious and anxious and Fulcrum can't help but feel responsible. He winces and ducks his head, but he's determined to not move. Grimlock wouldn't hurt him, that much he believes. Even when there's a steady tremble in Grimlock's frame, either from anger or from just being generally upset, Fulcrum chooses to not move. Instead, he remains where he is, wincing just a little. No, no Grimlock won't hurt him.

It doesn't mean that he's not startled when he feels two large arms clutch him close. He squeaks, then immediately settles down before he pats the back of the Dynobot's helm.

Maybe that's the start to the damage done to Grimlock, whatever happened there. Who knows, really?

But it seems like they're both still recovering from their own experiences.

-=-=-

"I can tell you, this is hardly what I was expecting."

"Believe me," Krok says, "when you're out in space, it's better to have none. Never know what will surprise you next."

"I find that waking me out of stasis with an electrical shock was not entirely necessary," Pharma continues with a sneer. "The stasis was rigged to wake me automatically when a ship was detected to breach atmosphere."

There's a low cough from Crankcase, earning Krok to feel fairly satisfied with his mechanic and technician. The fragging device does work. That's insanely valuable. He'll have to commend the both of them later on. For now, there's this to deal with.

"There were complications," is all Krok says. "Is it just you and... him?" A vague gesture is given to the Predabot.

"All that's left, yes." Pharma peers over at him. "My last patient of this facility, as a matter of fact. I suppose you'll want to hear the whole story and such?"

There's a shake of Krok's head. "Not terribly. I just need to know a few things from you, Pharma. Is your facility rigged in any sort of way?"

The upper lip on the Autobot doctor's face twitches. "No. Do I look like I could rig anything in the state I'm in?"

"You don't look like you could do surgery in your state, yet I'm looking at a recently assembled Predabot."

"What can I say?" Pharma snorts. "I'm very good at my trade and I had a life to save."

Leaning forward, Krok places his hands against the table that Pharma is sitting up on top of. There's a wary look that he gives Pharma, then he nods slowly. "Fine. Let's say you are that good. Who's the Predabot?"

"Dent. He's always been incredibly resilient. Even when he was infected with the virus ever-so-helpfully placed by one of yours in this facility, he survived. I found him in pieces. I suspect the same person who cut off my hands may have had something to do with it." Pharma shrugs. "But that's only a guess."

"Dent?" Misfire scoffs. "Seriously?"

"Misfire? Seriously?" Crankcase mocks him back.

"In any case," Krok says, peering at his unit, "I'm going to leave you with an expectation, Pharma. We're here to take whatever is left over in this facility. We won't kill you as long as you don't try anything. Of course, with you as you are, your threat level is admittedly lower than I'd have anticipated."

A bitter laugh bursts out from the Autobot jet. "Fine! Take everything. Take the garbage that was left behind. What the hell am I going to do with it? But I need something from you in return."

"I hardly think you're in the position to demand anything," Krok points out.

"My sincerest apologies," Pharma says dryly. "I didn't mean to demand, but I'm requesting a favor. This facility has no means to fuel me or keep me alive. It's pointless to stay here. I want out. All I'm asking at the moment is to be allowed to be on your ship."

"I suppose you want us to take your friend along with you?" A glance is spared to Dent's unconscious body.

"Ah. Right." Pharma's optics flicker. "Of course. Him as well. I'm certain without his optics, he won't be of any trouble."

There's a long, steady vent from Krok before he says, "We're headed for Cybertron."

"How nice for you. I don't really care where you're headed." Pharma gives an impatient sigh. "Look, I'm quite valuable to you. I'm certain that the Autobots will be quite grateful if you return me to them."

Krok taps his fingers briefly, squinting at Pharma. On one hand, he isn't thrilled at more Cybertronians to refuel. On the other hand, Pharma has a point; he's a well known, very impressive doctor. Hell, between him and Grimlock, they'd be golden tickets for his unit to settle back into semi-normal lives. Isn't that what's important? They want to go home, and they might as well have as much good to their names as possible.

Still...

"Emergency huddle," Krok orders his crew, turning away from Pharma to a corner of the room.

As soon as Spinister, Crankcase, and Misfire form their tightly knit circle, almost immediately the Decepticon surgeon asks, "You're not replacing me, are you?"

"Spinister," Krok says softly yet sternly, as if he can't believe that it even needs to be asked. "No. Of couse not. I want everyone's input on this."

"I don't really care," Crankcase offers helpfully. "Pharma's got a good point."

Misfire shrugs. "It's not like he's got any hands, anyway. What's he gonna do, flail at us angrily?"

"I dunno, whatever. Whatever you think is a good idea," Spinister says.

There's a low growl. "You're all incredibly helpful," Krok remarks before reaching for his commlink. "Fulcrum?"

"Er-- Krok? Everything okay?"

"We're fine. ... Listen." Krok steps away from the other three Decepticons to pace to himself. "We found the Autobots. One of them conscious, one of them not. It's Pharma. He wants on the ship. I need your input."

"What did everyone else say?"

"They pretty much are relying on my opinion." Krok exhales steadily. "I want yours."

"Well, what is your opinion?"

"Fulcrum."

The K-Con answers with, "Listen, Krok. I appreciate you trying to get a little more input from us, but sometimes, believe it or not, we trust your judgment. I'm not sure why you're suddenly questioning yourself--"

"Now isn't the time," Krok says flatly.

"Okay. That's fine. But if you think we should bring them on board, I won't say no."

Slowly, Krok closes his commlink, clenching his fists. Briefly, he lets his head hang, then he peers at Pharma, who waits for an answer.

Krok narrows his optics.

Blast him, he knows what he's going to choose.

-=-=-

From what Fulcrum gathers, there hadn't been much to salvage, but it seems like it was enough to satisfy Spinister's needs for the moment. Still, they have two extra Cybertronians to feed now, but they will manage. They always seem to, anyway. Absently, Fulcrum watches Crankcase carry off the unconscious Predabot to the medbay, while Misfire leads the way for Pharma, chatting up a storm and the Autobot medic looks like he positively wants to tear off the other jet's lower jaw.

Krok follows up the rear, setting down a box of various supplies they had scraped up. Not quite the find they'd hoped, no doubt, but it will do. It always does. The historian peers down at the box.

"Krok?" Fulcrum calls out cautiously. "You okay?"

Immediately, the captain of the Weak Anthropic Principle looks up to face Fulcrum, then he snorts before saying, "I'm fine. Just thinking." Without another word, Krok turns away and heads further into the ship.

It's concerning to see the behavior, but Fulcrum suspects that if Krok wishes to speak, he'll make the choice to do so. Or, maybe he'll just pretend to be tough like every other Decepticon Fulcrum has ever known and pretend that there's not a fragging thing to worry about. It's hard to say, but he isn't about to pressure him into speaking. What else can he really do?

Beside him in the cargo bay, Grimlock grunts. "Mm."

"I feel about the same way," Fulcrum says wryly. "What do you think about the other Autobots?"

The only answer that he earns is an indifferent rumble. Grimlock, apparently, isn't much impressed or attached to them. Not yet, anyway.

"Okay." Fulcrum shrugs, smiling a bit.

The important thing that they can do right at the moment is just worry about the present. Maybe Fulcrum is too tied up with the idea of the past. He frets, he thinks of his old life, and he regrets the kind of person he was. He wonders about Grimlock's past, and if unlocking it will help. Or maybe it will hinder him.

Maybe Grimlock doesn't want to remember, and that's why he is what he is now. That and something clearly has happened that seems to bother Krok.

Perhaps Fulcrum can't spare to worry about his own history. It doesn't really apply anymore, anyway.

Slowly, he pulls out the data slug that Krok had given him. All of the data of his old life, his old frame, his old job. Fulcrum before Styx, before the reformat, before he was convicted. The coward before the new brave face he wears on occasion.

"Grimlock?" Fulcrum asks. "Hold out your hand for me?"

Wordlessly, the Dynobot obeys, offering it palm up. The K-Classer settles the data slug down onto it.

"Crush it," he requests softly.

There is no hesitation as Grimlock closes his hand, effortlessly crumbling the device into his mighty fingers. He can hear it crunch, an assurance that it was easily done.

Fulcrum smiles tiredly as he lets go.

-=-=-

Warily, Krok peers out the window, looking over the incoming blizzard on Delphi. The W.A.P. should be able to fly through it, but he doesn't doubt that Crankcase will complain about it as they go. Soon, they'll leave, and he'll continue to ponder.

He looks down at his clenched fists, narrowing his optics.

Krok sighs tiredly as he holds on.

Chapter Text

"Please tell me that we have some anti-freeze," Krok says with a low sigh over the commlink.

Crankcase grates out, "Look, sorry, but we don't make a habit of being on planets like this. We probably do, but we haven't needed it for awhile. Until I get it, this ship isn't budging, Krok."

"I don't like the 'probably'."

"And I don't like being stuck on a world where the D.J.D. hang out," Crankcase grumbles. "I'll get back to you."

When the blizzard rolled in, they probably should have realized the very real possibilities of the snow making the engines and other equipment a bit less than responsive. While he's pretty sure that they have something that'll work okay, Crankcase knows it's going to take awhile to dig through.

With a few angry sighs and muttering, he starts to head down the hallway.

"Hello...?"

Crankcase turns his head, frowning as he doesn't recognize the voice. Then, he realizes it's coming from their shoddy medbay; curiously, he looks inside.

The Predabot that they'd picked up before, Dent, is apparently awake and trying to look around nervously. Considering he's lacking a pair of optics, that isn't working out so well for him. Strange, he doesn't think Spinister woke him up. Maybe he came to on his own.

"Keep your aft where it is," Crankcase tells him in a snippy tone. "If you make a mess, Spin won't recognize his own workspace, and you don't want to be part of his reaction."

"Uh!" Dent pulls his legs up onto the berth. Somehow with the battle mask on and the lack of optics, he still manages to come off as sheepish. "Sorry. Am I still on Delphi? Did help come?"

"We're still parked on this fragging snow planet, but you're on our ship." There's a pause. Right; the Predabot can't see him and nobody's told him squat, obviously. "Pharma's on board with us. We found you both, but that's really about it."

"That's it? Really?" Dent sounds faintly distressed. "There were other patients, though! What about First Aid and Ambulon and everyone else?" Fingers tap anxiously on his knees. "And I heard people in the hallway! You know, before I got all sliced up. ...Though I guess they weren't there to help."

"Shut it," Crankcase grunts, and Dent obeys with a duck of his head. "I have no idea what the frag happened. We got a distress signal, we checked out the facility, and all we found were you and Pharma. Nobody else was there. Now we're taking you off of the planet. Understand?"

Briefly, there's a pause as Dent absorbs all of the information. Then, there's a slow nod. "Yeah. I understand. Um, I'm Dent."

"I know." A moment of silence settles in before the pilot finally decides to introduce himself. "Crankcase."

"Thanks for coming for us, Crankcase!" The utter cheer in Dent's voice is offsetting. It's not quite like Misfire's ridiculous energetic chattering or Fulcrum's occasional hopefulness. No, it is sheer sunshine, and it's weird.

"Bah." Crankcase vents out. "In any case, I gotta get to fixing our slagging ship so we can get the hell out of here."

"Can I come with?"

A loud snort emits from Crankcase. "What for? It's not like you can help."

"I know," Dent says a bit sullenly. "But I don't wanna sit here by myself. Can't I just keep you company?"

Almost immediately, Crankcase wants to tell him no. He doesn't need his company-- he doesn't need anyone's company. Frankly, Crankcase is used to working on his own and ignoring the outside world as he focuses on just work. Why should this be any different, and why the hell would he socialize with an Autobot? Maybe it's how stupidly pathetic the Predabot looks, what with the lack of eyes and how he hugs his legs to himself, but eventually the mechanic groans to himself in irritation before he grabs onto Dent's wrist and tugs lightly.

"Step off slowly," Crankcase mutters.

Carefully, Dent slides off the berth, his feet touching the floor. Satisfied, Crankcase leads him away to the cargo bay.

"Thanks, Crankcase!" Dent sounds positively sincere.

It's tempting to say bah again or whatever. Instead, Crankcase shakes his head to himself before mumbling, "You're welcome."

Chapter Text

Use your best judgment, Krok had said wearily, which is not really much at all like him. It's not as if Spinister is super clued into what people are really thinking and he's not really good at reading into things. It's part of why he's initially paranoid to, well, everything. Usually Krok is pretty straight forward and can tell him what to do. He looks out for them.

He's been acting not so Krok-like for a little while and it's getting kind of irritating. Spinister's honestly considering going down and asking him what the hell is going on, but...

"For the love of-- focus would you?"

Right. That.

Spinister grunts and peers down at his work. It's not like he's scared of Pharma or anything, but he's kind of super annoying and picky and huffy and dumb and yeah okay Spinister really isn't a huge fan of him. Pharma demanded a pair of hands, and Spinister lied to him and said that they didn't have any nor could he make him a pair.

He doesn't trust him, so whatever. Spinister decided to give him little clamps instead, which he's currently installing.

"What did I expect on this dingy ship, anyway?" Pharma grumbles, wings twitching irritably. "Your medbay is so pitiful that it makes what's left of the Delphi facility a flourishing hospital."

"Guess so," Spinister mutters with indifference, more interested in making sure the tiny pincers are connected properly into the Autobot's wrists.

"When are we taking off?"

"I dunno. Crankcase is working on it." Spinister shrugs.

"The sooner we leave--"

Spinister says bluntly, "Shut up. You're distracting me."

Blue optics flicker as Pharma peers up at the Decepticon surgeon, then he snorts and looks away. "Simpleton," he practically spits out.

It never really bothers him when he's insulted. Words can be too complicated or he just can't care about it; being quick-witted and all would be better suited to the others and it's not like it actually hurts like a gunshot when someone says something cruel. Whatever. Spinister cares more about not dying and making sure that his crew are definitely not dying. Pharma isn't crew, so he can stand to deposit useless scrap on him.

Eventually, the connections are set and Spinister leans back a little, tilting his head. "Give 'em a try."

Slowly, the clamps open and close. Pharma looks furious, disgusted, and exhausted all at the same time. As much as Spinister doesn't care for the Autobot doctor, he pauses to consider the way that Pharma peers at his temporary replacements.

It urges Spinister to look at his own hands.

"Spin?"

Immediately snapping out of his thoughts, the Decepticon surgeon replies to Fulcrum with, "Yeah?"

"I'm pretty sure Grimlock got into some of Misfire's stock. He, uh. He's kind of emptying his tanks everywhere in the mess hall. Can you come make sure he's gonna be okay?"

"Yep, but I'm not mopping anything."

"Okay, okay. Just check in on him!"

Spinister rolls his shoulders back and stands up. Briefly, he pauses to peer at Pharma. "Don't push it with those. I'm not replacing them."

Without another word, he turns and leaves the Autobot in the medbay.

Chapter Text

"Now, I don't know if you know anything about piloting a Warfire Battlecruiser, but the fraggin' thing is made to basically hiccup the systems and be a blasted target. I can tell you that we'd have been better off with tiny little escape pods than that piece of scrap. Hell, this ship is more war worthy, and that is saying something!" Crankcase scoffs. There's a pause as he dumps a few pieces of scrap metal into the box being held out to him.

Despite his lack of optics and a faceplate to boot, Dent still seems perfectly expressive in how he tilts his helm and looks terribly amused. "Had to navigate one a few times before. Not fun."

"You get what I mean then. Didn't peg you for a pilot, though."

"Navigator," Dent clarifies with a quiet laugh.

Crankcase gives him a skeptical look, even though Dent can't see it. "What the hell was a navigator doing with miners?"

"I don't know if you've ever worked in a mine, but those are a pain in the aft to navigate."

"All right, point taken."

"Heyyyy!" Before Crankcase can utter a displeased sound, Misfire is immediately invading their workspace, rushing over. "Nobody said that the other guy was awake!"

"You didn't ask," Crankcase grumbles.

Misfire places his hands onto Dent's shoulders. "All right, fine, it's good. All good. I can still make the introductions!"

"Uh, actually..." Dent chuckles. "Crankcase already kinda did. Or, well, he explained all of you in pretty good detail."

"What?" Looking as if he's been physically struck, Misfire takes a step back with his wings drooping. "You introduced us already? Crankcase, you can't do that! I do that! I do the introductions!"

"And from the sounds of it, you're probably Misfire. Which, actually, I still can't get over whether or not I've heard that name somewhere before. Hmm." Sounding no less happy as before, Dent offers with, "I'm Dent. I'd, uh, shake your hand, but I'm a little preoccupied--"

"S'fine," Crankcase mutters. "I found the anti-freeze anyway."

Dent pauses, then says, "Oh. Well, do you want more help? I could--"

"Could do what? You'd just be fumbling the whole way." The box is taken from Dent's hands and shoved into a corner of the cargo bay. "...Thanks anyway."

"Er. All right." Awkwardly, Dent rubs the back of his neck. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," Crankcase tells him sternly.

"Well! If that's the case." Misfire gives a slap to Dent's back. "Why don't I give you a tour of the ship? Not that you can see anything or whatever but maybe you'll somehow develop magical abilities that'll let you practically see everything with, I dunno, echolocation or whatever."

"Or I could just get new optics," Dent points out.

"Or that, okay, fine. Ruin my fun, why don't you?"

Dent shrugs helplessly. "Is it okay with you, Crankcase?"

"The Pit do I care?" Crankcase huffs. "Go with him."

"Great! Well, you probably already know, but you're in the W.A.P.'s cargo bay and all of our lame crap is here and we'll start down this way to get to the hallway and then I'll make extra sure to describe everything in detail. You know, if it's interesting," Misfire narrates as he tugs Dent away.

There's a shake of Crankcase's head as he takes the anti-freeze with him. It's dumb, and he knows it, but he found it sometime ago. He just kept piling items in the box and giving himself an excuse. It was almost pleasant, he supposes, to have company just as interested in ships as he is.

It's an Autobot, though. A dumb, cheerful, nice Autobot.

"Whatever," Crankcase sighs to himself as he gets to work to finally get off this damned ice planet.

Chapter Text

There's a dull sense of regret in him.

Krok stares out the window, watching the blizzard roll by and cover the ship. They shouldn't be grounded for too much longer; Crankcase had stated that he found what he needed and is working to get the ship started. That's good, and he's all too glad to be leaving soon.

The scavenging doesn't bother him. One has to be willing to dig deep and take what they need in order to survive, no matter what. Survival is the most important thing, and they must move forward. Yet, there's this.

There's this, and he doesn't know if he's been making the best of choices. Krok doesn't have difficulty claiming Decepticons that nobody else wants as his own, making them into his crew and marching on; they've all been disposed of or left behind for one reason or another, but this is different. This is adding Autobots. Before, he never would have considered the notion. Even after the war had ended with a sputtering halt, Krok knows he despised them. Despises? Now still?

It's hard to say, because Grimlock has been a chaotic addition. He still doesn't know if, one day, the Dynobot will suddenly regain his senses and slaughter all of them. Yet, he's been part of the crew in some way, and they've all just sort of adopted that as fact without any real talk about it. Silently, they pulled him in further, and Grimlock did not resist. Now, there's Pharma and Dent to deal with.

They aren't crew. They're barter. Just like how Grimlock started out. Krok would rather keep it that way, but it might spiral out of his control for some reason. Something always does.

Krok braces a hand to the window as he stares at the snow.

The decisions he's made have not always been good, and he knows that. He made the choice to answer a distress beacon, earning them the complications with the Cerebnum. He made the order to land on Jennix Station, and they ran into the Raiders. He agreed to go to Styx, even though he had a feeling it wouldn't have turned out well, even if he didn't anticipate on the return of one of the Raiders. Logically, he can acknowledge that these matters were simply out of his control. Internally, he is dubious, and so...

So, he called upon the others for more input.

They completely put their faith into his choices.

Krok shakes his head.

"Firing up the engines. We're taking off," Crankcase grumbles.

"What's wrong?" Krok immediately asks.

"Nothing's wrong. Ship's able to take off."

"Crankcase." Krok narrows his optics. Somehow, the pilot just sounds more irritated than usual. He can tell, but he can also tell that Crankcase won't share much. Eventually, Krok vents out a sigh and says, "I'll come down and help you in the cargo bay. If you happen to feel like talking, I'll be listening."

"...Do whatever you want."

"On my way."

Regardless of how he feels or worries, Krok won't stray from one thing: he needs to keep looking after this pack of misfits.

Who else would?

Chapter Text

The memory is a bit fuzzy. Though that isn't the important part, to be perfectly honest; Krok isn't concerned with the details of his missing unit in so much that he's concerned that, it seems, their flight signature. It is, after all, no where near his own location. It's far away. Planets away. How did it even come to this?

He exhales, faintly aware of his own position. Buried under rubble and staring up at the night sky, Krok stares up, pinned and helpless. He can clearly see the planet that this moon, is orbitting. Mirandous, if he remembers right. Perfectly designed for organics, and an absolute mess for Cybertronians. Great cover for battles, but otherwise distinctly terrible for the gears and crevices. Most of their battles didn't take place there; no, most of them too place on that dusty moon, Serenus.

The sky is clear, the air is cold, and the weight is almost unbearable.

To most, it would seem like he's been abandoned. Honestly, Krok doesn't blame his unit for leaving, especially in the middle of a battle. It is the only suitable method for survival; move on and fight another day.

The weight seems more, pressing down on his chest. Krok is not a very large Decepticon, but there are two factors in his favor.

He is loyal, and he is incredibly stubborn.

With a determined grunt, he shoves the debris off of his frame, practically clawing his way out from under the pieces of the warship. Its origins are unknown to him, whether it is Autobot or Decepticon -- he isn't sure. It doesn't matter, ultimately. Either way, he's going to escape. He's going to keep on struggling, keep on fighting, keep on living.

As he emerges, Krok looks up at Mirandous, venting out air. The planet looms far away, rolling in its orbit as it goes, and he is alone. He is hideously alone on Serenus as he gazes up, surrounded by the aftermath of battle and death.

None of that matters.

Krok takes one step further and he immediately tumbles down the pile of debris. His leg gives out and he rolls down with a grunt. Once he lands on his back, he turns over and looks down at himself.

Ah. There. Somehow, he'd missed it. His ankle is barely connecting his foot to the rest of his leg. That won't work at all.

For a moment, he debates with himself. It'd be easy, wouldn't it? To roll over and give up for awhile. To let it go, maybe wait for rescue. That'd be the simple way out, but Krok is too old to believe that things are ever that simple. Slowly, he shakes his head to himself. No sense in that. Not when they're out there somewhere, probably thinking he's dead.

He'll be glad to prove them wrong when they're found.

Still, that doesn't help him get up onto his feet and, you know, walk.

"Some conundrum," he mutters to himself gruffly.

Idly, Krok watches how the energon oozes out from his wound. Frankly, he's no surgeon. Nowhere close. He isn't a scientist, not a field nurse, no engineer, nor technician of any kind. Krok is a soldier, a historian, and a tactician. None of those skills are really going to help him put this back together.

As he scans the area in thought, it occurs to him that, maybe, it isn't going to be the talent of a doctor that will help him walk, but practicality.

Slowly, he grabs onto a bit of scrap metal on the ground and looks it over in silence. It's going to be a bit brutish of him, but there isn't any other way around
this. Far as he can tell, he's on his own. This is going to be painful for sure, but he'll endure it.

He'll live another day, and he will catch up with his unit. Even if it means pain.

Krok braces himself for the future.

-=-=-

It's cold.

It feels like he needs to work with sheer force of will, but with enough concentration, Krok is able to force his optics to come online with a flicker. Faintly, he tilts his head, looking around in his situation. How... how the hell did it turn out this way?

The stiffness in his body as well as the listlessness is readily explained by the fact that he is, somehow, floating out in the middle of space. Out of the corner of his optics, he can see Delphi in the distance. That doesn't explain where the Weak Anthropic Principle is, and his mind is still overwhelmed with his circumstance. He drifts in space, aimless and confused.

Krok struggles to remember. What could have caused this? What were the circumstances leading up to this point?

Yet, all he can consider are the choices he's made. Memories need to be recompiled in order to make any bit of sense.

He should try to call them. The others. He should try to reach them, but he somehow can't make his limbs work the way he wants them to. It's a strain, and he fights enough to stay online.

Where are they?

Where is anyone?

Why

Why

Why is he

alone

out here?

Krok flinches and he struggles against the black--

-=-=-

It's been a week, according to his chronometer.

Slowly and carefully, Krok continues to hobble along. Keeping aware of his surroundings, he's sure to delicately step around anything that might trip him up. The work he'd done on his ankle was poor handiwork, admittedly, but it's enough to keep going. Granted, hammering slabs of scrap metal that could be from a ship or a person is probably not the most brilliant idea, but he is determined. He can't have a setback like that keeping him back.

Right now, he's just running on enough to push him forward.

Most of Serenus is rock, ore, and now another graveyard of ships and bodies. Navigating's been difficult, and he has tripped more than a few times, to his regret. It's been difficult, but he's getting by.

He can do that. The position he's in isn't the most graceful, but he's alive. That's enough.

Push forward. Just push forward.

"Help! Sweet Primus help me!!"

Krok turns his head towards the direction of the voice. It's certainly not one he recognizes, but the person crying out does sincerely sound like they're in distress. However, if he stops now, he loses precious time he could spend on trying to find a way either off this moon or a way to contact his unit. Hell, it could even be an Autobot crying out for help.

It's tempting to turn his back on the voice. He could.

"I--I can't move! Isn't anyone out there?!"

Krok clenches a fist, then exhales. "Pit," he grumbles before he turns and starts climbing over a hill of broken metal. "Who's shouting?" he calls back.

"Primus, thank you! Oh, I will never doubt you again!" Krok thinks he hears something shifting, something almost like a... t-cog? "I'm Flywheels!"

"Krok," is given back as the historian cautiously starts to shimmy his way down the heap of debris. As he reaches the bottom with a stumble, he can see Flywheels. Currently, he's pinned by what looks like a giant sword through his abdomen. Not a lethal position, but it looks painful. In any case, to his relief, he's clearly dealing with a fellow Decepticon. "Thought I heard you transform."

The laugh that Flywheels gives is laced with nervousness and fear, undoubtedly due to his current position. "N-no, no. My t-cog activated, but I, uh, I think it's damaged. Krok?"

"That's me," is assured as Krok looks over the position the other Decepticon is in.

"Do you think you can help me?"

"Yes," Krok says immediately, putting his hands over the blade. "But this is going to hurt, so brace yourself."

"I, uh--" Flywheels' optics widen and he jerks his head back. "Can't we talk about this?! Or do it slowly! Yeah, that! Do that."

With a sigh, Krok shakes his head. "That's not gonna work. You'll tense up, and going slow will take too long. It'll be more painful."

Clearly, those words do nothing to comfort him. Not that Krok aims for comforting a soldier; undoubtedly, they've both been in the war long enough that they can deal with matters like this. Why would it be his problem that someone else is weaker for it?

He stares down at Flywheels, who looks up in hope and terror and, above all, trust. That is something he knows well. He trusts his unit to have survived and moved forward without him. Just as now, Flywheels is attempting to trust him. They hardly know each other! And yet, Krok doesn't exactly blame him, not really. They're both clearly alone out here, and there's no telling how long that Flywheels has been pinned like this. Anyone else would just turn their back and walk away from Flywheels. Hell, maybe others have before, and that's why he's still like this.

Krok knows in his spark that he can't do that. This Decepticon needs him, and they'll both have better chances of survival if they stick together.

"Flywheels," Krok says, spoken with a bit less growl, "listen to me. You aren't weak. You're still alive. Now, I need to pull this out so we can work on finding a way off this rock. We can do this together. Okay?"

Anxiously, Flywheels chews on his lower lip, then he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Go for it, Krok."

Without another word, Krok yanks the blade out from Flywheels, and the other Decepticon tries to muffle his scream of pain behind the palm of his hand. It isn't muffled well, and Krok feels a pang of sympathy for him. Immediately, Krok crouches by his side.

"There. We did it. Let's get you patched up and we'll work on getting out of here. Sound good?"

There's a pained laugh, but despite that, Flywheels looks sincerely relieved. "Y-yeah. Yeah, that sounds great."

-=-=-

--and back into awareness. Krok gasps uselessly as he floats aimlessly, fingers twitching and he struggles.

No. Too far back. Memories still reassembling.

Flywheels. The death hangs in the back of his mind. Flywheels is dead. Flywheels trusted him. That trust, hopefully, did not go to waste, and he has not been able to spare much time on the loss. But it was the first of his new group, the new unit, these people he's picked up, acquired, and kept.

Poor Flywheels.

Maybe it was his fault for thinking that they could fight the Decepticon Justice Division. They managed to live, for the most part, and they endured successfully. All but Flywheels.

Was that his fault? A poor choice?

Krok tilts his helm down, gazing thoughtfully at his hands.

These hands. Pointless. They barely hold anything together at all.

His hands.

What was it Spinister had counted?

Six. He remembers six. What was the significance then?

-=-=-

"Didn't figure it was gonna last long," Krok mutters wearily, patting the wall.

Flywheels shrugs. "Yeah, but now what?"

The look Krok casts outside is a dubious one. On Serenus, he and Flywheels had managed to find a ship that was, for the most part, not completely and horribly damaged. While he himself doesn't have much in the way of technical skill, Flywheels had surprised him by being able to give basic instruction on what they needed. It barely held together as they'd welded parts together haphazardly with flame and hope in order to keep it together so that they could make their escape from Serenus. So, they began to scavenge what was around them in order to make the pitiful vessel fly and further their survival.

Unfortunately, neither of them were pilots, and the pull of the blizzarding world of Cocytanto's gravity was too much for the piece of scrap that's allowed them space travel so far. Thus, they crashed into snow and ice, leaving them with two options:

Fix the ship, and attempt to brave the cold in order to attempt to find material to ensure their own survival.

"Not much in the way of energon stores, do we?" Krok asks.

"Not outside of a few drops." Flywheels tries his best to not look outside. "But I'm sure things will turn out!"

There's a loud transformation noise as Krok's companion turns into his tank mode, which just earns a sigh from the war historian. Over the last few weeks, he'd found out that his friend has a habit of transforming whenever he tells a fib. Strange as the quirk is, it isn't damaging anything. It just means it earns a bit more of Krok's patience.

"Do your best patching up this old heap. I'll have a look outside to see if there's anything worth picking up," Krok instructs.

"With your leg as it is?"

Krok snorts. "I'm not letting a bum ankle keep me from moving forward. I'll be back, Flywheels."

Stronger words than he really felt in this moment, but he knows what needs to be done. If he's going to keep going to find his old crew, he'll need to suck it up and move on. Sitting around and wallowing won't help.

He forces open the door and stares out into the cold, sharp winds and blasts of snow. Although uneasy, Krok does not back away. Instead, he yanks a tarp nearby from the inside of the ship and hugs it around his shoulders, yanking up a part of it over his helm. "This takes me back," Krok mutters to himself before he hobbles out into the snow, working his way around his damaged ankle and limping. The blustering wind does not ease itself, and neither does Krok's stubbornness. With narrowed optics, he continues forward, even as his joints ache and freeze and he can feel frost spreading over his plating. The tarp helps a little in terms of protection, mostly as a makeshift hood.

"Takes me back to Cybertron," he murmurs again, with no one to listen. His crew, his old crew, sometimes they'd tease and joke about how he'd reminisce and tell stories, explaining history, but there'd never be complaints.

So he speaks, to no one but himself.

"The gutters were worse than anyone above our class could tell." Krok huffs, cycling the cold air and trying to warm up. "We didn't have much. Hell, we had less than nothing sometimes. You were rich for a day if you had a clean, properly filtered cup of energon. Now? Now we're back there, scraping by. Funny how it all loops around, eh?"

There's a pause as he stares out into the snowfall, and he sees it: the faintest glow of two, small red lights.

It's evident enough what he's seeing. Steeling himself against the bitter chill of Cocytanto, he marches forward, as if salvation is ahead of him. As the lights begin to flicker, Krok grunts against the cold air, "Don't. Don't you dare go out."

The closer he gets, the more it becomes evident what's waiting for him. He can see limbs and other body parts sticking up out from the snow, but slumped against a rock is a Decepticon soldier. Large, chevron chipped, and he's wearing a facemask. He looks a bit familiar, but Krok's never claimed to ever know the name of every single Decepticon that's ever existed. He pauses, watching the soldier's optics fade in and out, struggling to stay online.

A few feet away are the frozen remains of a shuttle. It looks like it's stripped of its most valuable parts already.

Shaking his head, Krok turns his attention back to the soldier. "You awake?"

A groan is earned for a response, and he can see the larger Decepticon trying to move. He doesn't get far.

"Well. At least you're alive," Krok mumbles, grabbing onto an arm and slinging it around his shoulders. "Going to have to pardon me. You're plenty larger than I am, so you're lucky if I can even drag you the way back to my ship. Whoever you are."

The trek back is more hazardous than venturing out before. It's not that the blizzard is any worse or any different, not really, but the weight of the other Decepticon is difficult to deal with. His ankle, as reinforced as it is, wants to give out as he limps along in the snow and drags the barely alive soldier with him. It might make sense to cut his losses and just leave him behind; most others would.

But he had to make that call with Flywheels before. Things seem to have turned out pretty well with that decision. If they can save this guy, it could end up that he's useful in some way.

"Not all of us started from the bottom." It's the best familiar step he feels he can take, picking up his story from where he left off. Who the hell knows if this large soldier can even hear him, but maybe it'll help. "Don't know about you, but it's where I began. See, the functionists weren't keen on me and others like me, being a monoformer and all. No alt-mode, even to this day. Hell, a lot of people still do. It got cold down there in the gutters, but no where near as cold as it is right here. Wonder if you know that, if you remember that. I do. I keep those memories close, you know. Keeps me going. Keeps that fire."

Finally, he makes it back to his rundown, piece of scrap that somehow made it through space. Krok bangs his fist against the door until Flywheels finally lets him in.

"Primus," Flywheels vents out in surprise, quickly slamming the door closed after Krok stumbles in and dumps the mostly frozen Decepticon to the floor. "Is he even alive?!"

"He was when I found him." Krok kneels down, grunting as he manages to turn the frost-covered Decepticon over onto his back. "I don't suppose you're hiding a medical license in you somewhere?"

"Nope, definitely not." Crouching down at the other side of the soldier, Flywheels looks at Krok. "What should we do? We don't have any energon to get him."

"Even if we did, we'd only cause further damage to him. The way I figure it, we need to heat him him progressively." Tearing the tarp off from his shoulders, Krok throws it over the soldier. "Drag him to the hottest room on the ship and try to fire up the engines. I'm headed back out."

Flywheels loops his arms under the unconscious Decepticon's shoulders. "Are you serious? You're gonna freeze out there like that, Krok."

"Could be. But it also could be that the crashed shuttle out there is our only hope of getting off of this damned planet." With determination, Krok glares at the door. "Get to work. I'll be back. If I'm not, then try to leave without me."

Facing the cold is still hard. It bites at the edges of his plating and challenges his ability to march forward in the snow. What drives him this time, though, is knowing that honestly he isn't just looking out for himself right now. His old crew is depending on him to find them, no doubt. Flywheels and this lost Decepticon both need his help.

They all need to live.

-=-=-

Live.

Optics flare and his hands clench as he vents out hard, even if it rather is pointless in the vacuum of space. Krok tilts his head, glancing around.

He has to live. He has to think. Has to remember.

Where did it go wrong? When did he start to doubt?

"Kr--kk--" A burst of static emits from his communicator, pointless white noise as he drifts.

-=-=-

"How's the ankle?" Flywheels asks.

"Better than the dent in my faceplate," Krok replies in a hint of amusement. Honestly, he isn't even upset about the fact that he'd been punched when Spinister had finally woken up back on Cocytanto; the Decepticon was in an unfamiliar location, so that seemed fairly reasonable. Granted, of course, it was less reasonable when the strange, paranoid soldier found his way out of the ship and was punching the snow outside.

It was a pleasant surprise, at least, that it turned out Spinister was an incredibly skilled medic and managed to fix Krok's busted ankle. Flywheels called it a blessing until Spinister kicked the door for rattling too hard against the wind.

It's a bit of a push and pull, he finds; Flywheels has been plenty of help ever since Krok took mercy upon him, even if the triplechanger with abnormally large feet had some quirks of his own. Spinister downright near flawlessly repaired Krok's ankle, but he seems incredibly paranoid, jumpy, forgetful, and violent. It's going to take a bit of work to keep him in line, but if he can, it'll be worth it until he can reach his old crew.

"I think, uh-- well. I wanted to mention..."

Krok shrugs. "What is it, Flywheels?"

"If we're gonna keep going like this, we're probably going to need a new ship," Flywheels says grimly. "With all that shannix we don't have."

It's not that Krok didn't realize what unfortunate state his sorry spacecraft was in; hell, they're lucky it's lasted this long. They managed to slap it back together and curse at it enough on Cocytanto in order to get it working, but it's impossible to say how much longer it's going to go. As helpful as Flywheels has been, neither of them are engineers. Spinister may have clever hands, but Krok isn't about to let him close to the engine room and tackle their mess of a ship.

Things are in bad shape. Again.

What else is new. Krok isn't about to let it stop him, but it's going to take some careful thinking on this one.

The Decepticon colony on Lyssia is of humble size, location, and forgotten about by most of the army. Which means, from what Krok understands, it's being run by a series of forgettable Decepticons who in turn are undoubtedly entitled and fueling their egos on their little slice of a world. Still, it's small and meaningless enough that he hopes that, perhaps, he can convince to get a bit of help. It's a stretch, but they're all Decepticons. There might be something they can scrape up to move onto their way.

The landing is rough and wince-worthy; hell, Krok doesn't even know if they're going to fly after that, but they're all in one piece. Before Krok can leave the ship, he hears Spinister pipe up and ask, "Where are we?"

"Lyssia." Krok presses a button to open the cargo bay doors. An irritable sigh emits as the button seems to malfunction and the doors refuse to open. "Going to see what I can do to get us on our way." Instead of a patient press of the button, Krok finally just slams his fist against it, finally convincing the cargo bay doors to grind open. "Don't suppose you want to be left off on this little colony? You don't have to stay with us."

Spinister peers out the doors warily, sniffs once, then says flatly, "Don't like how it smells. No thanks. Gonna stay with you."

That earns an amused snort. "Sounds fine by me. Stay put with Flywheels. I'll see what I can do about our situation."

Not that much could be done, Krok quickly finds; the officers in charge of the colony are far less than helpful, and most scoff at his diplomatic attempts to request assistance. It'd be easy to be offended, but Krok isn't so sure he blames them. Most Decepticons just aren't charitable, and Krok literally has nothing to offer them, after all.

They just have a way of going about it.

"Seriously?" Axer -- apparently the top ranked officer of the colony -- practically spits at Krok's feet, peering down at him. "Why the hell would we give anything out? It takes a lot to keep this place running, and I definitely wouldn't give anything free to a monoformer genericon like you. You're lucky enough we even let your rusting ship land here. So as soon as you can? Get your damned eyesore out of here."

Well. So much for that.

It isn't a huge surprise to be refused, but it doesn't remove the bitter taste that lingers. They'll simply have to manage somehow.

Empty-handed, Krok makes his way back to where Flywheels and Spinister wait for him. He pauses, optics narrowing slightly as he watches one of the grunts of the colony peer over his ship, quite thoroughly judging. Overhead, Krok can hear a few ships coming down, but it doesn't strike him as important.

"Can I help you?" Krok asks flatly.

The blue-plated Decepticon turns around to look down at Krok, then snorts. "Doubt it. I'm surprised you got anywhere in this piece of scrap. Your fuel lines are barely in tact, the engine's dying, and I'm willing to bet you haven't even sluiced damn thing."

"You sound like you know your way around ships," Krok muses faintly.

"Feh, not that I've been on one much since I ended up here." There's a clear disappointed look from him, mixed with irritation. "Did you even name it? I didn't see one on the registry."

"Haven't bothered."

The Decepticon soldier scoffs. "Are you serious? Every ship needs a name. Like Super Ship or Amazing Flight or--"

It's a short conversation that is swiftly ended with the distinct voice of Axer shouting, "Crankcase, get your aft over here!" The annoyed expression that passes over the Decepticon's face is apparent, and Krok has a brief twinge of sympathy. It's not unusual for skilled grunts to get stuck at the bottom of the command chain, and Krok gets the feeling it's the same for Crankcase. Less to do with the name suggestions and more towards his technical inclinations.

It's a shame, but not unusual.

It comes as no surprise to Flywheels when Krok admits he couldn't gather supplies. There's a sympathetic smile and Flywheels tries to offer the silver lining, to suggest optimism, but it causes the triplechanger to transform much to Krok's amusement. Spinister seems rather indifferent to Krok's returning with nothing, seeming more interested in something else.

"Heard a sound. Engines nearby," Spinister mutters, picking at rubble in his hands.

"It's a colony. Engines happen," Krok comments.

"Different engines. I remember."

The statement seems bizarre to Krok; it's vague and a bit foreboding, and apparently for good reason. The time to dwell is not now, not when he hears explosions outside of the ship. A startled yep emits from Flywheels and Spinister makes an angry noise and a beeline for the door. That is, until Krok puts out his arm to cut him off.

"Get this hunk of metal running," Krok growls at him. "We're barely fit to fight. Better we get the hell out of here."

"You don't get it. It's Raiders," Spinister says, like Krok is an idiot. Any other time it'd be amusing, but that does earn a perk of interest.

Whatever. He'll have to ask later.

"That changes nothing. You rush out there, you die," Krok snaps at him. "That's an order. Now!"

For a moment, Krok isn't sure that Spinister will listen to him. He did just find the medic out in the middle of no where, and they haven't had much time together to build that much rapport to guarantee he had Spinister's respect. Spinister peers at him, clutching his rotor blade, and Krok is prepared to defend himself if the other attempts to impale him.

Spinister does not. He turns and obeys the order.

The truth is that Krok knows that there will be no way to fire up the ship and manage an escape. He isn't sure that he knows what a Raider is, not really, but it sounds important; he isn't about to throw away what Spinister's said even if the surgeon is a little off.

Warily, Krok peers out one of the windows of his ship in shambles, watching. He can see outside how the other Decepticons scramble and try to defend themselves from the ships above. Krok supposes he may be inclined to help if it was another day, but he doesn't feel too eager considering matters. Curiously, he studies the enemies that dive out of the ships above.

He isn't sure if they're Autobot or Decepticon. The symbols are there, but they're slashed out in a distinct way, and they're working together.

Are these the Raiders that Spinister had mentioned?

Krok's optics quickly are caught on to the grunt he'd spoken to earlier, Crankcase. In the scramble, he watches him brutally earn a shot to the helm, energon splattering out with bits of metal flying out.

"Pit," he hisses.

Axer looks back for only a fraction of second before abandoning his soldier, earning an angered rumble in Krok. Honestly, from the looks of the blow, it was probably fatal. Crankcase is probably dead, but he was also just ditched by his superior officer.

He was left behind.

Waiting until more of the colony's enemies have moved on further into the area, Krok inches his way out from his spacecraft until he reaches Crankcase. He touches the grunt's shoulder.

Crankcase groans.

"Well, you aren't dead," Krok murmurs, and quickly starts dragging him back into the ship.

"We can't start the fragging thing up," Spinister shouts down the hallway.

"Yeah, I figured. Spinister, come here. Tell me if you can fix this Decepticon," Krok orders as he starts pulling Crankcase towards the medbay.

Flywheels follows warily behind the medic as they both step into their meager medical room. "I don't get it -- those guys that attacked. Why didn't they raid our ship too?"

Krok considers for a moment before he comments wryly, "I think that our humbly assembled vessel is in such a sorry state that they probably assumed it was junk left out. Not much to pick off of."

How nice that their unfortunate situation ended up saving their skidplates.

Crankcase, however--

-=-=-

However.

Yes, that. That bit. That right there. Something to do with--

"Kk-rrkk--" Krok's radio coughs up a maimed sound attempting words. Fingers creak and pop and crack as he reaches for his wrist.

"Who...?" Krok manages to growl out.

"Krok! Krok, are you--?!" The rest is buried in static.

Misfire. Misfire's voice.

-=-=-

"Get your stupid hands away from me," Crankcase snaps. "You already said you couldn't fix it!"

"Well, yeah, I can't, not without the right stuff," Spinister points out. "That doesn't mean I shouldn't keep an optic on it."

"Yeah, well, I don't want you anywhere near me!"

"Don't be dumb," Spinister says.

"Krok!" Crankcase complains.

"Krok?" Spinister complains a little less.

A heavy sigh escapes Krok before he says, "Crankcase, let him have a look. Spinister, don't irritate him."

It's remarkable how much this lot is a combination of ridiculousness but also incredibly skilled people. It doesn't look like it by appearances, but Spinister is a fantastic surgeon and an incredible doctor -- but his inherent paranoia, violent reactions, and forgetfulness doesn't help. Still, his hands are incredible, there's no doubt about that. Flywheels is an unusual triplechanger, but a triplechanger nonetheless that is fairly versatile around the ship; that kind of flexibility is something that Krok's been needing. Crankcase turned out to be a pretty decent pilot and mechanic alike, although ever since what happened on the colony, he has quite the fiery temper.

Not that Krok could blame him. Crankcase had been straight up abandoned by his commanding officer and he has no reason to really trust any of them. Krok didn't make him come, but considering what was left of the colony, he doubts Crankcase felt like he had much of a choice.

It's been months since then. They've managed their way further into space, and their roles sliding into position. Frankly, Krok is surprised he's been able to get far with this bundle of misfits.

The station in which they dock is small, remote, and Decepticon-friendly. They don't have much, but Krok's been able to save up enough shannix. His intentions are simple: buy enough fuel to get them to the next port, see what they can trade off, and maybe push it so that he can buy a drink each. They've been through enough. It seems fair, and the sad truth is that this is indulging for them.

Krok doesn't expect trouble. Maybe that's the problem.

As soon as they walk into the bar, Crankcase remarks, "I still think you could have done better than Weak Anthropic Principle for a ship name."

The topic doesn't progress any further as Krok and his three crewmembers just kind of stare at the situation at hand.

The entire room is silent as soon as they step inside, all optics drawn to Krok and the three behind him. Several firearms are out, but not pointing at them, but rather at the center of the room at a Decepticon on the floor. Slowly, Krok peers down at him.

Not that he himself is in the best of conditions, but he finds his optics meeting with the other Decepticon's and observing him. He's a scrappy looking one, that's for sure, but by the looks of his wings he's probably able to turn into a jet. Krok tilts his head a little, squinting at him, and the Decepticon jet just grins nervously before he's shoved down by someone else, foot on his back.

"Guess we should probably come back later," Crankcase points out with a snort.

Krok doesn't say anything; instead, he just looks down at the pitiful looking Decepticon. The smart thing would be to turn around and go.

"Uh, no! No, you can be here now. As a matter of fact--" the jet pipes up.

"Shut it," the bartender says impatiently. "I tolerate a lot of scrap in here, Misfire, but stealing right from my bar? Do you think we were going to look the other way?"

"I was sort of hoping so," Misfire mutters.

"You can settle what you stole by paying me, then I'll just kick you out. That's pretty damned generous."

Misfire lets out an awkward giggle. "If I could pay for it, I wouldn't have just, you know, taken it."

"Krok?" Flywheels mumbles, putting his hand onto the tactician's shoulder.

Right. Right, this isn't their problem. Krok glances at his three worn out, tired, and edgy Decepticons. They deserve a break, not to be involved in this stupid argument. Krok nods to them and turns around to follow Crankcase, Spinister, and Flywheels out of the bar. They'll just come back later.

"If you can't pay for it with money, then you'll pay for it in a different way," the bartender informs him flatly. "Barracks, tear off his wings."

"Ah, wait! Wait wait wait!!" Misfire's voice is frantic. "Don't leave! Help? Help me!"

Krok doesn't turn around. Not until he hears the first creak of metal and a pathetic shriek from the jet. It nudges him further and finally he caves in, turning around quickly.

"Damn it," he hears Crankcase sigh.

"Stop," Krok says, feeling exhausted. "Stop this nonsense. How much?"

The bartender peers at him. "He took 30 shannix worth of engex. I want 100 for the disturbance."

There's a serious debate in Krok. He could give what little he has already and make it more difficult for the rest of them in order for one little scrappy thief to keep his wings, or do the smart thing and leave. There's a horrible balance about doing the smart thing and doing the right thing, but he'd like to think that it lives by the Decepticon ideals to stand up for the forgotten, for the ones at the bottom just scraping by. If he was with his old crew, they'd probably just shoot their way out of the situation and feel good about it, but here? Here, Krok doesn't have such a luxury. No, they can only get by on what they have and roll with it that way.

"80," Krok offers.

"Oh c'mon!" Crankcase sputters, but makes no further effort to stop Krok.

"Are you deaf? I said--"

"80 or you can be a little poorer with a complaining, injured Decepticon on your floor. Plus spilled energon," Krok says flatly.

The barkeep scowls, then says, "90."

"85 or I'm leaving."

After a brief pause, the bartender nods once. "Barracks, get off of 'im. Okay, genericon. Pay up."

Bewildered and apparently shocked that anyone came to his rescue, Misfire slowly gets to his feet and watches Krok dig into one of his compartments. The credits are tossed at the bartender's feet.

"Let's go," Krok mumbles to his trio.

Once they leave the bar, Crankcase snaps at him with, "Are you completely out of your glitching mind?! We can barely fuel up our scrapheap of a ship, much less get us any food!"

"I'm perfectly aware of that," Krok says sternly. "I think you'd probably feel differently if it was you on the floor with your wheels about to be pulled off."

"Yeah, but it wasn't me, and I don't care about every little nobody we come across like you do." Crankcase seethes and rubs his face. "You are a bleeding spark and you're gonna get us killed!"

"Nah, just hungry," Spinister points out helpfully.

"Thank you," Krok says wryly, knowing that the medic is sincerely trying to back him up in his own way. "Crankcase, why did you join the Decepticons?"

"What? What the hell kind of question is that?" Crankcase snorts.

Krok folds his arms. "I want you to think about it. Think about why you joined, then think about today. This symbol we wear, it isn't for them to show off and have their way. It's for us. For all of us."

"Uh, s'cuse me?"

All heads turn towards the voice. Krok puts a hand to Spinister's wrist instinctively as the medic prepares to take out his gun, while Crankcase growls and Flywheels isn't sure if he wants to wave at the jet or punch him.

Misfire grins warily. "Don't s'pose you lot have space for another on your ship?"

-=-=-

There's a tremor in him as he reaches for his compartment. There. It's still there. It has to be. Maybe it'll be enough this time, or enough to call upon them.

It's not quite close enough, though, Krok realizes.

He clenches the familiar, cylinder shape. It clicks.

Plus one, but then minus one.

No, he remembers. He realizes what happened.

"Misfire," he groans to his radio link. "Misfire, find Crankcase."

-=-=-

"Crankcase?"

Krok had come into the cargo bay as promised in order to assist his crewmember. It seemed like they both needed it; Crankcase probably could use the company in his own way, and Crankcase -- until they found Fulcrum -- had always been the most stable of this ship. Frankly, he isn't sure what he'd have done without any of them. So, upon arriving, the cargo bay seems eerily empty of any part-time mechanic and part-time pilot.

It's a curious and suspicious thing.

"Krok!"

Immediately, the tactician whirls around to face the source of Crankcase's voice. He freezes up almost immediately.

"I wouldn't come closer," Pharma advises.

They aren't hands, but hands enough; Pharma is clever enough without hands to fix Dent, a Predabot that was in pieces. With pincers fused into his wrists, he's clutching Crankcase with one and pointing a scalpel very specifically towards the damaged portion of the pilot's helm. Pharma is precise, enough that he could flick his wrist and immediately kill Crankcase. The mechanic is snarling, wanting to struggle but also fearing for his life.

Krok doesn't blame his crewmate, despite the vague guilty look that Crankcase carries.

With a weary sigh, Krok lifts up his hands faintly in vague surrender. "I wouldn't do that. I'm sure you realize we have one of your own on board. Grimlock."

"Yes, yes. I'm incredibly aware of the drooling idiocy that he's become," Pharma replies back, sounding impatient. "I have no doubt that I can outsmart the rest of your pathetic Decepticons. Now, if you want this one to live, you're going to do exactly as I tell you to. I think those should be simple enough instructions for you, hm?"

Most Decepticons wouldn't put up with this threat. They would charge in, take out the enemy, even if it means sacrificing one of their own. For most, it is a simple choice.

For Krok, he really only has one option.

"Fine," he says.

Pharma wears an ugly, confident smirk. "Fantastic. Back yourself up to the cargo bay doors."

Carefully, Krok obeys. The steps are slow as he walks backwards towards where Pharma ordered him to, knowing that going out that way will only eject him out into the cold of space. His back brushes up against the first set of doors.

Roughly, Crankcase is guided forward with Pharma hissing distastefully at him, threatening to jab the pointed end of the scalpel closer to the Decepticon's brain module. Krok frowns, hating the Autobot as he watches how Crankcase is treated, but he remains silent.

"Krok--" Crankcase starts; maybe he wants to curse at Krok, maybe he wants to assure him, but nothing further comes out when he immediately stiffens up due to Pharma shifting his grip.

"It's fine, Crankcase." After all, Krok doesn't blame him, doesn't hold it against him. It's not Crankcase's fault for deciding to trust Krok's decision to help Pharma and bring him on board, which ultimately led to this.

No. Not at all.

Krok watches as Pharma leans in close to Crankcase, whispering into his auditory sensor, "Open the first set of doors. After he steps into the airlock, close them."

For a moment, Crankcase just grits his teeth instead of doing anything. Then, very slowly, he raises his hand and pulls the switch. The doors grind as they open, and on cue Krok steps back into the airlock. Although Krok does not show it, there is barely contained rage as he watches them. Pharma is taller than Crankcase, and he's very clearly taking advantage of the gaping wound in his head in order to have an advantage. He wishes he could take back his choice to help the Autobot.

But there's no turning back time, Krok tells himself. There's nothing he can do, not as he watches Crankcase brace himself and push the switch again in order to close the first doors.

"I'm sorry," Crankcase manages out finally.

"It's not your fault," Krok tells him just as the doors shut.

Trapped in the airlock, all Krok can do as he sees Crankcase clench his teeth before shouting something at Pharma, who barks something back at him. A helpless look from the pilot is given to Krok, and the Decepticon tactician gives one nod.

The doors behind Krok begin to creak open as Crankcase finally presses the button confirming the action.

In just a few seconds, he'll be pulled into oblivion, made into another object in space.

-=-=-

Right.

Krok wants to ask if Crankcase is all right, if Misfire knows about Pharma, if anyone is okay, but there's no strength left. He is sapped, he is nothing, and all he can do is sigh and feel his optics dim.

There are many regrets and many decisions he's made that he isn't sure were right, but they are his to bear. He can only hope the others don't pay for it.

It's in his hand. In his fist. He clenches down hard on it.

Before his mind drifts offline, Krok can hear the static bursting from his radio link, calling for his name.

Chapter Text

It's amazing how quickly objects get sucked into space.

There have been times where he'd be bored with Misfire and Flywheels. They'd go through their collection of scrap, determine what was the least useful or profitable, and then one by one they'd release the item into the vacuum. It's really not that fascinating and Crankcase gets the science of it, but in those days of nothing to do but complain to each other how there was nothing to do, it was a way to pass the time.

It's a bit horrifying to watch the same thing happen to Krok when Pharma forces him to pull the switch.

Numbly, Crankcase watches how fast Krok disappears into the black, how the ship leaves him behind. His hand still clutches the switch that did the deed, and more than he'd ever admit, he feels like the scum of the universe. An Autobot with no hands was more agile than he was and took advantage of his gaping head wound, forcing him to dispose of the ship's captain. No, it wasn't anything else he'd ever done or said in his life that makes him feel this way. It's what Pharma's made him do to Krok, who is lost to the stars.

He hates it. He hates the helpless feeling boiling inside of him.

Crankcase feels the edge of the scalpel blade lightly prod into his helm, brushing up against with essential wires, taunting and warning him all at once. He goes rigid, knowing how vulnerable his position is.

"We have places to be," Pharma tells him.

Gingerly, Crankcase's hand slips free of the lever. "If you wanted a tour of the scrapheap, there were better ways to get it," he snaps, but the words don't feel as biting or strong as he'd like.

"Just move into the hall, then I'll instruct you further." Pharma snorts at him. "Honestly, if you weren't the pilot, I wouldn't even be bothering with you."

That's it, then. Pharma just got lucky that the one with an obvious head injury was also the main pilot on board. So not only is he the damned hostage, he's supposed to fly Pharma wherever the hell he wants.

That or dying, he guesses. Crankcase isn't a good enough warrior to shake him off without a good opportunity, and frankly he likes living too much to give up his own life for anyone else.

Damn.

Reluctantly, Crankcase moves away from the cargo bay door, slowly making his way into the hall.

-=-=-

The mess hall is truly now a mess, and there's no way in hell that Spinister was going to stick around in order to help Fulcrum clean it up after Grimlock. The stupid Dynobot got into Misfire's bottles and got sick for it. Sure, he had no problem going down, carefully stepping over the puddles of what had been purged from Grimlock's tanks, and helping out Fulcrum, but when the technician asked if Spinister would help him clean the place, the medic just stared at him as if he was about to explode. Fulcrum then wisely retracted his statement and decided he'd do it himself.

Suits Spinister just fine. Seems like Fulcrum was taking it upon himself to looking after the big dumb Autobot, anyway.

The ship's surgeon makes his way back to his medbay. Almost immediately, he feels like something is wrong and he pauses to consider it.

Oh. Right. Pharma is gone.

Well, that could mean a lot of things. Maybe Krok decided to take him or something. Initially, Spinister isn't worried, until he steps further inside of the room. He stops, then his optics narrow. Slowly, he walks in a tiny circle.

What is it? What's off?

Out of the corner of his optic, he sees it. That's it, that's what it is.

One of his end tables, the top drawer is sticking out slightly. He didn't leave it like that. He did not leave it like that!

Rushing over to the drawer, Spinister grabs at it violently and yanks it out from the table. He whirls around and slams it down onto his operating berth, scanning the contents frantically. Spinister counts the different scalpels, muttering under his breath.

Off. The count is off by one.

Spinister slams a fist against the berth and goes to reach for his pistol.

"I would put that down," Pharma says.

Initially, Spinister aims to shoot, glaring at the Autobot doctor. The only reason he doesn't pull the trigger is because of who's in front of Pharma and why. It's conflicting, since he knows that the scalpel used to keep Crankcase where he is would be the missing one from his drawer and that just ticks him off. That's his tool and Pharma has no business holding it and that's good enough of a reason to shoot him. On the other hand, he really doesn't want to accidentally shoot Crankcase.

Cooperating, Spinister lowers his gun. "This sucks," Spinister says.

"You're tellin' me," Crankcase agrees, grumbling tiredly.

"Toss that over this way, would you? Let's just say I don't trust it being within your general vicinity," Pharma instructs.

Although he really, really doesn't want to just fork over his gun to Pharma, Spinister is less happy with the idea that something bad would happen to Crankcase. He's pretty okay with Crankcase, after all. After a bit of an internal debate, Spinister places the pistol onto the floor, then slides it towards the Autobot.

Pharma smiles, clearly satisfied with himself. "Crankcase, pick it up for me. It'll attach to my hip. Do anything strange, and I will stab your brain module. Granted, it's a fairly fast death, but I'm sure you wouldn't want it to happen."

There's almost a pained look from Crankcase from what Spinister can see; his teeth are gritted and he's angry, but he doesn't do anything about it except slowly lean down to pick up the gun and do exactly as Pharma tells him to do. The firearm snaps into place at Pharma's hip.

"Good, good. Now, I want you both to sit at the operating table." Pharma's smile slides into a sharp grin. "Chop chop."

Spinister doesn't look much at Pharma right now, but he listens. He sits down at the operating berth and peers at his teammate instead. "Krok's gonna know what to do," he says confidently.

"Spinister--" Crankcase grates out, sounding as if he has something in his throat.

Pharma cuts in, sounding delighted: "Your idiot of a captain's out of the ship with the rest of the trash. I suggest you focus."

In a split second, Spinister almost finds himself rising to his feet in order to tackle Pharma. He wants to smash into him and stomp on his stupid face. He wants to tear off the canopy and rip out his thrusters. Anger rushes through him and he almost feels blind with rage. No, not Krok, because Krok always knows what to do and he trusts Krok and how dare he. The only thing absolutely stopping him is the fact that Crankcase's life is in danger, so instead he clenches at the table, the edge bending under his grip.

Spinister looks at Crankcase. Crankcase just adverts his gaze. Spinister has never seen him so miserable.

"I'm gonna kill you," Spinister promises the Autobot.

"I doubt that very much." Pharma pats Crankcase's shoulder. "Now, where do you keep the buzzsaws?"

"Why the hell would I know that?" Crankcase sneers at him. "I don't touch Spinister's medbay as far as organizing his crap goes. Nobody does or the idiot nearly punches our faces in."

"Charming," Pharma snorts before he addresses Spinister. "Well?"

No response from the Decepticon surgeon. There's no way he's going to tell him that. Instead, Spinister glares at Pharma in silence, barely containing his rage.

"Suit yourself." Pharma leans down, getting close to Crankcase's auditory sensor. "Pick a scalpel from the drawer Spinister left out so kindly for us. Spinister, unless you don't have any further attachment to Crankcase's life, I suggest you put you hands down on the table and don't move. Don't move at all and don't. Make. A single sound."

Slowly, Spinister follows the instruction, his palms pressing flat against the metal. He steals a glance from Crankcase's face, which is scrunched up in anger and confusion as he takes a scalpel blade.

"Cut off his hands," Pharma tells Crankcase.

"What?!" Crankcase barks out, almost jerking in the Autobot's hold. Spinister doesn't even flinch, he just stares at Pharma.

"For goodness sake, don't make me repeat myself." Pharma gestures a pincer briefly to Spinister's hands. "Cut them off. I don't have all night. Or day. Really, I'm not even sure what time it is."

A few seconds pass and Crankcase seems to be having a crisis. That's great. Spinister shakes his head. No, they really don't have much time for this until Pharma decides to think up something worse. While Spinister is definitely not thrilled with the idea of losing his hands, he's pretty much not okay with the thought of Crankcase getting killed or something for not doing what he says.

So he points to his wrist. "Here, between the plating. You're gonna wanna cut here. It's cleanest," Spinister informs him. "But yeah, buzzsaw makes it easier. Scalpel's gonna take some time."

"Are you out of your mind?" Crankcase demands, not immediately appreciating the information that Spinister's given him.

Spinister sighs, getting impatient. "Don't be dumb, Crankcase. Just do it."

That earns a baffled look from Crankcase, but the pilot just lets out a heavy breath from his vents before he places his hand over the back of Spinister's. There's a pause before he slowly starts to bring the scalpel down, nudging it just between plating. It doesn't quite cut in yet. Not just yet.

Crankcase's hand is trembling and Spinister can feel it.

"Quit that. If you're gonna make a cut, you can't shake. You'd make a crappy doctor," Spinister tells him.

Briefly, Crankcase's visor widens, glowing a bit more sharply before he frowns and looks back down at the task he really, really doesn't want to do. "I'm not shaking," he hisses.

"Yeah, you are, and you'd better stop it."

"Are you seriously talking him through surgery?" Pharma asks, voice edging towards being amused.

The trembling minimalizes, to Spinister's relief. Not that this is going to hurt much less, but the less Crankcase is freaking out, then the less the damage is going to be. He braces himself, tensing up as Crankcase starts the cut in. Cables are cleanly sliced through, which hurts a little less than when the scalpel starts piercing through the tubing. When it does, energon starts oozing out onto the table.

Yeah. Yeah, okay, that hurts a lot, actually.

Crankcase stops midway once the scalpel bumps into the joint and socket, and he's trembling again. Spinister debates pointing it out, but he thinks that if he says anything, he really might make a noise that isn't really a word.

Pharma is the one that gets impatient anyway, still terribly close to Crankcase's auditory sensor, hissing into it. "Stop waiting and just get it done. You have a whole other hand to deal with."

There's a moment of silence from Crankcase, then he slides the scalpel out from Spinister's wrist, even as it continues to bleed out energon. There's an angry rumble in the mechanic's engine. "Y'know what I think?"

"Who cares?" Pharma immediately growls.

"I think you aren't gonna jam that in my head no matter what I do."

Pharma definitely looks ticked. "Do you want to test that little theory?"

"I was thinking about it. You snagged me because I'm the pilot. Okay, great, but why? You're a damned jet, what the hell do you need me for? But you know, this ship is such a pile of sorry junk that I probably am the only person that could conceivably fly it." Crankcase's hands clench into fists. "Yeah. That's what I think. You can't kill me, not until you get to wherever it is you plan on being."

It sounds like Pharma is being challenged and at first Spinister thinks it dumb. That is, until Pharma seems to be hesitating, as if he's been caught on his gamble. Slowly, Spinister peers up, studying the Autobot medic.

"Go ahead. Go ahead and try to stab my damned brain!" Crankcase practically snarls. "I--"

"Shut it," Pharma hisses, leaning in close as he presses the scalpel into Crankcase's head wound. "I don't need to kill you, but I'm sure I can make you hurt! And you," he says, addressing Spinister who starts to get up despite his own injury, "you useless excuse of a doctor, don't even try to get up, I'll--"

Not another word is spoken, not when Pharma is suddenly cut off by the fact that a green foot has smashed into the side of his head. It surprises him, and Pharma yells out, thrown to the floor away from Crankcase.

It's that Predabot with no optics. He's leaping on top of Pharma, trying to pin him down onto the floor, but without being able to see it's a bit difficult.

"Dent?!" Crankcase looks at his rescuer, surprised to see him there.

A response doesn't come immediately, not when Dent is busy manhandling the Autobot medic. Eventually, he socks Pharma once in the face before answering the pilot. "Crankcase! You okay?"

"Whatever!" Crankcase grumbles, standing up quickly so he can tend to Spinister and try to stop more precious energon from spilling. "How the hell could you tell he was even there?"

"Oh, you know--" Dent pauses and grunts as he tries to loop his arms under Pharma's in order to dominate the struggle. "Metallikato training! Didn't I mention that?"

"Metalliwhat?!"

Eventually, the Autobot doctor almost succumbs to Dent's apparent superior physical strength. Briefly, Pharma's optics dart around and he tries to come up with something until he shouts: "You idiot! It's me, Pharma!"

"What?" Dent jerks his head back and his arms become lax from attempting to manhandle Pharma. The news had apparently surprised him enough, the fact that he'd saved Crankcase from a fellow Autobot. Quickly taking advantage of the Predabot's shock, Pharma slams his scalpel into Dent's faceplate. Letting out a cry from the attack, Dent reaches up towards his faceplate and is soon kicked off by Pharma. Once free of the other's weight, Pharma quickly runs out of the medbay.

"Pit," Crankcase curses.

"Oh, no you don't!" he hears Misfire shout.

It seems as if, maybe, luck is a little more on their side. Almost immediately, Pharma is met with Misfire attempting to tackle him just by the doorway. It's clumsy, as if Misfire is just falling on top of him, but Pharma seems taken by surprise enough that it almost works. The pair of jets struggle for a few seconds until Pharma manages to throw him off, slamming Misfire's head into the wall.

Out of sheer desperation, he tries to make his escape back towards the cargo bay. He could still transform into a jet, maybe get away. Stealing the ship from these Decepticons, after all, is quickly starting to seem to be an unlikely possibility.

Again, he does not get far, not with Fulcrum blocking the way immediately and one very large Autobot warrior standing behind him.

"The idiot Dynobot and the K-Classer. Is that all?" Pharma snorts, unimpressed.

Fulcrum nods. "Yep. That's it. Big Guy, grab him."

Without a pause, Grimlock snarls and grabs Pharma by the head, slamming him into the floor violently -- and specifically not stopping. Roaring, Grimlock smashes Pharma into the wall and the floor, effectively denting both with how much strength the Dynobot puts into it. Eventually, the doctor is left groaning and barely conscious, his plating horribly dented and paint scraped off. Giving him a glance, Fulcrum seems satisfied that Pharma isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Nice job, buddy." Fulcrum touches the Dynobot's arm. "Hang onto him for now. Got it?"

"Mm. Me Grimlock."

Good enough. Fulcrum smiles wryly and crouches down to help Misfire to his feet. "You all right?"

"Eh, been told I have a thick helm, but I dunno if I believe that." Misfire rubs his head. "Huh. So this is all of us, but where's Krok? You'd think he'd be up in Pharma's business for his abrupt need to stab everyone."

It takes all of Crankcase's willpower to say, "Let me explain."

-=-=-

The first thing they made sure of was that Pharma wasn't going to get anywhere. Their brig is small and downright hardly functional, but it was better than nothing. They threw him in, and rigged the door to stay closed. For now, he was still unconscious and not going anywhere, though it will be a messy matter for them to tend to very soon. That at least guaranteed them some time to get the damned situation figured out. Not that Crankcase is incredibly thrilled to share the news, but he has to. What else can he do?

First, they sort out the series of events: Misfire and Dent were coming back down from the bridge, but they'd heard Crankcase shouting. With some vague instruction from Misfire and Dent's apparent knack for metallikato (whatever the hell that is) he was able to sneak up on Pharma despite being completely blind. In the case of Fulcrum and Grimlock, the pair were returning from the mess hall, only to have Pharma run into them instead. Bad luck for the Autobot doctor.

Then, Crankcase gets to explaining what happened to Krok, and he hates the taste of guilt in his mouth.

When he's done, everyone sits quietly for a moment.

Then Fulcrum says, "Okay. So what do we do to get him back?"

"Are you out of your mind?" Crankcase snorts, pausing so he can pull the scalpel from Dent's faceplate. The Autobot does a good job of not squirming, but he does let out a pretty pitiful whimper. "He's out wherever now. How the hell can we find him?"

"What about trying to detect his energy signature?" Fulcrum offers, multitasking as he tries to help Spinister repair his wrist.

"Yeah, our sensors aren't that sophisticated. You do know what ship you're on, don't you?"

Fulcrum narrows his optics slightly. "Look. I know what a piece of garbage we're on, but I sure as hell am not about to give up on trying to find him."

There's an annoyed look from Crankcase before the mechanic exhales and shakes his head. "Yeah, well. Suppose if we were in different positions, Krok would try to find us -- and die trying."

"That's the spirit. I, uh. I think."

Misfire wrings his hands a little. "So, uh. What do we do, Fulcrum?"

The technician nearly yanks his hands away from Spinister's injured wrist. "What the hell are you asking me for?"

"Last time Krok was out of commission, you and Misfire nudged us in the right direction." Crankcase pauses, then snorts. "Well, I assume it was the right direction. We aren't dead yet, so that's pretty good."

"Um." Fulcrum squints his optics as several pairs of optics turn his way, including the confused, helpless look on Dent's face, the only one who actually lacks any means of eyesight right now. It's not pleasant to have this many people expect him to somehow fix the situation. Fulcrum? Fulcrum is more than happy to just follow Krok's lead, but this isn't a situation where he can just do that.

Eventually, he exhales and nods. "Yeah. Okay. Misfire? Why don't you get to the bridge with Crankcase? You can try to comm Krok. Maybe we can somehow reach him. If that works, maybe Crankcase can track him down."

"Um. I'm a navigator. Can I help?" Dent offers quietly.

"You're a blind navigator," Crankcase points out. "Which by the way, can you get around to explaining this metallikato scrap to me at some point?"

"As soon as Spinister can give you an optic, head to the bridge and help out Crankcase and Misfire. Can you work with just one?" Fulcrum asks, focusing more on Dent's eyesight and less on Crankcase's question.

Dent nods. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Okay." Fulcrum exhales. "Spinister, once we're done with your wrist, get to work on Dent. Then, you and I are going to pay Pharma a visit."

"You promise?" Spinister asks, narrowing his optics. The way he sounds, he's definitely okay with the idea of confronting the Autobot doctor.

Alarmed, Fulcrum almost stammers. "I-- yeah. I promise."

Spinister grunts and looks back down, focusing on finishing the touch-ups on his wrist. "Good."

"I'm turning the ship around towards Delphi. After that, I'm coming back here," Crankcase informs Fulcrum as he starts to follow Misfire.

"First you ask me to tell you what to do, now you're telling me what you're gonna do anyway?" the technician asks back wryly.

Crankcase shoots him a glare. "The best I can do right now is bring us back to where we may have left Krok. After that, we're flying blind until we can pick up a trace of him. I might as well be here."

"Erm." Fulcrum holds up his hands. "Yeah, okay."

After watching the irritable pilot go, Fulcrum lets out a sigh. This? This was a tense situation. He isn't even sure if they can find Krok, honestly, but he's going to give it his all. Crankcase is right about one thing: Krok would do anything to find them. He has a hard time letting go, and he certainly wouldn't let go of one of his crewmembers. It's kind of one of the things he likes about this group of misfits.

Even if they're a bit nutty, they're pretty okay.

"Fulcrum. Right?" pipes up Dent's voice.

The Autobot sounds so tiny now so suddenly. Fulcrum didn't really have an opportunity to talk to him before considering he was still unconscious when the others brought him on board. His only impression had been an Autobot that looked like he was put back together with some rather jarring welding, but impressive nonetheless from a guy who had no hands at the time.

From the sounds of things, it was a good thing that Dent did wake up and socialize a little since he ended up helping them out.

"That's me. Hey, Dent." Fulcrum starts to offer his hand out, then immediately realizes how stupid that is.

"Hey. Was it... was it really Pharma?" A bit anxiously, Dent taps his fingers over his own knees.

Fulcrum nods, even though the other can't see it. "Yeah. Sure was."

"Oh." Dent exhales and lowers his helm.

Honestly, he isn't sure what kind of relation exists between Dent and Pharma, but they were basically crew. The news sounds like it's weighing kind of hard on Dent in some way. "Are you two close?" Fulcrum asks.

"Not exactly," Dent emits his voice softly.

He isn't sure what that means, but either way, maybe it doesn't matter. Not right now, anyway. "Look." Fulcrum tries not to wince at the bad choice of words, but he kneels down to put his hand on Dent's shoulder. "I don't know how close you two are, but don't feel bad about kicking him around a little. You helped us out a lot, and it actually means a lot to us. I know the others aren't gonna be as vocal about it. But thanks for sticking up for us, even if you didn't know who it was."

It seems that alleviates some of the Autobot's worry. Dent, despite his lack of optics and facemask, actually somehow appears to be very pleased to hear all of that. "You're welcome."

"Done," Spinister announces, flexing his wrist. "I'll try to grab an optic for you. Don't suppose you want it in a specific color?"

"Blue?" Dent tries.

"Might have one of those. Mostly got 'em in red." A hefty shrug from Spinister. "Go lay down on the berth."

"C'mon." Gently, Fulcrum tugs Dent to his feet and guides him to the medical slab.

While the Autobot gets himself situation, Spinister continues to sort through his drawers for a moment until he pauses and peers down. The surgeon plucks out his choice and pauses, glancing up as Crankcase comes back into the medbay.

"Said I'd be back," Crankcase snaps.

"You sure did," Fulcrum says. "We on course?"

Crankcase bumps his shoulder against Fulcrum a bit roughly. "I told you I'd turn us around, and I did." Turning towards the medical slab, he addresses Dent. "You ready?"

"Um." Dent's hands tap together a bit nervously. "I think so. Do I have to be awake for this?"

Planting his hands at either side of the Autobot's helm, Spinister peers down at him, even though Dent can't exactly look back. "Nope. Could put you under, but waking you back up will take too long. Too much time, if we're gonna find Krok, so guess you just need to deal with it."

"Oh. Uh, okay."

"Spinister's good at what he does, even if his bedside manner's probably not the greatest," Fulcrum offers. "You're in good hands."

That seems to ease down the Autobot somewhat. Wiggling down and trying to get as comfortable as he can for a quick bout of optical surgery, Dent reaches about blindly until his hand settles onto Crankcase's wrist.

"Thanks for coming back," Dent says gratefully.

"Whatever." Crankcase tries to sound as grumpy as ever, but the spite and anger in his voice isn't as strong as it was just a second ago.

"You ready now or you gonna keep chatting?" Spinister says with a grunt.

One tiny nervous laugh escapes Dent and he mumbles that he's finally ready.

Spinister doesn't split his face open or anything so brutal. When it comes to fighting, the surgeon's pretty much a barbarian and goes all-out. Hell, in the face of the D.J.D., he probably did better than any of them did, not that it says much. But with this kind of stuff? With surgery? It's kind of weird, but Spinister's almost downright elegant with what he has to work with.

First, his hands hold onto Dent's helm as he peers down at him, mentally noting to himself on what to do. Then, Spinister nods to himself; he reaches into the empty socket with a pinky. It earns a startled gasp from the Autobot, but Dent is good about not moving. Quickly, Spinister pulls out a tiny cord and squints at it briefly. Using the plug at the end, he plugs it into the open port on the optic.

"I still can't see--" Dent says anxiously.

"Duh," Spinister mutters. "Hang on."

Something like a tiny blowtorch is brought up to the cord, making sure the connection is in place. While Dent makes an uncomfortable noise, Spinister ignores it and continues working. Smoothly, the optic is placed into the socket as it comes online, and Spinister is able to snap glass into place over the sensor. It's all very quick, and although it's not painless, it's done in less than five minutes.

"Now you're done," Spinister informs him.

The optic moves and glows. It seems to work, but Dent looks confused as he sits up. He looks at all three of them, then he appears very alarmed, suddenly scrambling back, as if to get away from Spinister, Fulcrum, and Crankcase. It's quick and clumsy, causing him to tumble right off of the medical slab, but that doesn't stop him from trying to get as far back as possible.

"You-- you're all Decepticons!" Dent announces, sounding very alarmed.

Spinister stares at Dent as if he's spontaneously grown a second head. "Are you stupid?"

"He was blind," Fulcrum reminds him. "It's not like he could see our faction emblem."

"So?"

Crankcase folds his arms, looking more like his irritable self again. "Didn't figure we had to say anything," he growls lowly before he looks away.

The Autobot's expression softens a little. "Crankcase..."

"Dent, we still need your help. You said you'd help us find Krok," Fulcrum reminds. He pauses, then tilts his head and asks, "Are you going to keep your word?"

"I." The Predabot folds his arms over himself and looks uncertain. The single optic he has dims in its brightness, then he nods. "Yeah. I will."

"Good. Go with Crankcase and get to work. Spinister, you and I will go have that talk with Pharma now."

-=-=-

The brig is tiny and cramped and usually used for storage, to be perfectly honest. Usually they don't really have any need for it. Even when they had brought Grimlock onto the ship, there was the briefest debate on whether or not they really had to lock him in there. Eventually, they agreed that it would be too much work to even fit him into the space after clearing it out, things turned out better than expected anyway when they decided the closet was better. Kind of.

In the case of Pharma, they just kind of shoved some locked boxes out of the way and then jammed him in there. No real room to cause trouble, and Grimlock had been a very good watch dog as a result.

When Fulcrum arrives with Spinister behind him, Grimlock immediately stands up and transforms into his beast mode, approaching and rumbling happily. "Me Grimlock!" he announces.

"You sure are." Once upon a time, the giant Autobot warrior would have made Fulcrum too frightened to do anything by even being in the same room as him. Now, it's kind of strange to think that he's gotten used to him, that he would probably even call him a friend even if the others are reluctant to quite accept that Grimlock has much of a brain in him. Smiling, Fulcrum pats Grimlock's jaw. In return, Grimlock chomps his impressive teeth at the air, a pleased and harmless gesture. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Grimlock."

The Dynobot snorts. "Me Grimlock watch him puny jet. Bored."

"I know, I bet it was super boring. Why don't you go ahead and relax in the engine room, okay?"

A single wag of his enormous tail and Grimlock stomps off. Fulcrum watches after him for a moment, then lets out a sigh.

"Well, after Garrus-9, nobody knew what the hell ever happened to the almighty Grimlock." From his tiny cell, Pharma lets out a bark of laughter. "You're either terribly clever in dumbing him down so much that he'll obey your orders, or Overlord managed to break even his violent brain into something incredibly stupid. Otherwise he would have killed you. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not here to talk about Garrus-9, Grimlock, or Overlord with you." Fulcrum holds his hands together. "What's important are a few factors, Pharma. You made Crankcase a hostage, had Krok ejected from the ship, and thought... what, you were going to steal Spinister's hands?"

"Was that it?" Spinister squints thoughtfully. "But they're my hands!"

"Spin," Fulcrum puts his hand to the Decepticon medic's arm. "You aren't losing them."

"And what good would he use them for? Me. I have... these." Pharma sneers and squeezes the pincers he was given. "Everything was taken from me by your people."

Fulcrum rubs the back of his head. "This is starting to sound like the beginning of a rant I'm not that interested in hearing. Look, I don't care. I don't care what you lost. I care about the position you put us in after we rescued your sorry frame from Delphi. And if you don't want those pincers? Fine. We'll take them back. Spinister?"

As Spinister opens the door to the brig, Pharma's optics widen slightly, as if he realizes faintly what kind of position he's in. Moving quickly, Spinister grabs Pharma by the wings; no matter how he struggles, the Decepticon surgeon overpowers him and pins him down.

"These were a good pair, too," Spinister says, sounding exasperated, as if to say how dare Pharma turn the clamps against them. Yet, without hesitation, he grabs one pincer and tears it painfully from Pharma's wrist. Wires are wrenched and pulled and torn, and energon spills as a result. Fulcrum looks on, arms folded.

It earns a shocked and painful yell from the Autobot. "You can remove them surgically!" Pharma shouts, struggling. "Stop, not the other one--"

"Yeah, the other one," Spinister tells him, yanking out the second pincer, not unlike the second one.

Fulcrum takes a few steps closer. "I don't know who took things from you before, Pharma. But I know that's sure as hell not an excuse for what you did. I don't care what kind of messed up person you are now. I will tell you that I don't plan to kill you. Not yet, anyway. I guess that kind of depends on what condition we find Krok in."

There's a choked laugh from Pharma. "You expect to find him?"

"Yeah, I really do. If he's alive, I'll spare you. If not, well." Fulcrum shrugs. "I saw a lot of interesting ways to slowly kill people in Styx. I'm sure I could think of a few ways for you."

Through gritted teeth, Pharma says, "How positively merciful of you. So, you'll do what in the meanwhile? We wait?"

Fulcrum shakes his head. "Just because I won't kill you yet doesn't mean I won't hurt you." He turns his head slightly to address his crewmate. "Spinister, take his wings off."

"Wait-- what? What?!" Even if Pharma had hands, he wouldn't be able to throw off Spinister's superior weight. "I can help you! I can be useful! I can--"

"I don't care."

"On the bright side," Spinister interrupts the two of them as he reaches around. "I brought the buzzsaw you wanted earlier, Pharma."

It doesn't look that Pharma is particularly excited, especially not when the saw is turned on and starts to slice through his left wing. As Pharma shrieks, energon splatters across the floor from the saw grinding through plating, cables, and tubes. As if indifferent, Fulcrum looks on, his arms still folded.

One wing is off, and Spinister places it aside before getting to work onto the other wing. Despite the brutal approach, the Decepticon surgeon seems to be focusing very well on cutting the wings quite cleanly and neatly off, despite the way Pharma bleeds out and tries to fight him off. The screaming doesn't even deter him.

When Spinister is finished, he picks up both wings. "I guess I could see if Misfire needs a spare pair."

"Yeah." Fulcrum nods to the tiny cage. "Go ahead and put him back in there. Now that I know for sure that he won't be leaving this ship anytime soon."

As Spinister hauls Pharma back to the brig, the Autobot hisses, "You'll come to regret this."

"Not as much as you, I hope," Fulcrum says.

With both wings tucked under his arm, Spinister follows the K-Con out of the area. Initially, Fulcrum leaves calmly, but as soon as he's sure he's out Pharma's sight and a few feet further than that, a tremble rushes through his frame and Fulcrum immediately runs down the hallway.

Barging into the medbay, he grabs onto a thankfully empty bucket and purges his tanks into it. The tremors don't stop, and he clutches the edges of it tightly.

"You're really not cut out for this kind of stuff," Spinister points out helpfully.

"Guess not," Fulcrum mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

-=-=-

"Well, this isn't awkward or anything."

"Shut up, Misfire."

All three of them on the bridge isn't so bad, although admittedly Misfire isn't really sure why Dent is shooting him dubious looks. He thought they were getting along okay! Seriously, that and it's been super quiet ever since Crankcase came back with the Autobot. Not that Misfire cares too much about whatever stupid drama is going on. More than he's willing to admit, he's kind of way more worried about finding Krok at the moment.

But it seems like whatever happened in the medbay is making the mood on the bridge even more agonizing.

It's kind of dumb.

"What'll you guys do with Pharma?" Dent finally asks.

"I'd vote for shoving him out of the airlock," Crankcase growls out.

Dent looks at him, frowning a little. "You don't think that's harsh?"

The pilot slams his hands onto the control panel. "Do I think that's harsh?" Crankcase sneers at him. "Oh, no, I mean all the crazy doctor did was threaten to stab my brain if I didn't eject our commanding officer from the ship and try to cut off Spinister's hands. But I guess wanting to throw him off ship is a teensy bit mean to the poor guy!"

"I didn't mean-- I." Dent's shoulders slump. "He's the only one I really know here."

"The only Autobot, you mean," Crankcase says snittishly. There's some kind of unspoken rule of how Grimlock doesn't really count, either.

"He wasn't always like this!"

"That sure as hell doesn't change what he did."

"As much as I would love to hear you both bicker and be mopey at each other, I'm kind of trying to see if I can reach out to our fearless leader," Misfire interrupts. "So, eh, have it out when we find Krok, hm?"

Both of them glance at Misfire, then settle a bit uncomfortably in their seats as they return to work.

Misfire tends to the comm, even if it does feel a bit fruitless. "Krok? Hey, Krok. You there?"

Nothing but white noise. The bridge goes quiet.

The silence seems to aggravate all of them, including Crankcase. It becomes apparent when he asks, "What the hell is metallikato, anyway?"

"It's, um. It's a martial art," Dent responds, rubbing the back of his helm. "I used to do martial arts a lot."

"You're a navigator who knows martial arts," Crankcase says flatly.

"Hand-to-hand combat, mostly. But, uh, yeah."

"And you were crammed at a bunch of mines for what, exactly?"

Dent looks a bit uncertain as to how to answer. "Well, it wasn't my idea."

"Whose was it?"

"I really don't wanna talk about it." Dent pauses as Misfire tries to reach out again to Krok, receiving little else bit static in return. The Predabot glances in his direction before addressing Crankcase once more. "But it wasn't any of ours, not really. Not Pharma's, either."

Not a topic they're both ready to tackle, about Pharma. As much as Crankcase wants to tear it down in fury, he leaves it be and peers at his console. "Where'd you learn this metallikato stuff?" That, at least, is a bit interesting. He's been a grunt soldier for most of his life, and he supposes hearing someone else talk about martial arts is neat even though he doesn't know anything about that stuff.

"Long time ago, before and during the war. I even got to teach a few people before." Dent snorts softly. "But eventually there was some... confusion and I kinda just stopped."

"Krok?" Misfire tries again.

This time, instead of nothing, there's some actual feedback from the comm. Krok's voice weakly comes through. "Who...?"

That catches everyone's attention. Perking up immediately, Misfire tries to catch onto his signal. "Krok! Krok, are you able to say more? Krok! It's me, it's totally your favorite Decepticon!" He looks at Crankcase and Dent. "Can you two pinheads track 'im down like this or what?"

"Work on tracing that," Crankcase tells Dent. "I'll pilot."

"It's not a whole lot to go by," Dent says, a bit wary. "But I'll try."

Which is true. The commlink signal isn't enough to precisely pinpoint where Krok might be floating. Nearby Delphi? Sure, that's easy enough to determine, but to be able to actually find him and not accidentally crash into Krok or something akin? It takes more finesse.

The Weak Anthropic Principle doesn't exactly have finesse, which is something they all know.

"Misfire," Krok's voice crackles, and not even entirely due to the quality of the signal. "Misfire, find Crankcase."

There's a flash of something across Crankcase's face as he tries to keep himself from expressing anything outside of anger at the situation. It's guilt, and he clutches at the control panel he's sitting at. His fingers dent the metal slightly.

"He's fine! Picture of health, er, so to speak. Krok? Krok!" Even Misfire seems to get upset, slamming his hands down on the console.

"Hang on. There's something else I'm picking up." Rising from his seat, Dent peers over his screen. "Yeah, there's like a clicking noise."

"That's Krok's," Crankcase says immediately.

"Okay. Then you want to alter course a bit. Starboard, at 42 degrees." Pause. "Yeah, okay, the clicking is getting louder."

Frantically reaching to hit the ship's radio, Misfire says, "Hey, loser! I think we found him!"

"I'll get Spinister to prep the medbay. I want you out by the cargo bay airlock, Misfire. Crankcase, keep me posted on how close we can get," Fulcrum promptly responds.

Practically launching out of the bridge, Misfire assures with, "I'm on my way!"

Admittedly, many teams of Decepticons would probably abandon their own commanding officer if it didn't seem plausible to find them, if it seemed hazardous to their health, or if said officer was not very well liked.

This is a different case.

Making a mad dash for the cargo bay, Misfire meets Fulcrum at the airlock. Although eager to go fetch Krok, Misfire pauses and has a glance over Fulcrum, then squints at him. The optics are a little dimmer, and there's a slight discoloration to Fulcrum's plating in his face. He hasn't looked quite that off since the little technician had accidentally gotten into Misfire's personal stash that one time.

The reaction makes the K-Con jerk his head back a little.

"What?" Fulcrum folds his arms.

Misfire opens his mouth to say something, then actually -- for once -- thinks better of it. He shakes his head and looks at the door. "Eh, thought I saw something on your face, then I realized it was your chin."

"Hilarious." Fulcrum rolls his optics a little before he reaches for his wrist. "Crankcase? How close?"

"Misfire should fly out of the bay in thirty seconds, if Dent is on the mark."

Turning to look at Misfire, he asks, "You ready?"

"Ready to grab Krok and kick Pharma off the ship? Oh, you bet." Misfire crouches, ready to transform and fly out.

"Okay, go!"

After Fulcrum pulls on the lever, the doors start to slide open in both sections. As quickly as he can, Misfire leaps out of the Weak Anthropic Principle and transforms, flying out.

Not far at all, in retrospect, is Delphi. The cold planet is within Misfire's view, and it feels like it's almost close enough for him to just fly into and land in a pile of snow. That's not the reality of it, exactly, but that's what it feels like. It's close, but so is Krok, their nearly lost commanding officer.

He can see Krok floating, clutching something in his fist. The device that most of them know fairly well by this point, the little metal cyclinder, the thing that's given him hope and now the thing that's brought them back to Krok.

Misfire transforms into his root mode and throws his arms around Krok's waist. "I got 'im!" he emits into his communicator.

Using his thrusters, he propels the both of them back towards the W.A.P., the doors opening on cue. When he lands and the airlock's doors start to close behind him, Misfire looks down at Krok. The colors on the tactician's plating is dull in some way, and his body seems stiff.

The next pair of doors open, and Misfire is immediately greeted with Spinister's bulky frame barging his way close. "Lemme see him!" he growls, taking the limp body away from Misfire as soon as he's within reach. The coldness doesn't quite leave Misfire's arms.

It's probably best to give Spinister his space as he looks over the hopefully unconscious body, yet Misfire can't help but stand close by, looking on as the Decepticon surgeon inspects Krok. Fulcrum remains nearby as well, anxiously wringing his hands as he looks on. Behind the three of them, Crankcase and Dent approach, though clearly one is more rushed than the other.

Crankcase stops and looks on, clutching his fists. He doesn't even have it in him to shrug off Fulcrum's hand from his shoulder.

It's quiet besides Spinister's fingers clicking against plating as he checks for vitals. The air feels heavy in the cargo bay.

Eventually, Spinister looks up and nods. "He's alive."

Everyone gives a collective sigh of relief. Fulcrum smiles a little, and Misfire slumps down to sit onto the floor; Crankcase folds his arms against himself.

"I'll get 'im to the medbay and make sure he stays that way." Spinister practically clutches Krok to himself as he marches his way off in order to get started on his work.

Looking after him, Crankcase knows he's sulking. He doesn't like to admit to it, but he can't help it, all things considered. Fulcrum gives his shoulder a little pat. "Spinister will take good care of him," the K-Classer reminds.

Instead of shaking off Fulcrum or snapping at him, Crankcase exhales and nods. "Yeah." He knows he needs to hear it.

"Can you bring us back to Delphi?" Fulcrum asks him. "We need to make a little trip."

Crankcase gives him a look, but nods. "Yeah. All right."

-=-=-

Nothing is quite what he expected.

Right now, Dent has mixed feelings about them. When he couldn't see anyone, he'd automatically assumed that they were all Autobots, because... well, because they were helpful. Kind of strange, but helpful and nice and he liked them. When he saw them, saw the emblems they wore, Dent wasn't sure what to think. He still isn't sure what to think, honestly, and he doesn't feel like he has many to turn to.

None, but the only Autobot he really knows on board.

Slipping away and making his way to find the brig isn't difficult. Not terribly. The Weak Anthropic Principle is not a large ship, after all.

What does surprise him is the state in which he finds Pharma.

The other Autobot is sitting, hunched over with one arm draped out of the bars. Both his wrists are empty, stained with dried and clogged energon. That, and his wings? His wings are missing. Both recent wounds.

Dent rushes up to the brig. "Pharma--?!"

"Ah. Prowl." The expression Pharma wears is exhausted, but he sneers when he speaks. "How good of you to come now."

"I... I didn't know they hurt you." Dent is conflicted. "I didn't know it was you, either! Why did you attack them?"

"Come now." Pharma peers at him, tilting his head. "Have you ever known me to be terribly fond of Decepticons?"

"No, but you're smarter than that. You didn't just attack them. You wanted something." Dent squints with his only optic, confused. "Pharma, why?"

"I want my hands back!" Pharma snarls at him.

The outburst makes Dent jerk his head back, even though there's no feasible way for the other Autobot to do him any real harm. "Who took your hands?"

"Of course, you were all but assumed dead then." A dry laugh escapes Pharma as he sits back. "Well, I guess there's a lot for us to talk about, isn't there? You remember the virus, don't you?"

Dent nods. "From the Decepticons."

"Yes and no. It was from me." Pharma grins faintly. "Oh, that look on your face. Prowl, I was done with Delphi. I was done with everything there. The D.J.D., the project, the whole thing. I wanted out, and I almost had it! Then Ratchet showed up and took it away. All away. Including my hands. And now I want them back. Simple, isn't it? I wanted this ship to follow his and get them back."

"But if you got everyone else killed, if you-- if you really did that, why did you fix me, Pharma?" Dent curls his fingers around the bars loosely.

"Why? Why did I fix you?" A loud slam rings through the brig as Pharma smashes his elbow against the wall of his tiny cell. "I was waiting there after I got back to the facility. I was going to be there awhile. I fixed you, Prowl, because I was bored!"

It grows quiet in the brig. Slowly, Dent slides his hands off of the bars and takes a step back. All of the information slowly begins to be processed, and Dent isn't sure what to do with it all.

"Well, then you can be bored in the snow, Pharma."

Dent looks over his shoulder to see Fulcrum, Crankcase, and Misfire standing at the doorway of the brig. The technician folds his arms and peers at the Autobot doctor, and the other two look just as amused as him.

"You're gonna just toss him back out there?" Dent asks, optic widening.

"After everything he's said and done, and you still think that's too much?" Crankcase snorts at him.

"Well, it's just-- I--!" Anxiously, Dent looks to Misfire. "He'll die out there!"

"Eh, so what? He left Krok to die. Probably would have left the rest of us to do the same after he got the ship," Misfire points out.

Dent turns his head to Fulcrum. "You can't just do that to him! Fulcrum, I know what
he did was wrong, but--"

"With all due respect, I understand that you know him, but this isn't your call. You're a guest on this ship, not crew." Fulcrum addresses the other two Decepticons. "Let's take him to the cargo bay and get this done."

"Glad to," Crankcase rumbles, glaring at the Autobot doctor.

The process is simple and direct. For as much as Dent wants to help Pharma, he remains conflicted. As two Decepticons pull him out from the brig and begin to drag him to the cargo bay, Dent watches. He watches and he follows them, though he speaks no words to try to convince them out of it.

Before Delphi, before the virus broke out, it would have been such a simple decision to make. Dent would have made it his priority to rush to Pharma's rescue, to protect him from Decepticons. It would have been the easiest solution possible, but here? It's impossible to say what is exactly right to do. He feels like he'd been close to being friends with Crankcase and Misfire.

Now, now Dent just follows them.

As soon as they make it to the cargo bay, Fulcrum is opening the doors. He looks at Pharma. "As promised, I'm letting you go free."

"You know I'll die out there, most likely," Pharma informs him.

"Funny, I don't think I'll lose much sleep over it." Lifting up his impressive chin, he speaks to Crankcase. "Honor's all yours."

Shortly after the words are spoken, Crankcase immediately kicks at Pharma's chest, forcing him back into the airlock. The first pair of doors shut. Making sure to lock his optics with Pharma's, Crankcase opens the second pair of doors, effectively ejecting the doctor from the ship and into the cold, whipping winds of Delphi down below.

Bits of light flash from the edges of Dent's single optic and he feels like he's choking on something. He takes a step back, then he transforms into his alternative mode: a beast form, a green lion.

Dent scampers away into the ship.

-=-=-

Leading is stressful and Fulcrum can't say that he much cares for it. He prefers leaving the tough decisions to someone else. In perspective, maybe that's why Krok had a moment of just being unsure of himself. Of needing input from his crew. Krok isn't a bad leader, but it doesn't seem like he always enjoys it, which is kind of the opposite of many Decepticons who try to grab power for themselves.

Making the choices is difficult, but he does it anyway. Because his crew needs him to.

Fulcrum rubs his forehead a bit as he waits outside the medbay door.

"Well, that was an adventure, but let's never come back here again," Misfire muses next to him. "How's that tank of yours feeling, loser?"

"What about it?"

The jet shrugs. "You looked queasy. Still kind of do."

A little ashamed, Fulcrum decides to find the floor interesting. "I guess I just don't have the bearings for torture. Not that I ever did, but... yeah."

"But you did it anyway."

"Not that difficult when I had Spinister basically do it for me." Fulcrum shakes his head. "And I couldn't have Grimlock there."

Misfire folds his arms behind his head as he leans against the wall. "Suppose not. Big lug doesn't seem to take to torture well, either. Not from what I saw, anyway."

"Let's just say I never want to do this again." The technician sighs. "Between that and Krok in a coma, Crankcase is sulking more than usual, and Dent's hiding wherever on the ship? Even after kicking Pharma out from the ship, I don't feel that victorious. But I didn't feel like I could just stuff him in a cell and wait it out."

"If it helps." Lightly, Misfire bumps his shoulder against Fulcrum's. "I think that getting back at Pharma helps with some morale with our little crew. When Krok wakes up, I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"Yeah." Though Fulcrum knows, not everyone feels the same way.

-=-=-

Finding the vents weren't difficult, either. A place to hide, a place to feel mourning, anger, shame, and confusion.

In his lion mode, Dent remains curled up.

Never before has he felt so lost.

Chapter Text

To actually see the ship now is a bit interesting.

The Weak Anthropic Principle is quiet and lonely, as Dent is coming to find out very quickly; he'd finally crawled out of the ventilation shaft and he doesn't really pick up much sound. He tilts his head, flicking an ear curiously as he walks away from the cargo bay, still wandering in his beast mode. It's easier to sneak, and ultimately faster for him.

As he wanders up the hallway, there's a pause as he notices the door to the medbay being open. The light is faint, but it comes through bleakly. Curiously, he peers inside with his single optic.

Still laying on the medical slab is Krok, optics completely shut off. Dent hasn't spoken with him or met him, but it seems like the entire crew holds him up in high regard. It's kind of strange, considering when he thinks about Decepticon leadership he'd been under the impression that they habitually would betray each other constantly. Maybe it was just rumors, considering the fact that this crew had been so desperate to save him.

Standing over the berth like some sort of guardian is Spinister, his red optics narrowed as he looks down at Krok's unconscious body with his arms folded across his broad chest. Frankly, his entire build does not at all imply he is a surgeon, yet he is shockingly good at his trade. This, Dent knows, considering how quickly his eye had been replaced.

Sitting in a chair next to Spinister and clutching Krok's hand is Crankcase.

Involuntarily, Dent feels his spark shudder and he ducks his head low. He feels absolutely terrible as he watches Crankcase. The pilot seemed so determine before to be angry and snapping at everyone, but right now he looks miserable as he holds onto his commanding officer, as if that'll somehow entice Krok to come out of his stasis lock. Dent knows he was able to help rescue their captain, but it doesn't seem enough right now.

He wants to say something. He almost does, but instead keeps his mouth shut.

Dent moves on.

Another room has a slightly ajar door. Taking a moment to listen closely, he determines that no one is inside. With that in mind, he nudges his face in, pushing the door open a little further.

The interior's walls aren't much different than everywhere else he's been. Everything about the W.A.P. seems to be in a sorry state, put together in desperation and pushing it forward with hope. But it's their ship, they have taken that upon themselves, and they live here somehow. Even this room says as much. Despite the rust stains dripping down the walls, someone's tried their best to make this their home.

The corners of the room have been hooked up with some decorative lights, some colored all white, and some multi-colored. It didn't matter, but it brought some personality into it. There are shelves put together out of garbage, and some of them are lined with what seems like boxes of junk and bottles with mysterious liquids. All of that is well and good, but it's when he sees Pharma's wings pinned up on the wall that Dent quickly shuffles out with a muffled gasp.

He shakes his head as he continues down a little further. As if looking for comfort, Dent decides to peer into the next room.

All the lights seem to be broken in here, and there are various dents and scratches in the walls. Nothing seems decorative about it, honestly. It is not personal. If anything, someone is using it mostly for storage, and it looks like mostly for body parts which makes Dent cringe. It gives him the feeling that, at best, someone uses this room to sleep in, but nothing more than that.

Slipping away, Dent figures he might as well have a peek into the next door on his left. Like the other personal quarters so far, this one is also empty of anyone inside, but instead of the previous, it seems like someone is certainly trying to make themselves at home. There isn't much; a beaten, dented workbench has been set up in the corner of the room, which is doubling for minor assembling projects and programming on a computer with a cracked screen. On the very same desk are a variety of puzzles varying in hygenic quality and datapads that seem like they're a relatively new addition.

The next room makes it really easy for him to guess who it might belong to, and he smiles tiredly to himself. There's another workbench in here, too. It's been well used and well loved. Pinned to the west well are a variety of blueprints of ships in the past. Admittedly, most of them are warships, but Dent can still appreciate them. Hell, some of them he had to navigate or pilot on the fly. Spread on some shelves are datapads, as well as pieces that seem to belong to models of ships, but none of them are actually completed. Not surprising, not at the rate he's been learning about these Decepticons.

As Dent wanders into the final room, it's a quick conclusion that this is the captain's quarters. Not that it's much of an improvement, but there is a formal desk with nicks and dents in it, just like everything else here. It's probably been hauled from a pile of trash or something in the past, but Krok has made it his. The berth in here is a little bit bigger than the others, and there's a window. Otherwise, it's hardly fancy. Despite its appearances and the fact that he's unconscious, Krok still commands some kind of respect with these guys.

Upon a closer look, there are some various items on Krok's desk that seem out of place from what he understands about him. There's a little glowing lamp with goop inside shifting and changing, and next to that is some sort of sliding tile puzzle that forms a picture if properly placed. An incomplete model of a Decepticon ship has been left here, one that Dent certainly knows as the Fatal Consequence. The final item is, apparently, a stress ball of some kind.

Dent tilts his head curiously at the items.

Backing out of the room, Dent intends to wander further inside, but he stops at a snuffling sound coming from the incredibly warm engine room. Flicking his tail, the Predabot makes his way inside, definitely not anticipating who's waiting.

"No way," Dent murmurs, single optic widening.

Lifting his enormous head, the Dynobot stares down at Dent. A rumble passes through his engine before he states slowly, "Me Grimlock."

A wave of pity washes over Dent. Considering the fact that Fortress Maximus was a long time patient at Delphi, it's impossible to not know a bit about Garrus-9 and what must have happened to both of them. Only, instead of being in a coma, Grimlock just isn't himself. Some could argue it was for the best.

He does not.

Approaching with some wariness, the navigator offers tiredly, "I'm Dent."

Grimlock leans in closely to peer at him, then curls back up on the floor. Either he's disinterested or tired.

"It's okay. I get that a lot," Dent says softly.

It's silent for a moment, and he isn't sure what to do. Dent wiggles his claws against the floor, and he supposes he's better off just leaving.

That is, until Grimlock wiggles on the floor a little. The movement is kind of strange until Dent realizes he's making room for both of them, basically offering to cuddle with him.

Oh.

There's another rush of weariness that rolls through him, and a mournful hitch is swallowed down. It has been a very trying time, and Dent knows he's not the only one paying for it. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

So, he comes closer, and he curls up tightly against Grimlock's warm side. The Dynobot gives a grunt of approval, curling his tail around the both of them.

After an exhausted sigh, Dent lets himself finally sleep.

Chapter Text

"Heads up, we have incoming junk!"

On most other ships, that kind of sentence generally means to avoid the scrap and move on to their destination. On the Weak Anthropic Principle, it's a bit of a different matter. It's apparent when, for some reason, they've slowed down to a complete stop right next to the stray bits of trash. As if on cue, everyone begins to head to the cargo bay. There's practically a skip in Misfire's step as he jogs away from the bridge, along with Crankcase who's grabbing his toolkit and preparing to go outside. Though a bit less experienced but retaining his sense of curiosity, Fulcrum follows them while rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

More confused than anything else, Dent warily peers out the door from the engine room, one optic widened. Above him, Grimlock makes a grunt, sounding generally indifferent.

Deciding to investigate, Dent wanders out in his beast mode, flicking his tail anxiously as he studies how the crew prepares to deal with this apparent junk problem. Crankcase and Fulcrum are readying magnet stabilizers to their feet, while Misfire is practically bouncing on his heels.

It seems obvious to them, but it completely goes over Dent's head. So, he finally asks, "What's going on?"

At first, Crankcase shoots him kind of a mixed expression before he turns away and suddenly seems much busier. It's Fulcrum who decides to answer, "We're going to check out what was disposed of here. I don't know if you noticed the state of the ship or really how we come off as, but we get by on what everyone else gets rid of."

That would, actually, explain a lot. Dent already figured out that they were pretty bad off, but if they live off of other people's garbage, that's another thing. "Oh," he says simply, feeling sheepish. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I'd feel better if you looked after Krok and Grimlock, actually. I mean it, too. If there's any change in Krok's status, we have to know and Grimlock has a hard time using our communicaton system." Fulcrum shrugs a little.

Misfire points out with a wry tone in his voice, "You mean he has a hard time communicating at all!"

Sighing, Fulcrum tries to not roll his optics before he continues to explain to Dent, "Spinister and Misfire are really the only ones that can fly out there; otherwise, Crankcase and I are just gonna have to make due with what we have. We'll keep you updated, okay?"

"And once we're done here, there's more up ahead! From what I could tell, looks like someone dumped some cargo." Misfire cracks a smile. "Maybe we lucked out."

Crankcase barks out a laugh. "Yeah, I really doubt that."

"Krok's stable!" Spinister announces as he barges his way into the cargo bay. "So I'm good to go."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Fulcrum turns to the cargo bay doors. "Then, uh. I guess we should head out."

All of them patiently leave the ship in their own way; Fulcrum and Crankcase trek out onto the hull while Misfire and Spinister transform and fly out of the cargo bay. It leaves Dent to return to the bridge and watch them as they begin to scavenge the remains of something.

"What do you think happened out here?" Fulcrum wonders over the comm.

"Whatever happened, someone didn't want it in one piece. It was blown apart," Crankcase observes.

Misfire interrupts with, "Hey, I found an arm! Neat!"

"There's a dinky camera attachment here," Spinister notices.

"Might as well keep it!"

Perhaps regretfully, there doesn't seem to be much present, but it does leave the cargo boxes that are apparently ahead. With that in mind, Fulcrum asks, "Dent, can you move us until we can reach the cargo? There should be four boxes, according to Misfire and Crankcase. It's just a straight shot, so you should be fine."

Transforming and looking forward to making himself more useful, Dent responds with, "Yeah, I'm on it."

The controls for the Weak Anthropic Principle look like they've been jammed together from other ships, and nothing really matches. That about speaks for the rest of the ship and, really, most things that this crew seems to own. It's not entirely surprising, either. Still, Dent is able to turn on the thrusters and get them just far along enough until they reach their destination. Once it's within their sights, it's obvious what's ahead.

That's not cargo.

"Those-- those are coffins," Dent points out helpfully, feeling a tightness in his chest.

"Just as good!" Misfire says, voice chipper. "Let's bring 'em in!"

Wait, what? Dent pauses, waiting to see if that's a joke. When he watches them start to gather up the coffins, it becomes quickly apparent that it's not. "What do you guys even need the coffins for? I mean, uh, you know what coffins are for, right? This isn't a cultural difference with Autobots and Decepticons, is it?"

"Coffins have dead people in them. Duh," Spinister answers flatly.

They aren't stopping. Even with that fact. Dent doesn't understand. Turning away from the bridge, he rushes down to the cargo bay, his hands curled into tight fists. Why are they doing this?

He watches all four of them drag the coffins back inside, and the bay doors close. Dent gestures helplessly at the boxes, noting the symbol on each one. "These are Autobot coffins!"

"They sure are," Misfire answers, squinting at Dent. "You really enjoy stating the obvious, don't you?"

"Just crack 'em open," Spinister says, shrugging.

Noticing how distressed Dent looks, Fulcrum pauses and glances over the coffins before addressing the Autobot. "Guys. I know this is pretty much standard for you, but for most other people, this is probably a bit of a surprise. Dent, we don't have a lot to live on. So we take what's been left behind, and I mean more than just trash. Bodies, too."

"Doesn't help that our energon supply is getting low," Crankcase mutters. "I grabbed your siphoning kit just in case, Misfire."

"Siphoning--? You... you're going to siphon--" Dent stammers over his words, his single optic widening as he stares at them.

"Well, it's not like dead people need their energon," Misfire explains. "Seeing as how they're dead and all that. Then we take any body parts that are useful or worth a shannix. Simple, yeah?"

"But they don't deserve that, or this!"

Crankcase snaps at him, "Would you be raising such a fuss if these were Decepticon coffins?!"

"Yes! Yes I would!" Dent shouts back at him, offended. The answer seems to make Crankcase flinch a little before he looks away, huffing. Desperate to be heard, Dent tries to appeal to the technician and sort of standing-in-leader for the time being: "Fulcrum, please! Don't do this to them. The dead should be respected. Their crew took the time to do this for them. They were cared about once. Someone cared to do this for them. They weren't forgotten about and-- and that's a big deal."

"It's this or we starve for awhile," Spinister offers the other side, speaking very simply.

It does give Fulcrum some pause as he looks over the four coffins with some deep consideration. Before he joined up with this crew, there probably would have been a time in which he would have second and then third thoughts about opening up some coffins just to drink a dead body's energon in order to not die. But things are so different now. They don't have many choices about it and they'd all sunken into the habit of taking apart corpses in order to get by. They do it to survive, not due to wicked intent.

He can't let the crew starve, though, and Krok is going to need a lot in order to make a full recovery.

Fulcrum rubs the front of his helm. "I'm sorry, Dent. Look, we'll-- we'll just siphon the bodies, but return the rest outside. That's the best I can do."

Despite his attempt to compromise, Dent still looks disappointed, as if Fulcrum had just ripped off the head of a helpless turbofox. Somehow the look he's giving makes Fulcrum feel a bit guilty over the situation, even though he knows what they have to do in order to live. It's business as usual for the rest of the crew, but Fulcrum is newer and Dent's clearly having some issues over the matter.

Eventually, Dent's shoulders slump and he says, "I. I guess I understand. But I don't want to help in this part."

"All right. Just keep an eye on the bridge, let us know if anyone approaches us," Fulcrum instructs.

He watches the Predabot go, then turns away to tend to the bodies. The dead don't need fuel to survive, and Fulcrum knows this. It's just a fact that he's adapted to, like all of them have. He wonders, briefly, if there was a time in which that Krok and the others had misgivings about doing this sort of thing before it became so common.

In the end, it probably doesn't really matter, because that doesn't take away from the reality of what has to be done. Handouts don't happen, and they're all on their own. All Fulcrum can really do is try to meet Dent halfway and hope that's good enough for him.

Chapter Text

Managing engineers and technicians at a construction site for cyberforming hadn't been hard, not really. Sure, everyone gripes, complains, and grumbles to each other, but the work gets done and organizing is straightforward. Aside from Krok, Fulcrum assumes he probably is the one with the most experience in leading anything around here, but to be perfectly honest? He's more comfortable in letting Krok call the shots and offering his own insight here and there.

Unfortunately, Krok is still out cold and he's being faced with some pretty difficult choices.

Post-Pharma shenanigans, Fulcrum's still not exactly sure what to do. Sure, they found some various pieces of scrap in space and some Autobot dead bodies, but Dent's reaction still hangs in his mind, and most of the collected energon's gone towards Krok's recovery, anyway.

In the end, well.

"Yeah, we're almost completely out again," Misfire informs him in regards to their stock of energon.

Damn it! "Damn it," Fulcrum echoes out his thoughts in a groan, dragging fingers down his face. "Can we cut anything out from what we're fueling the ship with?"

"Let me think: no, no, and no." Putting his hands on his hips, the jet rolls his optics at his friend. "I mean, unless you're in the mood for a slow drift in space with little else to propel us and the eventual uncomfortable freeze that would settle in and then we'd probably inevitably starve to death that way anyway. Already talked to Crankcase about it. All we have left is one serving left of energon. Well, it's a W.A.P.-sized serving, which is like a fourth of the usual recommended dose of energon anyway for 'Cons our size." A brief pause. "Or 'Bots. Whatever."

To think, they probably wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for Pharma. It would have been a stretch to make sure everyone was fed, but they could have made it work somehow with a little less starvation involved. Fulcrum sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Okay. So we have one serving size left." Wait a second. "Didn't we divide up the fuel from the bodies before to determine how much everyone needed to get by? Someone didn't refuel."

Misfire makes a face. "Was afraid you were gonna notice that, loser. Yeah, once Dent figured out where the energon was from--"

"Then he didn't want it," Fulcrum finishes, folding his arms.

"Look, I tried to tell 'im. Hey, if you don't have this, you're gonna go hungry! But then he gave me a stupid sad look and declined anyway. So we can divide it among the rest of us or something. Which is about a sip each."

Unbelievable. "Give it to me." Hesitantly, Misfire reaches into one of his personal compartments to bring out the container. At the expression he wears, Fulcrum tries to assure him with, "I'm not gonna drink it, Misfire. Jeez."

"Right, right. Of course you aren't. I just remembered how stupidly nice you are." Despite the words, Misfire cracks a grin and places it into the technician's hand.

Once he has the energon, Fulcrum immediately turns around and heads out of his friend's room. He considers ways to have the Predabot refuel; he could try to order him, but that wouldn't really work because he's not exactly crew yet, not really. Fulcrum supposes that he could ask Spinister to help him medically speaking, or maybe they could pin him down and make him drink it, but...

None of that is with consent, which isn't going to help. It'd keep Dent alive, but simply just living isn't quite enough.

Fulcrum lets out a sigh as he heads down the hallway, rubbing his forehead. Cracking the door open to the medbay, he peers in. Briefly, he watches Spinister organize his shelves and occasionally check Krok's medical status. There Crankcase sits, brooding as he holds their leader's hand.

"Crankcase," Fulcrum calls out for him. "I need to borrow you."

The mechanic gives him an irritable look. "Can't it wait?"

"Let me rephrase: I need to borrow you now."

The expression grows more sour, but he doesn't refuse. Crankcase is bigger, stronger, and Fulcrum knows he's smart. If he didn't want to put up with the K-Con, he could make that clear in a thousand different ways. But he stands up, slowly releasing Krok's hand and steps out into the hallway.

Crankcase peers down at him. "What do you want?"

"Find a way to make Dent refuel." Fulcrum shoves the container of energon into the pilot's hands.

"Why the hell do you need me to do that for?"

"Why do you think?" Fulcrum replies, trying his best to sound stern. "I know you like him, and he seems to like you. I don't really see a problem with that, except for the part with you two having this... I dunno, is it a fight? A disagreement?"

"How about none of your business?" Crankcase snaps, his visor narrowed furiously. Definitely not a topic he's thrilled to discuss with anyone.

"Sure, let's call it that. Let's also call it you need to patch things up with him. Or he needs to do it with you, I don't know which way it goes, but someone needs to take the first step and he needs to refuel. Convince him. When you're done, I want to talk to you on the bridge."

Although Crankcase retains his prickly expression, he also looks a little uncomfortable as he stares at the receptacle in his hand. After a moment of consideration and internal debate, he finally says lowly, "Fine. Send him to the cargo bay."

"You got it."

-=-=-

It's been awhile since he's actually had a conversation with Crankcase. For a brief moment after Fulcrum asked him to go down to the cargo bay in order to speak to the pilot, Dent had been tempted to refuse as politely as possible. When he thought about, Fulcrum actually looked annoyed, which prompted him to cave in and agree. Not that he dislikes Crankcase, but ever since the whole thing with Pharma, he isn't sure where he stands with him. Dent isn't sure where he stands with anything, honestly.

Warily, he steps into the cargo bay. It's the widest space in the entire ship, but it still feels a bit cramped with all of the crates that are stacked. One of them is open, and Crankcase is rooting around inside.

Cautiously Dent approaches, looking over the Decepticon with his single optic. "Crankcase?" he calls out softly.

"There you are," Crankcase mutters, glancing at him with a mix of a glare and something almost uncertain. Without another word, he holds out something in his hands. "You know what this is?"

Immediately, Dent comes closer, stepping smoothly as he holds out his palm. Crankcase hands the object to him, and immediately the navigator starts turn it in his hands. "A catalyzer. Looks like it's fitted for a Blademaster cruiser. Striker class, it looks like. Version 1.0, I think."

"Version 1.5, actually." Crankcase tries his best to hide how impressed and vaguely proud he is of the response. Testing Dent on his knowledge of ship parts isn't why they're talking, unfortunately. "We got a lot of parts like that one. Other ship parts, body parts, tools, and whatever else we can find."

"I'm not sure how--" Dent starts.

"Shut it. Let me just finish." A seething sigh exhales and Crankcase shakes his head. "When you get a chance to actually see this ship from the outside and not just the interior, you're going to know pretty damned fast what kind of state we're in. We don't have a whole lot of choice when it comes to surviving and how we do it. We take from both sides, all right? Whatever they leave behind, we take, because no one's gonna care about us except for ourselves. And sometimes when it comes to finding junk? Sometimes it's all we have to look forward to out here."

Silence hangs between them, almost having enough weight to be tangent. Crankcase can see how Dent's shoulders slump, his only optic dimming as he thinks to himself. Slowly, Crankcase takes out the container of energon, holding it out to the Predabot. "Hurry up and drink, you damn idiot."

It stays quiet for a moment longer. Dent doesn't quite look like he knows what to do with himself, frowning a little before he exchanges the catalyzer in his hands with the container of energon that Crankcase holds out. "How long have you guys been doing this kind of thing?"

"Too long," Crankcase grates out tiredly.

It's not much of a talk, but at least it seems like Dent is a little more willing to refuel now. He's not shoving it back to Crankcase.

"Thank you," Dent says quietly.

An awkward grunt emits from the pilot and he shrugs before Crankcase steps out of the cargo bay.

-=-=-

"You sure about this?"

Fulcrum laughs awkwardly. "No, not at all. But I know that we hardly have anything left at this point." The data slug is held out in offering to Crankcase. "Our options are limited and so's the ship's fuel supplies. I think we need to try and use this. Try to find that colony Gladbag talked about before."

The distinct frown on Crankcase's features deepens slightly. "Does the place even have a name?"

"Colony Omicron. Set course for there." Fulcrum sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe something will finally go right around here."

Chapter Text

So it was his turn to watch.

That is to say, Misfire had to convince Spinister to let him take over and keep an eye on Krok as their commanding officer continued to work towards recovery. Apparently, this sort of thing was easy to recover from with a proper medbay, but they don't have anywhere near anything that could be construed as proper anything, so it's taking awhile for Krok's internal repair to do most of the work. Spinister, oh-so-loyal Spinister, took it upon himself to be in the medbay every single minute of the day or night or whatever time it is. Which isn't really going to do anyone much good, standing around and hovering over an unconscious body and attempting to will him to waking up.

So Misfire, as stated before, had to convince him.

Convince as in talk a lot until Spinister looked confused enough to either want to walk out in a daze and try to sort his thoughts or punch Misfire. It was a fifty-fifty shot that ended up with the doctor muttering, staring at his hands, and wandering away from the medbay.

Pleased with himself, Misfire had sat down, leaving him to take care of things for now.

But sitting in silence? Not his style.

Misfire offers a complacent grin to Krok's offline frame. "Whaddaya say, Krok? You got plenty of gritty, edgy war stories to tell. Mind if I share a spell with you? Ahh, I didn't think so! Such a good listener. Well, this is about a roguishly handsome Decepticon, a super secret special agent, and the Necrobot..."

Even if Krok can't hear him, it's good for the head. It's good for his head to feel like everything is normal.

And he can pretend that Krok is giving him a stern look that just screams shut the hell up. A look Misfire's well memorized by now.

-=-=-

Sleep has been a rare thing for Fulcrum, especially after his stay at Styx. Nightmares are a constant, and he rarely feels restful, but he takes what he can. After his last visit to Styx, he can't determine how much has really improved other than he's not rolling off the berth and falling to the floor anymore in his unconscious flailing. Suffice it to say, it's not an easy thing for him.

Right now isn't any better. He wakes up to someone shaking him frantically, and his optics power on immediately. Fulcrum grabs onto whoever is waking him, and he finds himself face to face with Crankcase.

"What the hell--" Fulcrum starts, irritated.

"Grimlock's flipping out and if you don't do something, he's gonna burn this ship in the middle of space somehow," Crankcase cuts him off, five times more irritated.

With a sigh, Fulcrum determines that dealing with Grimlock's rampage is easier than Crankcase's moodiness. Not that he begrudges the pilot-slash-mechanic-slash-resident-grump for his behavior; he has a lot of reasons to feel the way he does, but Fulcrum almost feels more natural at handling the Dynobot these days. He nods, rising up onto his feet.

Immediately, Crankcase guides him down to the cargo bay. The closer they get, the stronger he can feel a rumble of Grimlock's weight stomping around and the tremor in the air of his roaring--

No. That's more like wailing. Fulcrum's heard Grimlock roar, and that isn't even a snarl to him.

"Spinister's been trying to put together some kind of tranqs to take him out with sometime ago, but I dunno if they'd even work or if they'd just accidentally kill him," Crankcase admits openly. Silently, Fulcrum is at least grateful that the others are trying to find other less violent ways of handling the Autobot other than shoot and hope for the best.

Fulcrum glances down the stairs as he sees Grimlock practically howling and punching the wall, then he shakes his head. "I got this," he assures.

Back on the planet where the Cerebnum was stored and the Dynobot had been reacting to the affects, Fulcrum had approached with more fear then. Now, he hurries down the stairs, more seriously concerned for Grimlock's well-being than his own. Over the time they've been traveling together, Fulcrum knows he considers Grimlock more like a friend than a hostage or leverage. Sure, Grimlock's kind of an infamous Decepticon killer and all, but that was then. Now? Now Grimlock's hurt in the mind in ways that he's still working out.

But he feels like they have a few things in common.

"Easy!" Fulcrum calls out. "Grimlock. Grimlock, look at me!"

The slamming of fists slows. Enormous dents rest on the wall of the cargo bay, but additional damage to the Weak Anthropic Principle is hardly surprising. Slowly, Grimlock turns his head to look at Fulcrum, huffing in a way that's less of a threat and more as a cautionary gesture.

"There we go. Keep looking at me." Carefully, the technician slips his hand to Grimlock's wrist, hoping the contact helps. The Dynobot flinches at first with a low rumble of his engine, but he seems to resign himself to the touch. "What's going on?"

Red optics dart around for a moment. It's almost hard to read briefly. On Spinister's face, it'd be paranoia. On Misfire's, it'd be nervousness equipped with a reluctant laugh. Here, for Grimlock, it's both fear and almost embarrassment.

"Mmm. Me Grimlock."

"I know. Take a moment to work out what you want to say," Fulcrum tries to assure him.

The Dynobot huffs again, his shoulders slumping. After a few seconds, he states, "Sleep. Me Grimlock, sleeping. Pictures show, in... Grimlock's head." Slowly, Grimlock touches his own helm. "Bad pictures. Moving pictures."

A nightmare.

Fulcrum offers a tiny smile. "You had a dream, buddy."

"Dream," Grimlock repeats the word, working out its meaning.

"Yeah. It wasn't real. But I know they're pretty scary. I have them sometimes, too. You can bet that I get scared." Fulcrum grins wryly, rubbing the back of his head. "But you gotta know that you're safe here. You're far away from anything that could make you scared. And I'm here, okay? So if you ever have a bad dream again, come find me instead of punching the ship."

"Bad dream," Grimlock murmurs, his optics dimming. Absently, he fingers trace over the dents in the wall, as if he's trying to work out how it happened and his own strength. As if such things had never really occurred to him. Eventually, he looks back down at Fulcrum. "Have bad dream again, me Grimlock find him Fulcrum?"

Fulcrum nods. "That's what friends do."

Abruptly, Grimlock crouches down to Fulcrum's height and gathers him up into his arms. This happened once before and Fulcrum had stiffened up in fear then; he's still startled now, but he settles far more quickly and pats the Dynobot's back, or at least what he can reach.

"Friend," Grimlock repeats, seeming to at least understand that much.

-=-=-

Sometimes the ship makes funny noises that he can't stand. Funny sounds make him twitch, and in the past it'd been Krok to assure him. Saying things that made sense, that noises sometimes happen to remind people of where they are and that things are working. It kind of helped then. It helped when Krok said things to clear his head. Right now, things are not so clear.

Spinister wanders, moving down the hall as he counts his fingers, mumbling softly to himself.

He pauses when he sees Dent on the bridge.

The Autobot seems okay, as far as Autobots go. He's not as dumb as Grimlock, but he's not as smart as Pharma. But Crankcase seems to kind of like him for some reason, and Spinister supposes that's good enough until Krok gives his opinion.

Spinister pauses, watching him work on the controls of the ship.

"Hey," Dent greets him, glancing over his shoulder. "You walk kind of lightly for a guy your size."

The comment doesn't make much sense to Spinister. "I walk how I walk."

"Right." Dent gives him a little wave. Spinister thinks maybe it's friendly.

The surgeon approaches and peers down at Dent, as if confused. "I thought only Crankcase and Krok touched the controls. What're you doing?"

"Oh! Well, I'm flying the ship. I mean, kind of. More like guiding it. Crankcase showed me a bit and I thought I'd just help out." A little awkward laugh escapes Dent. "I wasn't sure what else to do until we got to Colony Omicron."

Spinister supposes if Crankcase said it was okay, that's good enough until Krok wakes up. It's still really weird to let an Autobot run around, especially with the stupid thing with Pharma. But Grimlock's also kind of tolerable, but Spinister thought it was because he was stupid. Dent doesn't seem that stupid. Well, he is with the survival thing, but he seems nice enough.

Not very good about being totally honest, though.

"You should probably tell Crankcase," Spinister tells him bluntly.

That seems to startle Dent. "Huh?"

"About the thing. You know." Spinister makes a very vague gesture, as if that explains anything. "I did a medical examination on you, y'know. Before you woke up."

That seems to cause Dent's optics to widen. "O-oh."

"I don't really like secrets. They're dumb and when people find out they get all upset and then maybe people die sometimes. So you might wanna tell him. Cuz if you don't before Krok wakes up, I'm gonna have to tell Krok when he does."

"But it--" Dent hesitates, tapping his fingers together a bit nervously. "I'll. I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

"Yeah." Spinister shrugs. "Whatever. Have fun kinda maybe flying the ship or something."

He turns and leaves the bridge. Maybe there's an off chance Krok woke up in the last twenty minutes.

Chapter Text

"Cripes, I hate this place."

Coming here was definitely not his idea, but when the orders are, apparently, coming down from top? One does not simply argue, even if Ransack's idea of a good time isn't hanging around some punk kid and someone who's been online so long that he probably went to university with Alpha Trion, much less so in the ruined remains of Styx.

Ransack kicks aside some scrap metal as they walk through the hall.

"I'm waiting for you to report in," Ransack hears Spoilsport's voice pipe up from one of his teammate's communicators.

The way-too-old guy raises his wrist. "Sweep, reporting in with Ransack and Brushfire. There isn't much to say yet, sir. We didn't see any sign of Barracks' shuttle. We're investigating right now."

"Keep me up to date. Burnout is getting on my case about it. You know how he gets when he's promised."

"Of course. Sweep, out." Just as the dull looking four-wheeler shuts off his communicator, Brushfire gives a big sigh.

"Ugh, I can't stand that guy," Brushfire gripes as he folds his arms. "And this place is boring. What the hell did this even used to be?"

Ransack snorts. "What, you don't know? Sweep, tell him. You're full of boring stories."

"He wouldn't know," Sweep muses, completely ignoring any suggestions of insults. "But this was Decepticon prison. The entire planet. A prison for their own men, transformed into a camp to reformat their prisoners into living weapons. They would die for Megatron, if that's what he wanted. It was ages ago, but I remember it well."

"Like it was yesterday, right?" Brushfire teases. "Anyway, why did Barracks go all the way here? What was he looking for?"

"Don't worry about that," Sweep tells him, shaking his head. "Just keep your head down and look for any signs of what he may have left behind."

Right. That was at least smart of him. It was better to not get too inquisitive, at least not out loud. Joining the Raiders years ago after leaving his home was supposed to be a big adventure, and it was for awhile. In the end, though, it just became a giant joke. Pillaging stations and taking goods? That was fine enough, but there were other things that bothered Ransack.

Things that he'd rather not think too hard about right now, but he can attribute them directly to their leader.

The more they explore what's been left over, the more that there are clear signs of a struggle. Spilled energon, explosions, broken doors and walls. All of that is clear, but none of that quite clearly explains what happened to Barracks yet.

Not until they come upon the burnt remains of one of the cells in the prison block. Someone planted a bomb, and so little remained, but it's hard to ignore the various bits and parts of what used to be a person.

"Let me have a look," Sweep says calmly.

Gladly, Ransack backs off and pulls Brushfire back by the arm. Kneeling down, Sweep starts to rearrange the parts like a puzzle. Pieces of a tread here and there, an arm to part of a shoulder, pieces of a chest, an eye...

Eventually enough to assemble together enough of a person.

"Hell," Ransack mutters.

"Jeez, you're good at that!" Brushfire says much more enthusiastically.

Sweep dusts off his hands. "Barracks. Not much left of him. Hardly a head at all, but I remember the rest of his body."

"So someone killed him, right?" Brushfire looks from Sweep to Ransack. "Right?"

"Nah, I'm sure he died naturally," Ransack says flatly. "Just a bad case of explosionitis. Spoilsport's gonna hate this."

"Burnout will hate it more," Sweep warns. "But that's not our problem if we do what we're told."

Ransack coughs. "Right. Well. I'll leave the reporting to you. I mean, if I do it, he's just gonna glitch at me until his jaw falls off."

"Mm." Sweep rolls his eyes. "Go look around and see if you can find anything that might appease Spoilsport. I'll take the time to talk to him. Run along."

Right, well, Ransack is all too glad to do that. As long as it doesn't mean getting chewed out by Spoilsport.

Or worse.

Chapter Text

"This is bad," Fulcrum relents.

A snort emits from Crankcase as he shakes his head. "Pretty bad."

A deep rumble rolls in from behind them, causing both Decepticons to wince. Grimlock gives a dismayed groan and Fulcrum pats the Dynobot on the muzzle. "Me Grimlock," the Autobot mutters, sounding close to miserable.

"Yikes, his tanks sound worse than our engines!" Misfire picks absently at some dirt between his seams. "So now what?"

It's a pretty rotten situation, and granted Fulcrum had a feeling this was going to come up before they would even make it to Colony Omicron. Misfire had already stated that they had one tiny serving of energon left, and they gave that to Dent who was owed a serving anyway. Which leaves almost nothing. Even when Crankcase sarcastically suggested that they drink Misfire's personal storage, the jet was quick to point out that Grimlock had ingested all of and then regurgitated it quite messily during the whole Pharma thing.

Which leaves them with nothing, unless they dare take from what little precious fuel stores the Weak Anthropic Principle has left. Which is also definitely not an option.

"Well, you guys have been doing this longer than I have. What did you do the last time you ran out of fuel?" Fulcrum asks.

"Oh, we had Flywheels bleed out a little," Misfire answers, either as a joke or spoken completely seriously. Honestly, considering the fact that Misfire says almost everything with some kind of smile makes it possible for either to be true.

The K-Con winces. "Okay, we're not going to do that. What else?"

"Other than that, well." Misfire rubs his chin. "I'd say if we had nothing to scavenge from dead people or stuff nobody wanted, we'd try to steal essentials. You know, from alive people!"

"Hm." Fulcrum frowns and considers the thought.

Stealing and pillaging are things that he hasn't had to bother with, not really. In his time being a project manager and technician for various cyberforming projects, he had his rations and it wasn't really ever a worry. The bigger and stronger Decepticons did all the killing and stealing. Fulcrum isn't wild about the idea of stealing from someone else, but that only stems from the worry of being caught. If someone else's stuff will help them survive and they can get away with it, then that's fine.

Relenting, the sort-of-kind-of-acting captain gives a helpless shrug and addresses Crankcase, "How far until the next port?"

"Give it another two hours and we'll be stopping by the Abaddon Station." Crankcase grimaces. "Problem is, most of the people at that port aren't exactly an enormous fan of Cybertronians."

"What, is it full of organics or something?" Crankcase's nod confirms it for Fulcrum. "Ugh, well, that's just fantastic. Not like we have much of a choice, though. We'll probably just have to suck it up and deal with some meatsacks for awhile."

"I kinda get that this meeting is super important, but could you guys do this somewhere else?" Spinister asks, his arms folded.

The medbay isn't terribly large to begin with, and with Crankcase, Fulcrum, and Misfire huddled in a tiny circle next to the berth where Krok continues to rest it makes the environment feel even smaller. The meeting just kind of happened abruptly when they all decided that visiting their injured captain was the best plan they could come up with at the time. It was almost arranged as if Krok's presence would somehow inspire them to make a good decision.

Fulcrum can't say that their choice is a good decision, but it's one that'll help their survival odds.

"Uh. In just a minute," the technician assures Spinister awkwardly. "Okay. So we get to Abaddon, and we figure out what's nearby and not guarded. We get what we need to survive on, then run as soon as we can." There's a moment of silence and Crankcase looks vaguely uncomfortable for a moment. "What? What is it?"

"Can we..." Crankcase cuts himself off, and his expression is weird and so not like himself. It isn't irritable or angry, but he almost looks embarrassed. He leans in and mutters to Fulcrum, "Can we leave Dent out of this? The whole stealing factor might set off his ridiculous sense of morality."

"Wh--" Fulcrum squints at him for a moment. Now that seems to bother Crankcase, who folds his arms and looks away. "Okay, it's fine. We won't say a word to Dent. Right, Misfire?"

Silence fills the room, which is the first bad sign for anything related to Misfire. As Fulcrum turns his head to face the jet, he realizes that Misfire has quickly left the medbay and is already in the hallway shouting, "Hey, Dent! Guess what we're going to do? C'mon, guess!"

"That little glitch," Crankcase snarls before stomping out after him.

"What? What are you guys going to do?" Dent asks, his singular blue optic wide and curious.

"We're gonna go and--" Misfire starts before Crankcase roughly punches his arm and cuts him off with something else:

"--throw a... party," Crankcase finishes the sentence slowly, as if he's not even sure the lie is really going to be that effective.

Dent tilts his helm. "Really? What for?"

After biting his lower lip in thought, Crankcase finally says, "It's... Misfire's forge date."

"What? What's today's date? I don't think it's-- OW!" Misfire quickly shuts up after Crankcase punches him in the arm twice.

"We're throwing you a party because it's your forge date," Crankcase repeats, growling through gritted teeth. "And we need to go out and get supplies."

At the revelation, Dent says, "Oh." He pauses, then asks, "Can I help out?"

"No! No. You and I are staying here. Fulcrum and everyone else will get the... the things."

The response makes Dent pause for a moment, then he shrugs before he simply agrees with it. "All right. Well, I think it's kinda great you guys are doing this! I didn't know anyone still celebrated this kind of thing."

"Yep. Neither did I," Crankcase mutters, glancing at Misfire with a heated glare. "So I guess Misfire and the others better get ready to go in a couple of hours. For the supplies."

"I'll see if I can help organize the mess hall or something. I'd like to try to be useful if I can't go with you guys," Dent offers, starting to head away towards the mentioned location. "Have fun when you guys go!"

As soon as he's sure that Dent is out of listening range, Crankcase gives a very sharp swat to Misfire's arm again. "Ow! Quit doing that already. I need that," Misfire complains, rubbing the spot.

"You deserve it," Crankcase snaps at him. "Really, we come to the conclusion that we're gonna have to steal from the locals, which we may or may not be successful at, and your first instinct is to tell Dent?"

"When you explain it like that, it makes it sound like a bad decision."

"You're hopeless," Crankcase says with a sigh.

Misfire just smiles broadly at him in reply, which irritates the pilot to no end.

-=-=-

"All right, here's the plan. I really, really don't want to have to explain this twice, so I'm serious about you both paying attention." Fulcrum looks squarely at Misfire and Spinister; the former does his best giving and innocent look (it fails) and the latter is staring at his own hands already. Exasperated, Fulcrum continues. "Crankcase and I managed to pull up a map of the Abaddon Station. We'll be able to dock without a problem. The fee's been covered. Our best point of action is to take advantage of the event that's going on here."

Tapping his finger on the holographic map, Fulcrum points it out. A giant circle indicates as such: "A stadium?" Misfire notices.

"Apparently, the organics run a series of athletic events here. It's a big deal, for whatever reason." Crankcase snorts. "I've never been into that kind of thing."

"The organics are gonna be caught up in the events going on. So that gives us a chance to sneak in. They should have fuel stored here. Crankcase and I are still finishing up on forging tickets so it doesn't look entirely suspicious that we're there." Fulcrum shrugs. "That's about it. As long as we make it quick, we'll get enough to get by on and the primitives will be too preoccupied to even notice."

"Just one question," Spinister says, piping up.

Fulcrum glances over. "Yeah, Spin?"

"Can we not have this meeting in the medbay? Again?"

Maybe using Krok's chest to suppor the holographic map wasn't the best idea in the world. Fulcrum hadn't really planned on putting the meeting in the medbay, but it just kind of happened as everyone ends up back inside of here one way or another, hovering and silently fretting in their own way over their unconscious captain. Since they were all there, it felt like a good time to talk about their plans to steal supplies.

"Sorry," Fulcrum mumbles, closing the map. "It wasn't on purpose."

All of them shuffle into the hallway. After making sure that Dent isn't nearby the immediate area, Fulcrum continues in a hushed whisper, "Okay. So there are three of us going. Crankcase, you kind of have to stay here if you want to keep Dent convinced. That leaves Spinister, Misfire, and myself to go to the station. Crankcase, do you think you can look after Grimlock?"

"If you mean I'll make sure he doesn't damage the ship by possibly throwing him out the airlock--" Crankcase stops when Fulcrum gives him a sour look. "Okay, fine. No airlocks. I'll just set up some lights and keep him distracted or something."

"I'm sure you can find a way to distract him," Fulcrum says. "Preferably without airlocking anyone."

Crankcase snorts. "Whatever. I'll take care of it. I'm sure Dent will wanna help, anyway."

"Good enough. We should get ready to take care of this. Crankcase and I will go finish up the forgery. Spinister, Misfire? You two should work on memorizing the route for our escape with the fuel. We need to pack light and make it quick."

"What, you aren't going to say something cool? Like let's hit 'em hard and fast! Or maybe it stands to reason something something or whatever." Misfire pauses, then shrugs. "Ah, who am I kidding, you'd probably say something stupid and nerdy like let's mosey."

Fulcrum squints at him. "Look, just go finish memorizing the escape route. And-- and no I wouldn't! I could sound tough if I wanted."

A consoling pat from Spinister is given to Fulcrum's shoulder as the surgeon says, "Nah, that'd never happen."

Nodding in agreement, Crankcase says, "It's about as likely as Megatron becoming an Autobot."

Fulcrum throws his hands into the air. "Whatever! Wow, you guys are rude!"

"It's all right, Fulcrum. I can do all of the cool lines!" Misfire grins and picks up the notes left for him in regard to the escape route. "I work alone! You'll only slow me down!"

"Ugh." Fulcrum rolls his eyes and gets back to work on the forgeries with Crankcase.

During the process of completing their forged tickets to hopefully obtaining more fuel for themselves, they managed to make it to Abaddon. Not feeling entirely comfortable leaving them in the hands of Spinister or Misfire, Fulcrum pockets the tickets into a compartment for now. He'd honestly feel better about this if he could take Crankcase along; it's not that he dislikes Spinister and Misfire, but it's easier to keep Crankcase on point and he doesn't have to worry about things or people potentially getting shot or punched.

Vaguely, Fulcrum wonders if it's like this for Krok whenever he takes them anywhere, how much consideration he has to put into in taking them to different places. It certainly offers a new perspective in how hard he's worked to keep track of them and make sure no one gets into any trouble.

He opens the cargo bay doors before turning to look at Crankcase. "You'll be okay here?" Fulcrum asks.

Crankcase gives him a wry look. "Oh, sure. I'm only putting up with two Autobots and Krok who's in a coma."

Behind Crankcase, Dent makes his arrival known by shouting, "I found a box of lights! We can string them up for the party! ...Wait a second, is there an arm in this box?!"

"Just make it fast, okay?" Crankcase grumbles, shaking his head before he turns to approach the Autobot.

After watching him go, Fulcrum turns back toward Misfire and Spinister. "I guess we should probably get moving."

"How about ... move out! Or, uh." Misfire taps his chin. "What is it that Optimus Prime always says?"

This is already going to be exhausting. Fulcrum groans and gives him a little shove. "Just go!"

Once they step out into the port of Abaddon, Fulcrum takes a moment to take in the sights. He hasn't visited many open alien ports like this before; alien worlds, most certainly, but this is different. It's an open civilization with several kinds of species that he can't even name. It's a bit astonishing, but it's mostly just suffocating as he observes all of them socializing and going about their business. The entire port is bright and sunny with its artificial light, the sky being an imitation and composed of an elaborate hologram working off of a timer.

It seems like the port is adequate enough as far as technological advancement goes. Fulcrum will give the organics that much. Still, it's not like he has anything to show for his own species; he's a bit of a mess, the crew is too, and the ship is something most people would be embarrassed to fly in anyway. No matter how he feels about it, as complicated as that is, he's going to have to put up with being here long enough to make sure none of them starve.

"Don't you just wanna run around and touch everything?" Misfire muses as he observes their surroundings.

"Kinda, except with more shooting," Spinister says.

Fulcrum frowns. "Misfire: gross, no. Spinister: no shooting. Let's stay focused and find the arena."

They press on, and Fulcrum finds it lucky enough that most of the aliens don't seem to want to have anything to do with them. The crowd parts enough to let them pass, thankfully; the less that Fulcrum has to do with these organics, the better.

As they continue on towards the direction of the arena, the mass of crowds seem to return quickly enough to form lines. Honestly, Fulcrum hadn't spent much time researching exactly what kind of events are held here; that didn't seem too important at the time. Frankly, he has no idea what's caught their interest so much and he doesn't care. He'd love to just get their fuel and get the hell out of here.

They get into line, and from behind Fulcrum can hear Spinister mutter, "I don't like how they're all lookin' at me."

"It's gonna be fine, Spinister. I mean, seriously, what alien is going to try messing with you here?" Fulcrum tries his best to be encouraging, but he hears Spinister huff, clearly unconvinced. "Please, please for the last time, don't shoot anyone."

The wait in the line is slow and agonizing to the point in which Fulcrum almost can practically feel his paint peel off of his plating at the sheer amount of time. Minutes crawl by at a pace that is almost painful. He glances out from the corners of his optics occasionally to make sure that Spinister isn't suddenly deciding to react at someone with an act of violence and also so that he doesn't catch Misfire wandering off or worse.

Cripes, people actually wait this long for some kind of sports event? Fulcrum can't even imagine. Apparently, way back in the "glory" days of Cybertron -- before the war and much before he was even forged -- people would line up like this to see the racers show off their speed. Supposedly it was exciting back then, but the thought seems dull to him.

Just as dull as this wait has been.

When it's time to provide the tickets, Fulcrum braces himself. Once they're scanned by the alien clerk, though, they're able to pass through into the circular hallway without any difficulty. A bit of pride rises up in him knowing that the forgery he and Crankcase worked on ended up a success.

"Okay, this way," Fulcrum instructs, motioning for Spinister and Misfire to follow him. He keeps his eyes forward. "We'll just grab as much as we can carry."

"Too bad we didn't bring Grimlock, eh? Could have taken a lot more than all of us put together. Especially you. Can you even carry a barrel?" Misfire asks, staying behind Fulcrum as they walk down the hall.

The technician shrugs as he keeps walking. "I'll manage, okay? I dunno, I'll-- I'll roll one."

"'Cuz that is definitely subtle."

Fulcrum rolls his eyes as he turns a corner. "Right, because you're the best example of subtle I've ever met."

"Talking about stealing energon out loud probably isn't that subtle," Spinister offers, his tone genuinely attempting to be helpful.

Not wanting to admit that Spinister has a point, Fulcrum frowns and says, "Oh, it's fine. Like I said, who's even gonna bother us right now?" He leans in and checks a door before nodding confidently. "Here's one of the storage units."

He opens the door, listening to Spinister say, "You know what would help carry stuff? Not carrying an alien around. That definitely would help."

What? Fulcrum sighs as he steps into the storage room and says, "Yes, Spinister. Yes, that would help. Why are you even saying that?"

"Misfire's carryin' an alien."

Whirling around sharply, Fulcrum goes to look in Misfire's direction. "You're doing what?!"

Misfire pauses, then grins broadly as he holds up what looks like a tiny, chubby alien bundled up in some kind of blanket. "Good news! We have a baby!"

It takes every bit of Fulcrum's willpower to not just scream. This had to happen, he couldn't just keep them focused. No, now they have an infant alien for whatever reason. Misfire must have picked that up while Fulcrum was attempting to remain attentive to the front instead of checking on his teammates!

"Why the hell do you have a baby?! Misfire, did you steal a baby?" Fulcrum hisses at him.

Misfire dramatically scoffs. "Aw, c'mon, I rescued the little guy! He was all alone in his carriage. So I thought to myself: I'd better take care of him! Who in this cruel universe would just turn their back at this face?"

"I can't believe you stole a baby and you're trying to tell me you rescued him," Fulcrum groans into his hands.

"Ugh, fine. I only stole him a little bit. Besides, look at this face! Who can resist him?" Eager to somehow prove his crooked point, Misfire holds it out at Fulcrum. Almost immediately, Fulcrum cringes at the organic being shoved at him, but he's forced to look at the damned thing.

All organic aliens are kind of gross to him, and this one isn't faring that much better. Its skin is some kind of green-yellow shade, it looks slimy, and there are tentacles coming out of its head. It's fat looking, the nose is all turned up, and some kind of goo is coming out of its slit nose. Yet, when it looks up at Fulcrum, it giggles.

Fulcrum hates it all the more for making him feel a little bad for being disgusted.

"Why did you really steal this thing?" Fulcrum demands. "In the middle of a job, no less!"

Misfire shrugs. "I've been thinking for awhile that it was my turn to have a sidekick is all. I mean, think about it! You have Grimlock, Krok kinda has Spinister..."

"It's true," Spinister agrees, sounding a bit proud.

"Now Crankcase has Dent! It's unfair, I tell you. Whenever I try to boss you around, you just get all mad at me, Pinhead."

"That's because asking me to spit shine your feet isn't remotely reasonable," Fulcrum says flatly.

"So, it's sidekick time! Say hello to Punchkink Meatball. I'm gonna raise him to be the best scavenger out of all of ya." Misfire pauses, then abruptly looks disgusted. "Oh, ew, he's drooling. Changed my mind! You can have him, loser!"

Fulcrum throws up his hands as Misfire tries to shove the alien baby into his arms. "You drool all the time! Why does this bother you?"

"I'm more fancy about it, obviously." Misfire sniffs in offense. "Punchkick can't even say a word!"

"Goo," the baby agrees.

"Just because you stick your pinky up in the air while you salivate openly doesn't make it socially acceptable, Misfire!" Fulcrum snaps at him.

Misfire sticks up a pinky while he continues his attempts to foist Punchkick Meatball at Fulcrum. "Blep," he says as he drools his supposedly sophisticated example.

Payload or no payload, Fulcrum feels like he could just burst right then and there. He keeps his lips sealed as he holds back a frustrated shriek in his mouth, which apparently amuses the baby since it giggles at him.

Stupid baby.

"You're right, Punchkick, Fulcrum is hilarious when he's upset," Misfire coos.

"Yeah, I'd usually agree, but we got a problem, guys," Spinister pipes up.

Finally looking towards Spinister's way, Fulcrum has come to notice that somehow during his baby debate with Misfire that the room has filled with guards. Much to his own embarrassment, they somehow managed to flood the room with their firearms pointed at them.

Immediately, Fulcrum throws his hands into the air, hoping that it remains a universal signal to surrender. Misfire, on the other hand, apparently has other ideas: baby in his hands, he fires up his thrusters and barrels his way out of the room. Down the hallway, Fulcrum hear that stupid infant squealing in glee.

"Cybertronian attempting escape with the prince. I repeat," one bulky guard says into his communicator, "Cybertronian escaping with kidnapped prince."

"Oh great, he kidnapped a royal baby," Fulcrum grumbles to himself as his wrists are cuffed. "Spinister, why didn't you shoot them?!"

"You told me not to! Sheesh, you need to make up your mind," Spinister says irritably.

Fulcrum groans, exasperated. This is not going well.

-=-=-

There have been a few instances of Dent attempting to make conversation, but Crankcase hasn't been able to commit more than a grunt occasionally to acknowledge him. The whole decoration thing has mostly been just to distract Dent anyway. Honestly, he isn't even sure why it was so important to keep Dent from knowing the truth about stealing from the fleshbags. He told himself and Fulcrum that it was to keep him from making a fuss about it, and he wants to keep believing that's what it is.

He really, really doesn't want to think too hard about being in his company and what it means.

Dent is focused on pinning up one of the string of lights on the wall, delicately balancing on a stack of boxes. It doesn't seem to bother him how it wobbles, though Crankcase feels like he should tell him to be more cautious.

"I think the last time I did something like this was probably way, way back while I was still training people. Before the war, I mean!" Dent chuckles to himself quietly. "This is kind of fun, isn't it?"

"Mm." Crankcase narrows his optics as he tries to look busy, pushing boxes out of the way. He pauses as he glances over the arm that Dent had found in the crate earlier. It was one of the ones that they scavenged a few days ago; it wasn't that far from the coffins at the time, and it never hurt to keep a spare limb around. It'd really only match Fulcrum in terms of a paint job, though. Irrelevant either way.

Still, he supposes that wasn't what Dent was expecting to come across.

"Sorry. About the..." Trailing off, Crankcase picks up the arm and wiggles it slightly, as if that helps make his point. He quickly realizes that's probably not helping.

Dent glances down, then turns his head back to attention to pinning up the lights. "It's. It's okay. I've been giving this whole thing a lot of thought."

"Arms?"

"Kind of." Dent leaps down from the boxes, landing smoothly onto his feet. "The scavenging thing. You've all been doing it for a long time now, haven't you? It's how you've been getting by. I mean, heck, I probably wouldn't have an eye at all from Spinister if you guys didn't do this kind of thing."

Crankcase doesn't say anything. His frown deepens and he places the arm aside.

"Anyway, it's okay," Dent says softly. "I'm sorry for getting weird about it. I'm not used to living like this, but I guess I'm gonna have to get used to it until we get to Cybertron, huh?"

"Probably," Crankcase mutters bluntly.

"Thanks for thinking of me, Crankcase."

"Ugh." After exhaling heavily, the Decepticon looks up at the ceiling briefly and says, "You're welcome. I guess."

The room goes quiet as they return to their respective work: Dent actually doing the decorating and Crankcase busily not participating. Eventually, they migrate towards the mess hall, which is easier for Dent to work with and harder for Crankcase to look busy in. There isn't much in the way of trying to organize anything when they don't have much left in the way of things. Maybe a few cups that aren't chipped too badly yet, but he isn't going to mess with those.

Maybe conversation works better to maybe distract the Autobot.

"So." Crankcase pauses. "...Prowl?"

Dent stops in the middle of what he's doing, then looks at Crankcase from over his shoulder. "Oh. Right. You probably overheard Pharma, didn't you?"

"He pontificated enough. So what's with the name swap?"

"C'mon, do you want to be confused for the Prowl for most of your life?" Dent scoffs. It's probably the first time he's ever sounded disgusted or annoyed about any specific individual that Crankcase has heard yet. That's a surprise considering how Dent is still mixed up about Pharma. "I liked my name, but I got a lot of various reactions after awhile. I changed it, but... what can I say? It's like what a friend told me once: all the good names are taken."

Crankcase gives his arm a light nudge. "If it means anything, at least your name doesn't describe how you can't aim a gun to save your life."

That earns a chuckle. "Ah, poor Misfire." Although Dent has a battle mask and only one optic, Crankcase is pretty damned sure that the Autobot is smiling anyway. The expression fades away as Dent scratches the back of his neck, almost nervously. "Hey, uh. Crankcase? There's something I want to talk to you about."

"This oughta be good. What is it?" Crankcase folds his arms.

Dent nods. "Well, it's..." He trails off before he says, "You know how you asked why a navigator would be on Delphi?"

"Riiight. Where are you going with this?"

"I--" Dent pauses, hesitant before he turns his head a little. "Do you hear that?"

Briefly, he considers questioning Dent's hearing but instead Crankcase keeps his mouth shut and listens carefully. It's subtle enough, but he can steps in cargo bay. It sounds heavy. Someone big is here.

"Grimlock?" Dent suggests.

Crancakse narrows his cracked visor. "The lugnut's in the engine room. He would have passed by us."

"Oh. Then that really can't be good, can it?" The Autobot transforms, landing on all-fours as he cautiously heads toward the cargo bay.

"The real question is, who the hell would want to be on a trash heap like this?" Crankcase mutters, silently cursing himself as he decides to follow Dent. "I ask, even though it's happened more times than I care to remember."

Still, this is not something he was hoping to deal with today.

-=-=-

Being arrested all over again is definitely something that Fulcrum never needed to ever re-live in his lifetime. Fortunately, this has been pretty easygoing in comparison to his more brutal experience at the hands of his own people in comparison to these organics, but at the same time it's still not in the least bit pleasant as both he and Spinister are forced to march down the halls of the arena. Wherever they're going, Fulcrum just hopes it isn't the D.J.D. somehow, or the Galactic Council. Neither destination that he's eager to see.

Eventually, it becomes clear as to where they've been shoved into: the arena.

Fulcrum has seen pictures and documentaries about these kinds of places, but he's never been inside of one. It's like a giant coliseum, rows upon rows of aliens settled into into their bleachers. He can't fathom how many people have filled the seats -- thousands? Maybe thousands. It's ridiculous.

"Well, this is dumb," Spinister grumbles.

Fulcrum isn't really disagreeing.

In front of them is a stage platform featuring impressive, luxurious seating. There are four seats: two of them contain aliens that look similar to the baby that Misfire stole, one being much more bulky in comparison to the other. Despite their oozing skin, their clothing is designed to imply something important, Fulcrum assumes based on what little he knows of their culture. There is a tiny seat between them that is empty. The fourth seat at the end belongs to a different species, something that is covered in a lot of hair and fur, cloven hoof feet, and sporting four arms. It stands and gestures with one hand to Fulcrum and Spinister.

"Are these the creatures responsible for the theft of your son, Queen Zhanli?" the four-armed alien asks the bulky one with the tentacles on its head.

"You tell me," the queen answers, her voice deep and unimpressed. "Considering my son is missing, Director."

The Director frowns. "One of them escaped. We're still searching the station for the prince. For now, we will hold his friends responsible."

"Feh. This is why you should start preventing Cybertronians here. A scourge of the universe." Queen Zhanli sneers and places a hand to the smaller alien's wrist. "The longer you search, the more it wears on my king and my patience. Proceed, Director; this is your station and this is my time to be amused, not angry. Not yet."

"Gratitude, Your Grace." The Director turns his attention back to Fulcrum and Spinister. "The Night of the Sinned begins today, Cybertronians. Like all criminals, you will participate."

"What of the whatted?" Spinister squints suspiciously, pulling at his cuffs.

Fulcrum coughs. "Easy. Um, if you could, please explain what's expected of us?"

"Uncultured parasites," Zhanli grumbles. The comment irritates Fulcrum, but he isn't eager to make the organics any angrier than they already are, no thanks to Misfire.

"All criminals will be faced with a trial of their choice. You will compete with other prisoners for your chance of freedom. You may select one event to compete in for your freedom." The Director presses his hand against a control panel, summoning up a hologram of images summarizing the different types of competitions. "Should you win your selected event, you will allowed your freedom. Should you lose, well-- pray that you don't."

So there's a chance to actually get out of this! Fulcrum bites his lower lip in thought. He wishes he could talk to Spinister about it, but speaking openly in front of the aliens isn't really their best option right now. If Spinister makes the right selection, they'll get out of this without much effort. It just means that Fulcrum will have to select carefully; he's never been athletic, but he doesn't have the weaknesses of these inferior aliens. Still, that doesn't mean he's eager to do combat or anything else that requires skill.

Logically, he thinks that Spinister should pick combat. He's a decent fighter and one of the few to not get that banged up against the D.J.D., so he'd probably be okay. That leaves Fulcrum to deal with what he should choose.

"I'll pick the race. Erm, please," Fulcrum says, tacking on his manners at the end. He won't tire out like organics, and if there's something he's done for most of his life? It's run. Running a lot.

"Yeah, me too. The running thing," Spinister pipes up.

Fulcrum turns his head sharply to look at him. "What?!"

"It has been decided," the Director announces. "The Cybertronian prisoners will compete in the race this evening as part of the Night of the Sinned. Take them to their cells."

As the guards obey and shove Fulcrum forward, the K-Con stumbles and gives Spinister a sour look. "What you thinking?"

"Well, if we both compete, that means twice the chances of winning, right?" Spinister replies.

"You're not wrong, but that means only one of us is going to be free now!"

Spinister pauses. "Hm. Guess so. Huh." He leans his head back thoughtfully. "It was nice knowin' you, Fulcrum."

"Hey!!"

-=-=-

It's a slow inch towards the cargo bay, but it's better to be careful rather than running in blind. Crankcase isn't eager to find out who or what is in their ship this time, especially without sufficient back up. Dent might be some kind of martial artist, but he's also half-blind so it's better to err on the side of caution. His pistol is clenched tight into his hand as they make their way down, Dent remaining close in his beast mode.

Crankcase presses against the wall, edging closer to the door frame that leads to the cargo bay. He feels his chest tighten as he hears someone shuffling through boxes and tossing aside items impatiently. Crates are shoved away and someone is grunting irritably.

He finally peers over to get a look at who's made their way on board.

There's an enormous Cybertronian rooting around their things in a hurry, desperately seeking something. The black and yellow frame doesn't look familiar to Crankcase, and he can't see a hint of a faction badge so he has no idea if this one is Autobot or Decepticon. From the looks of things, he probably turns into some kind of jet, yet he has quite a bit of bulk to him. There are clearly two weapons with him, though: a giant axe, and an equally big sword. There are some scrapes in his frame, indications of a fight he's suffered and hasn't had repairs for yet but he seems to still carry himself well enough to possibly be a threat.

He's armed, he's big, and he doesn't belong on the ship. Crankcase briefly wonders if he could somehow convince Grimlock to listen to him, but he quickly discards that thought. Without Fulcrum, he doubts he could even make Grimlock lay down.

"What do you think he's looking for?" Dent whispers.

"I dunno, but we gotta find a way to get him out of here. Our luck with random people on our ship hasn't been all that great," Crankcase grumbles.

Dent's ears press back slightly. "You think he's an enemy?"

"Nah, I'm sure he's just a concerned neighbor throwing our junk around," Crankcase says with a sneer.

"Okay. Point taken." Dent tilts his head. "I could probably sneak in and see what he's after."

"That doesn't sound smart." There's a brief pause as Crankcase awkwardly rephrases with, "He's giant and I don't feel like seeing what he's capable of with those weapons of his."

"I can be careful," Dent says, grinning and showing his fangs. "We should at least know what he's up to."

For a moment, Crankcase debates arguing. He lifts up his index finger in determined stubbornness, but he hesitates. Honestly, he would love nothing more than to not be bothered by yet another trespasser on their ship. Sure, it's a rickety piece of garbage, but it's their rickety piece of garbage, and to hell with anyone who keeps trying to mess with it. If they can at least find out whatever this giant wants, maybe they can find a way to be rid of him.

So, no; Dent isn't really wrong. But Crankcase is still not thrilled about it.

He exhales and jerks his head slightly. "Don't let him see you," Crankcase mutters. "I don't wanna fight this guy."

The Predabot beams obnoxiously before he's slinking off into the cargo bay. Despite being half-blind, Dent appears to actually know what he's doing as he stalks behind boxes to observe their intruder.

From the doorway, Crankcase does his best to watch. More than he cares to express, he feels nervous having someone this big here without any real back up. He hates to think about how powerless he felt under Pharma's threat to stab his brain module, or the way Blithe and his crew tried to hunt them out on their own ship. This? This certainly isn't helping. What a time for Fulcrum, Misfire, and Spinister to be off the ship, and with Krok unconscious again.

He doesn't know what to even expect from this Cybertronian. He doesn't want to know, he just wants him out of here.

The big jet is still pulling open crates, rooting around inside with a disgusted noise before shaking his head and tossing the box aside. Crankcase can't see too clearly, but it's clear enough that he's trying to look for something specific.

"Haven't got the time for this," the stranger mutters, sounding frustrated. "He doesn't have time for this."

Crankcase squints suspiciously.

There's the familiar sound of jet engines ringing through the cargo ship as Crankcase watches Misfire abruptly fly inside in his vehicle mode. He's rushing by the intruder, causing the unknown Cybertronian to whirl around, alert. Without so much as a pause, Misfire is flying by Crankcase, nearly crashing into him.

"You idiot!" Crankcase snaps after Misfire instinctively, watching the jet fly down the hallway. Where in the hell was he going?!

All too late, he realizes that he's drawn attention to himself. The intruder stares at him, blue optics ablaze.

"Decepticon," he rumbles, drawing his axe from his back.

Cursing to himself, Crankcase starts to back up as he draws out his pistol. It's much too late; despite the sheet size of this jet, he's moving quickly as he starts to swing his axe down at the pilot.

Launching himself from the boxes, Dent roars as he leaps onto the intruder's chest, clinging on with his claws. It catches their opponent off guard for a moment, enough to give Crankcase time to move out of the way until Dent is thrown off into a pile of junk and boxes.

"I'm running out of time," says the intruder. "I'm offering you the chance to stand down or be cut down!"

"Get off our ship and it won't be a problem!" Crankcase shouts back, aiming his gun at him.

The large warrior snorts. "If you don't plan on surrendering, then I suppose this is how it'll be."

After climbing out of the pile he's been thrown into, Dent is back on all four of his feet, growling deep as he slowly paces at one side of their opponent. The stranger tightens his grip on his axe as he shifts his glance from Crankcase to Dent, preparing himself for an inevitable fight.

This is exactly what Crankcase was hoping to avoid. He grits his teeth, keeping his aim on the Cybertronian. Finally, he pulls the trigger, firing and aiming for the head, but the warrior is ducking and moving in to attack Crankcase. The mechanic leaps out of the way of the swing of his axe, landing and rolling the floor before getting back to his face. Dent goes in, clamping his jaws down over an ankle; it earns a surprised yelp from the jet, but he ends up using his superior weight to swing around and throw the Autobot off.

Using the opening, Crankcase grabs onto a crate and throws it at the intruder's head. The impact causes the crate to crack open and the stranger to stumble forward, almost falling. Seeing the chance to take him out, Dent transforms into his root mode and charges the warrior, landing a sharp kick across his face.

"Coming through! Out of the way!"

Upon hearing Misfire's voice, Crankcase is momentarily changing his attention as he glances towards where he's hearing it. The floor is trembling and there is a distinct thudding noise, and he can quickly tell why: Grimlock is charging out in his beast mode with Misfire riding his back. Curiously, Misfire is cradling some kind of organic baby in his arms as they ride out of the ship.

Due to the distraction, their intruder recovers. "That is enough!" his voice booms as he stomps forward. Using his weight, he grabs Dent by the chest with one hand and slams him down against the floor, pinning him. The warrior glares at Crankcase and brings down the bar to his axe, slamming it down against the Decepticon and forcing him down as well.

Dent grunts and struggles, trying to claw at the arm forcing him down, but it's clear that the warrior is too well armored. Under the weight of the axe and the Cybertronian, Crankcase can barely move as he tries to lift his gun.

"You're both done," the intruder tells them. "You will tell me where I can find--" He pauses, looking suddenly confused. "Wait."

Slowly, the warrior removes some of his weight from Dent, peering down at him before he's looking at Crankcase. He contemplates before asking: "What is an Autobot and a Decepticon doing traveling together?"

"I don't know, how about you tell me what the hell you're doing on our ship?!" Crankcase demands.

"He's my friend," Dent says, frowning.

What? Crankcase gives him a confused glance.

"Get off of them!"

Struggling to stand in the doorway of the cargo bay is Krok, leaning heavily against the wall. In his hands is a rifle, and it's clear he's giving plenty of effort in keeping it up. That doesn't stop the pure fury and determination in his eyes, red glowing fiercely as he stares down an opponent much larger than him.

It's always infuriated yet inspired Crankcase; even in the face of the likes of Tarn and the D.J.D., Krok didn't hesitate to suggest fighting back. Even right now, he's damaged and lacking strength, but he's prepared to take on a new foe.

The stranger looks at Krok, contemplating options before he completely removes his weight from both of them. He removes his sword from his back before he's setting both of his weapons onto the floor. "I know I need to explain myself, and I will. It seems I made an inappropriate assumption and I will be glad to take responsibility for it."

Cautiously, Dent picks himself up before he offers his hand to Crankcase. The Decepticon accepts the help up before he's hurrying to Krok's side. "So, what are you doing here?" Dent asks as he carefully places himself between the stranger and the Decepticons.

"Besides making a mess of the place," Crankcase complains, gripping Krok's upper arm. He wants to curse out Krok for being a fool and coming out here, but he's also relieved to see him on his feet.

"I was looking for fuel," the stranger answers honestly. "Not for myself, despite the temptation. But for someone else who desperately needs it."

That makes Crankcase bark out a bitter laugh. "You came to the wrong ship to steal from. We don't have anything for ourselves much less for you and your buddy."

"He's not lying. We're... kind of out of everything." Dent shrugs helplessly.

The stranger bows his head. "I see. I hoped by coming onto a Cybertronian ship, I would have better luck. In any case, he isn't a friend. I don't even know his name."

"You're helping someone you don't know by attacking our ship," Crankcase says flatly. "You have a real interesting approach to things."

"I made a mistake, and as I said, I'm glad to explain myself. Soon." He pauses, then says, "If I may, at least, I would like to bring him here. Assuming you have a medbay?"

"Barely," Crankcase mutters sourly. "Krok, you just woke up, but... well." He shrugs one shoulder towards the stranger. "Thoughts?"

"No." Krok exhales and narrows his eyes. "I'm not feeling particularly generous. I made the mistake of bringing Pharma on board. I'm not putting any of you at risk like that again."

The jet frowns a little, but he nods. "I understand."

"I know Pharma was a bad situation," Dent says regretfully. "But I think we should hear him out. You guys aren't any strangers to desperation, and it sounds like maybe it's a desperate matter."

Krok jerks his head to peer at Dent. "I see you're still here." The tone he takes to the Autobot is not particularly warm.

"He helped us out when Pharma tried throwing you out of the ship," Crankcase quickly cuts in.

That earns a strange look from Krok before he's lowering his head in thought. "Mm. We'll talk about that later, Crankcase. For now, we have ... this to deal with. Your friend here thinks we should listen to him."

Great. This is quickly getting uncomfortable. Crankcase huffs and looks away. "I think we've dealt with enough scrap already. Unless he's got something to offer, we can't afford the luxury of giving anything away." With some reluctance, he adds to hopefully make Dent understand, "We have to be practical about this."

"I don't know what I can offer," the stranger admits quietly. "But let's be practical, then. You seem to be individuals who, ah... gather material when they can, yes? The person I'm attempting to assist has a shuttle. I'm certain after I get him help, he would not mind giving it to you. There isn't much left, but it is yours."

"So you think you can offer us a broken shuttle to buy your way into what little medical supplies we have." Krok shakes his head.

"Then I also lend you my services, until you deem them no longer necessary." The stranger kneels down before the three other Cybertronians in front of him. "I am a knight of the Circle of Light. My word and honor is everything, and I owe you for the misunderstanding. I will owe you more if you give me the opportunity to save a life."

"Services," Krok repeats warily.

"I like to think that I am a rather sufficient fighter." The warrior cracks a grin.

There's a moment while Krok is cycling air, either struggling with himself physically or he's trying to digest the situation he's in right now. Crankcase doesn't envy him, but he's prepared to go with whatever Krok chooses to do.

Eventually, Krok looks at Crankcase and says, "I want to see this shuttle first before I make a choice."

"You're sure about that." The pilot gives him a skeptical look. "You haven't been awake for even fifteen minutes yet."

"I've slept plenty." Krok shakes his head. "Just get me caught up on what I've missed while we're on our way." He turns his attention to the stranger. "You."

"My name is Axe," the knight offers.

"Axe, then." Krok scowls at him. "Go ahead and show us the shuttle. If this is a trap, that'll be the last mistake you ever make. Understood?"

Axe nods. "Of course. Please, follow me."

-=-=-

Sitting in a tiny cell between aliens larger than him who are various degrees of disgusting, gross, and generally unpleasant to be around has been a trial in patience and tolerance. From inside the cell, he has a decent view of the arena as he watches the events unfold. There had been a few matches of various sports that Fulcrum was completely unfamiliar with, and others that were centered around pure brute strength such as fighting or seeing who was able to break a stone with their forehead, all the while with the victor being granted their freedom. In any case, it was nothing that Fulcrum was remotely good at or interested in.

He's still not looking forward to the race.

"If I ever see Misfire again, I swear!" Fulcrum mutters, folding his arms. "I can't believe him."

"I can. Kidnapping a royal alien baby isn't the weirdest thing he's ever done," Spinister muses.

While Fulcrum is a bit curious to hear more to that particular subject, he refrains from asking. "I mean, he just left us here!"

Spinister shrugs a little. "You've probably run away a bunch of times from fights, right?"

"I didn't run from you guys," Fulcrum mutters, annoyed.

"Yeah, I guess that's true. Look on the bright side: guess you're braver than Misfire." Spinister chuckles to himself, patting Fulcrum on the head. The K-Con gets the distinct feeling it's more condescending than affectionate.

"And now begins the Race to Freedom for the next event of the Night of the Sinned. Bring forth the prisoners," the announcer's voice booms throughout the arena.

This was it. Nervously, Fulcrum cycles his vents as they're all forced out of the cell, brought out into the arena and lined up at their starting points. It seems pretty straightforward, honestly: it's a track that goes the span around the perimeter of the coliseum.

Fulcrum gives the situation some consideration. He's being faced off with a bunch of inferior organics. He won't get tired like them, and like he told himself before he's no stranger to running. Clearly, he just needs to think of things that'll make him want to run very very fast. Like Optimus Prime, the D.J.D., or social obligations he used to have as a project manager.

Honestly, he could probably do this. Spinister is strong, but he's never struck Fulcrum as especially fast. Not that he wants to leave behind his teammate but maybe he can score a tie between them or something. That could perhaps work.

"Prepare yourselves. Three..."

Fulcrum crouches, getting ready to sprint. He glances to his left where Spinister is standing there, staring at his own hands, not at all paying attention.

"Two..."

"Spin, c'mon!" Fulcrum hisses at him.

"Mm?" Spinister glances down at the K-Con. "Oh yeah. The thing."

"One."

A loud crack of a gun being fired triggers them to go. Just as Fulcrum predicted, he's able to take off and get ahead of the other aliens. For a moment, he feels confident. He just might get through this, after all!

Then, almost in slow motion, he sees it out of the corner of his optic: Spinister catching up with him suddenly with a fierce, determined look on his face. His brand of running is more like insane leaps from one foot to the other, leaving dust behind him. It's utterly ridiculous and absolutely frightening to watch as Spinister tears by the other racers and speeds by Fulcrum.

He's so stunned that Fulcrum can't even form words.

This is so unfair! Fulcrum grits his teeth and tries desperately to catch up, but it seems like Spinister all-too-quickly becomes something like an unstoppable force as he practically gallops his way through the course.

There's a rumbling noise not too far from them, enough to almost make the ground quiver under Fulcrum's feet. The noise sounds actually quite familiar, admittedly, but it's hard to make out while he's trying desperately to catch up with Spinister. It's when one of the walls of the coliseum collapses that he can see where the noise is coming from.

One day, Fulcrum will stop being amazed with himself when he's relieved to see a giant angry Dynobot breathing fire rushing towards him. Today is not that day when he grins in relief, watching Grimlock rush towards him with Misfire riding his back.

"Grimlock! Right over here, buddy!" Fulcrum shouts for the Autobot.

Abruptly, Grimlock transforms into his bipedal mode, nearly throwing off Misfire in the process. He's careful to not slam his body weight into Fulcrum as he scoops up the technician protectively into his arms. His rather explosive appearance and abrupt approach to the K-Con, throws off the other racers as they're cautiously giving Grimlock plenty of space.

"Me Grimlock find him Fulcrum," the Dynobot says, sounding quite proud of himself.

"You sure did." Fulcrum grins and pats his head. He shoots Misfire a glance. "Thanks for coming back for us."

"Oh, don't thank me! It was totally Prince Meatball's idea." Misfire holds up the baby. "Isn't that right, hm?"

"Goo!" Punchkick Meatball says.

"Cybertronians! Surrender the prince immediately!" Fulcrum hears the Director.

Fulcrum cringes slightly. "Right. Could you give that thing back to its creators?"

"What, already? We were bonding so much." Misfire sighs. "All right, fine. I guess organics are kind of a pain to take care of, anyway. C'mon, little guy." Once his thrusters activate, he takes off towards the stands to make his baby delivery.

"In spite of the thorough interruption, the tall Cybertronian has won the Race to Freedom. The rest of you will return to your cells!"

"Yeah, I'm not super into that idea," Fulcrum mutters.

Coming down from overhead is Spinister, transforming out of his helicopter mode to land nearby. "Hey, Fulcrum! Now that the race is over with, can we get the heck out of here? Am I allowed to shoot people again?"

"Yes and yes! I'm ready to leave. I'm so ready. Grimlock, get us out of here!"

-=-=-

This is still not something that Crankcase is sure will turn out to be a good idea, but he thinks that Krok knows that too. Taking a stranger's word, knight or not, is a difficult thing and they've been burned before. It's complicated, though; the situation with Pharma wasn't good because of Pharma, but things with Dent have turned out more or less okay, right? Even if he wants to call Crankcase an f-word. Still, he really can't blame Krok for being wary of the whole thing.

They've been following Axe down the docking station. Dent had transformed back to his beast mode and offered Krok to ride him. It honestly took Crankcase to convince him it was better than limping and stumbling around. The fact that Crankcase has been sticking up for an Autobot has probably docked him some points in Krok's favor, and he's surprised with himself. He isn't sure if he's happy with it.

"I almost wish you all had kept Pharma around so I could have shot him," Krok mutters. That earns a flinch from Dent, but no words.

Crankcase grunts softly. "He's probably dead anyway. No one's going back to Delphi. Anyway, I, uh." He looks up at the ceiling and sighs. "I'm sorry about what happened."

"Excuse me?" Krok peers at him.

"Don't make me say it again."

"I wasn't planning on it. What would you have to apologize for?" Krok looks at him with genuine confusion.

That just makes him feel more irritated. "Pharma threw you off the ship," Crankcase reminds him angrily.

"I didn't blame you for that. Not even for a second. I made the choice to bring Pharma on board, and him putting you into that situation is my responsibility. Not yours." Krok exhales slowly. "But if it eases your conscience, I completely forgive you. Understand?"

"Hmn." Crankcase just looks away from him.

Krok doesn't give the behavior much thought. He understands what Crankcase's body language and grunts usually mean, and he isn't about to take them personally now. Instead, he turns his attention to the Predabot. "I suppose I have you to thank for helping us with the mess with Pharma."

"I had no idea what was going on with him," Dent says quietly. "I wish things turned out differently, but I don't regret helping out the crew."

"You're still here," Krok muses, his tone not giving away how he might think or feel on that idea.

"I. I guess so," Dent responds sheepishly. "If it's okay by you, I was sort of hoping I could stick around for awhile. You're all headed back to Cybertron anyway, so either way it kind of works out, doesn't it?"

"I'll give it some thought."

"That's all I ask. Thanks, Krok." Dent's tone, as usual, is sickeningly sincere. Crankcase still doesn't know how he feels about that. It's weird.

Interrupting the conversation is Axe's voice, booming with, "Ah! Here we are!"

True to the knight's word, there is a shuttle in shambles before them. By the front of it, it seems like the hull was torn open. No, more accurately, something blew it up from inside, severely damaging the vessel. Yet, despite the obvious state of it, Crankcase swears he's seen this particular shuttle before. He folds his arms, frowning as he thinks.

"How did you manage to bring it here?" Dent asks. "That doesn't look like it's in any condition to be piloted."

"I towed it," Axe says. "Wasn't easy, but I didn't have any other real methods to bring him here."

"Speaking of which." Krok gestures tiredly to the shuttle. "Let's see him."

With some hint of embarrassment, Axe says, "Ah, I'm afraid I have no way inside. I couldn't find a way to pull him out safely due to my frame size."

"For the love of-- whatever. I'll do it." Crankcase throws his hands up. "Dent, stay here with Krok."

"Be careful," Krok orders him, clearly still not trusting Axe.

Frankly, neither does Crankcase.

Cautiously, the pilot steps into the shuttle. There isn't much to say about the interior; it looks about as bad as it does from the outside. Here, he can see that an explosion of some kind definitely did take place, enough to blow out the inside. He's no forensics professional, but Crankcase feels confident enough to conclude that something burst from the inside rather than anything trying to get in. So the shuttle's already been rigged before.

Curious.

Before Crankcase goes to find the wounded, he immediately goes to check the fuel tanks of the shuttle. He pries open the door to look inside, only to be grimly met with a tank that's not even half full. There's something, maybe enough to get their own ship going, but they'll still starve for awhile yet.

Better than nothing, he supposes.

Crankcase hears something shifting and groaning. Turning to look in that direction, he sees someone strapped to the remains of the pilot seat. It looks like Axe hastily bound him up to keep him still. Makes sense, he supposes.

The closer he gets, the more he starts to see more familiarity. The thick slabs of metal on the back and hips, the gray-tone paint job, the bulk.

"Gladbag?" Crankcase says, baffled to see the pathologist. The last time they saw this Autobot, they had parted ways on Styx and he was on his way to Colony Omicron. Maybe he was attacked on the way there and never made it?

Optics flicker on for a moment as Gladbag comes to. He holds his forehead for a moment. "Ah...? No... No, no. Where...? Remedy-- the box," Gladbag rambles for a moment before he passes back out.

Remedy? So Gladbag has medical supplies? Crankcase shrugs and glances over the Autobot for a moment. It's mostly his right side that's been injured from the explosion. He's missing a pinky on the right hand, and some of his insides on his torso are exposed, but he'll live.

"Ugh, all right. C'mon." Crankcase shakes his head and starts to unstrap him. "Unbelievable. Just when I thought we were done with you."

He hefts the Autobot onto his back. It's not an easy task; Gladbag is heavy and tall, but letting his feet drag on the floor will be enough to let him carry him out of the shuttle.

Once he makes his exit, Krok looks on in as much disbelief as Crankcase feels. "Of all the--"

"You know him?" Axe asks, curious as he helps Crankcase by lifting Gladbag into his arms.

"We've run into him a couple of times before." Krok rubs his head.

"There's a tank with some fuel inside. We could make some use of it. I'd have to go over this whole thing with Fulcrum and Spinister to really decide if anything else is gonna be useful," Crankcase says. "But there you have it. You got a shuttle, an injured Gladbag, and a knight who's supposedly offering his services."

"There's nothing supposedly about it, I assure you," Axe interrupts.

Krok peers up at Axe before addressing Crankcase, "We'll discuss this whole thing when the others return. For now, we should head back."

-=-=-

Returning to the ship with the shuttle was a bit of a task, but when asked if he'd drag it into the Weak Anthropic Principle, Axe agreed without hesitation. It seems that there's some truth to the offer Axe has made to them. It's still a curious matter; Crankcase is still clueless as to why, exactly, someone who was uninvolved in the war suddenly decided to attack them. Teaming up with an Autobot? All right, maybe that was a little surprising, but he can't quite figure out what Axe's motivation is, and that bothers him.

In any case, they have Axe and Gladbag now. They have a damaged shuttle in their cargo bay that needs to be dismantled.

Now all that's missing would be the rest of the crew.

"They sure are late getting supplies for Misfire's party," Dent comments as he helps Krok sit down on a crate in the cargo bay. "I hope he doesn't mind a couple of surprise guests."

"Right." Krok pauses. "Wait, what?"

Crankcase coughs. "Uh, anyway. You aren't wrong, they're definitely taking awhile for a simple enough task."

With incredibly appropriate timing, Crankcase watches the four of them stumble inside. Under Spinister's arm is a canister, which he swears had better be energon. Fulcrum is being carried by Grimlock, and Misfire has his arms looped around the Dynobot's neck as they come storming back in.

"We gotta go! We gotta go right now!" Fulcrum says first thing. He glances over Crankcase's shoulder. "Krok?!"

"You got just one canister?" Crankcase demands. He scowls when Spinister shoves it into his hands, ignoring the him as the surgeon immediately rushes to Krok's side.

"You're lookin' pretty healthy all things considered. How you feeling?" Spinister tilts his head as he looks over their captain.

Krok pats his arm. "I'm fine, Spinister."

"One canister!" Crankcase says through gritted teeth.

"Look, I'm sorry, but we really have to go. The people at this station are pretty unhappy with us." Fulcrum winces. "But it's better than nothing. And since when did we have a giant hunk of a shuttle in our cargo by?"

"Since five minutes ago," Crankcase snaps at him. "Make yourself useful and start going through it with Spinister. Apparently, I need to save our plating from whoever you pissed off!"

As he stomps his way up towards the bridge, Crankcase throws the canister down onto the floor. This whole thing, per usual, is a damned mess. He shakes his head as he slumps down into his seat, starting up the engines.

"So... I'm gonna assume that this wasn't about a party."

Crankcase jerks his head to peer over his shoulder at Dent, then he looks away. "Ugh," is all he can manage to express.

"It's all right. I mean, not that I condone stealing, but I think I get it." Slowly, the navigator goes to stand nearby the pilot. "Besides, I haven't exactly been entirely honest with you either."

"Now's probably not the..." Crankcase trails off, then sighs as he rubs his face as he listens to the W.A.P.'s engines begin to fire up and hum to life. He debates for a moment before shaking his head. "Hell with it. This is about before, isn't it? What you were gonna tell me until Axe decided it'd be a great idea to try to steal from us."

"Yeah." Dent shrugs a little helplessly. "Listen. The real reason I was stationed at Delphi was because of a project. Something that Prowl -- you know, the Prowl -- ordered us to work on. The mines weren't enough, but he wanted this project worked on quietly, out of sight. We were trying to work on a combiner. Magnaboss."

"...Okay." Crankcase frowns as tries to listen and pilot at the same time. "An Autobot combiner. What was your part?"

"I was supposed to be part of it. Literally. Ambulon and Pharma made the modifications. But we never got to the next stage."

"No, not until Pharma made the whole facility sick," Crankcase says, remembering what Pharma confessed regarding Delphi. "Why the hell are you telling me this?"

"I didn't think it was a good idea to keep it a secret. I mean, Spinister brought it up first; he already knew something was up, I guess." Dent shrugs. "But he made a point. People die over secrets kept all the time. I don't want anything bad to happen to any of you. You're Decepticons, but you guys kept me around and looked after me when everyone else in the universe forgot about me, left me behind, or used me. That means a lot."

For a long time, Crankcase is quiet. He generally doesn't enjoy thinking too hard about this kind of thing, but he does feel more or less the same way about this crew. Krok picked him up when everyone else was ready to abandon him. Sometimes he gets a little bitter and a little jealous with how close the others are to each other, but that's not something he could ever say. Having someone who listens to him about his own interests has been nice, hasn't it? Even if that someone has been pretty much the exact opposite of him. Dent is optimistic and eager to look on the bright side of things, and he.

He called Crankcase a friend.

He should say something back, and all Crankcase can convince himself to say is, "I should, uh. Make sure we get out of here."

"Oh! Right. Making the aliens mad thing. Sure, let me know if you need a hand." Dent's single optic squints, implying a smile. "I'll go check on the others."

"Yeah. Sure." Crankcase slumps in his chair.

-=-=-

"Queen Zhanli, my deepest apologies for the trauma this must have put you and your husband through." The Director bows his head before the queen. "I'm glad your son has been returned, but I fear the Night of the Sinned has been a disappointment to you."

"Quit your blubbering." Zhanli shakes her head. "I don't care about any of that. My son's in good spirits and my husband is relieved. Regardless, we should do something to be sure the Cybertronians understand that they should never lay a hand on my people again."

"What do you wish?"

Zhanli snorts and waves her hand. "I want the flying purple one--"

"Red," the Director interjects. "Wasn't it?"

She scowls at him. "Whatever. The one that had his hands on my son. Let the Galactic Council know I want him taken in. I want him alive, and I want him found. Got it?"

"Of course. As you wish, Queen Zhanli. What of the others?"

The queen laughs. "What, the scrawny one and the dolt that finished the race? I don't care. Just get the one I mentioned. Find him."

-=-=-

In the Weak Anthropic Principle, laying on the slab in the medbay is Gladbag. His optics flicker and he groans.

"Remedy."

Chapter Text

The Weak Anthropic Principle has been in a busy, frantic state. There has been explanations exchanged, and yet Spinister still almost shot Axe and Gladbag anyway, which came as a surprise to no one. What everything boils down to is that they have a canister of energon that's barely enough for everyone to get by on, and enough fuel in the shuttle to get them as far as Colony Omicron, which is a plan that Krok reluctantly has accepted. If Gladbag's words on Styx are correct, perhaps the neutral colony can be of assistance to get them further into their journey.

After Krok attempted to insist that he was fine, Spinister shrugged and picked him up to take him to the medbay to look him over. It's not often that the surgeon will ignore Krok's orders, but clearly Krok's well-being takes precedence. Everyone else has their own duties: Dent has taken over for piloting for now since they've managed to escape Abaddon Station, Misfire is filtering out the energon from the shuttle, and Axe is helping disassemble previously mentioned shuttle with his brute strength. It leaves Fulcrum and Crankcase to try to decide what's valuable to keep and what's straight up useless.

Crankcase shakes his head as he turns away from the others. They're far enough from the station and on their way to something questionably better, at least enough that at least they don't have to deal with organics.

But he's still wary. Something bad is always around the corner.

"Hey, Crankcase." Fulcrum gestures for him. "I found something on the shuttle. Think you could help me with this?"

In his hands is a box. It's a bit scratched and with a few dents here and there, but otherwise completely sealed. Curiously, Crankcase lifts it out of Fulcrum's hands as he glances it over. "Several locks in place. Vocal and spark recognition, so it needs a spark type and a vocal password. And... what the hell are the rest of these locks? There's like five other locks."

"Good question. It was on Gladbag's shuttle," Fulcrum holds out his hand, taking it back from Crankcase. "What do you think of it?"

"Eh. Gladbag mentioned something about a remedy in a box." Crankcase shrugs. "I dunno, some kind of cure?"

"With so many locks on it? Maybe, but Gladbag's not a doctor." The K-Con rubs his impressive chin. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nah. But he seemed pretty set on finding it. I mean, it was the first thing out of his mouth when I found him."

"Hmm." Fulcrum sits down onto a crate and looks it over in his hands. "It looks like it was made to withstand a lot of damage. Which means whatever is inside has got to be important somehow. Maybe this remedy is financially valuable."

"That's assuming we can break it open." Crankcase scowls as he peers over the container. "Anyway, we should worry about it after we break down the shuttle."

"All right, but when we're done with that, I really think we should have a look inside."

"Assuming whatever's in it won't get us killed?"

Fulcrum gives him a wry look. "What kind of remedy is made to kill people?"

Crankcase replies with a flat expression. "Knowing our luck?"

"Okay, point." Fulcrum offers a sheepish grin. "But aren't you curious? Gladbag has a mysterious box with at least seven locks on it, and we don't even know how to unlock five of them yet. And it's made out of sturdy stuff; this thing won't bust open that easily."

The thought makes Crankcase groan. He likes playing it safe usually, and leaving the unknown alone is usually safer. It's what makes working with Fulcrum sometimes frustrating; he's a decent technician and helpful with repairs on the ship, but apparently nearly escaping death several times in his life hasn't stopped the K-Con from asking questions or investigating something new.

This is no exception, and even if Crankcase says no that means Fulcrum is going to do it anyway.

"Fine. We'll take our time, though," Crankcase says with an annoyed sigh. "Let's store it for now where Misfire and Grimlock can't get their hands on it."

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." Pleased, Fulcrum tucks the box under his arm. "Thanks, Crankcase. I'm looking forward to this."

Crankcase grunts. He still isn't so sure.

Chapter Text

They're close enough to dock at the Liberalia Graveyard now. The sight's never been generally appealing, but considering it's a mass of warships, abandoned space stations, and theoretically a Titan's corpse keeping it all together, it's not going to be a pretty sight. Still, it works well for the needs of this pack of Raiders: pieces of history floating around, pulled together by a force of gravity, and every valuable part was found or taken. That's how they live and get by. The Raiders left their old lives behind during and after this great war of four million years, deciding to look out for themselves.

The concept is interesting. Everyone has their reasons for being part of this. Some wanted to get away and live independently from Decepticons and Autobots, and others wanted more out of life. Some still do, but much like the original reason for war, motivation can be warped and changed. Reasons will always evolve.

"We're docked," Sweep announces.

"About time. I'm ready to get off this cramped thing you claim is a ship," Ransack complains, bouncing his leg anxiously.

While Sweep gives him an unimpressed look, Brushfire offers a toothy grin instead and pats him on the shoulder. "Ransack's just a bit claustrophobic."

"Hm. Suppose that has to do with where you're from." Sweep turns off the engines and stands up to join the other two. "What did you call it?"

"Usually I call it none-of-your-business-tron," Ransack grumbles.

That earns a shrug from Sweep. "Fair enough."

"Sweep," the intercom pipes up.

"Go ahead, Spoilsport," he answers.

"Just a head's up: he's coming to meet you. Personally. So just-- yeah."

That makes Sweep hesitate and Ransack's leg-bouncing freeze. Brushfire looks mostly puzzled.

"Sweep?"

"I heard you. Yeah." Sweep exhales and rubs his forehead. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I'll talk to you later."

Ransack throws his hands in the air. "Ain't that just perfect--"

"I think I missed something. What's the problem, exactly?" Brushfire asks.

"Obviously, you've never met Burnout, so I'll give you some basic rules: stay quiet, keep your optics to yourself, and let me deal with him," Sweep tells him. "I mean it."

That makes Brushfire shrug, mostly out of confusion than anything. "Okay, I know, I'm the new guy, but I thought Burnout was one of the commanders. Is he really that bad? I know he's a collector and all, but..."

"If he wasn't so bad, I wouldn't tell you to keep to yourself," Sweep informs him. "It'll be fine, but he's generally unpleasant. He's a commander because he's smart, not because he's particularly charismatic or pleasant."

"Just don't do anything stupid," Ransack advises.

Rising from his seat finally, Sweep walks by the other two in order to walk out of the ship first. As he steps out of the door, he pauses for a second as he catches a glimpse of Burnout. While Sweep himself is more described as lanky, Burnout is tall and bulking after all of the upgrades he's given himself. Sweep has been around long enough to remember that Burnout wasn't always this size, wasn't always a giant imposing figure, but that's one of the luxuries of his kind. Things can always be added on.

Burnout has two-sides of arms; one set is settled onto his back, close to the shoulders while another pair is grafted on like most Cybertronians. His face isn't remarkable, but at the sides of his head are an extra optic each, not to mention the giant one shuttering on the back of his head. The look of his rig reminds Sweep that his alt-mode travels by land, a gigantic transport vehicle for his prized treasures. Despite all of his upgrades, Burnout still bears the slashed Autobot badge on his chest along with the rest of his once patriotic blue and red paint job.

Sweep falls into a salute. "Burnout. You've put on weight."

Burnout grins and waves him out of the formal salute. It doesn't comfort Sweep, even when his arm settles at his side. "And you look the same. You ever think about ditching your Vehicon model?"

"Sometimes." Sweep shrugs. "Seems like a lot of work, though. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to have a look at Barracks' remains. Heard he was onto something promising for me."

"Ah. Right." Sweep glances over his shoulder. "Brushfire, Ransack. Bring him out for Burnout."

Burnout folds one of his pair of arms behind his back. "You found him on Styx, I heard."

"Right. Spoilsport suggested that he was after a K-Class model. Didn't think that there were any left whole, much less alive."

The back of Sweep's ship opens, and Burnout looks on with great interest. "Neither did I. I've been to Styx before -- never really had been able to have a thorough look at the place, but... well, I assumed that they all went off without fail. I'm glad to hear otherwise. To have a complete K-Con! That's a rare opportunity. Too bad about Barracks."

"Mm. Too bad," Sweep responds without a hint of interest. "Another frame-type for you?"

"I have a lot in my collection, but to have a K-Class model? I can't give up that opportunity! I'd never get another shot." Burnout looks on as Ransack and Brushfire drag out the berth slab that they've stored Barracks on. "Let's have a look."

"Out of his way," Sweep instructs his teammates hastily, motioning them quickly to get behind him.

Almost all of Burnout's optics are wide with fascinating and interest. Sweep watches him approach the corpse of Barracks, all of his hands out as he touches the body. Fingers drag over the most obvious of wounds, tapping against melted metal and scorch marks. There isn't much to look at in Sweep's opinion, but he knows Burnout has a knack for this kind of thing. Eventually, Burnout touches what little remains of Barracks' face.

"Saw marks," Burnout muses. "But that's obviously not what killed him. The explosion did. Looks like a personal matter. And his plating was melted not from the explosion, but something else. Interesting, very interesting."

Sweep frowns behind his faceplate.

"I'll have someone deliver the remains to my lab." Burnout tilts his head. "Do we have any clues about the location of the K-Con?"

"No. Spoilsport told me to retrieve just Barracks, but we did have a look at the computers in Styx. Unfortunately, someone definitely didn't want us looking through them and trashed them." Sweep shakes his head once.

"That's a shame. I'll consult with Spoilsport, then." Burnout strokes his thumb over the part of the face in his hands. "Sweep, go ahead and get refueled with your team. I want you to do a routine pick up for me personally."

Sweep cycles his vents slowly. "Of course. The usual?"

"Absolutely. I knew I could count on you, Sweep." Burnout smiles at him, then pauses as he glances over Sweep's shoulder at Brushfire. "Well, that's a new face. I don't think we've been introduced."

"He's Brushfire," Sweep says.

"Brushfire. Where are you from?" Burnout laughs. "It's okay. No matter what anyone's told you, I don't bite."

"I, uh." Brushfire rubs the back of his head. "It was called Deimars."

"You look like you're a Predabot, but there's something a little different about you. Let's see here." Burnout approaches, peering over Sweep's shoulder when the Vehicon doesn't budge. "No badge. Neutral? Something else... You look like you transform into a canine mode, but you have wings too. Interesting. Do they have a name for your model type?"

"I don't think so," Brushfire replies hastily.

"No? Now I have to know what you turn into!"

"Burnout," Sweep finally says quietly. "Our refueling."

"Right. Duh." Burnout sighs and shrugs. "Everyone has to eat, and you have a pick up to do. We'll talk later."

Firmly gripping Brushfire's arm, Sweep pulls him away silently. It remains quiet among the three of them as they head further down the hall. Sweep doesn't look over his shoulder until he's certain a door shuts behind them.

Ransack sighs and holds his head. "For bootin' up cold, Brushfire--"

"I didn't know what to say!" Brushfire looks at Sweep. "Sorry."

"He put you on the spot." Sweep shakes his head. "Listen. Whatever you do, don't do it alone. Keep in my eye sight and Ransack's. Am I absolutely clear?"

Brushfire winces. "Sure? I'm lost, why is it a big deal?"

"Didn't you listen to the entire conversation? Yeah, you're right, he's a collector, and he likes rare frame-types. Only, it doesn't matter if they're alive or dead. I dunno what his interest in you is, but you don't want his kind of attention!" Ransack snaps at him.

"It doesn't matter what it is," Sweep says, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "What matters is that we stick together. Understood?"

"Yeah, okay. I got it." Brushfire's shoulders slump.

"Good." Sweep sighs. "Let's just try to get through this. Come on, both of you."

Chapter Text

"So." Krok sighs. "All right. Here we are."

Playing catch up hasn't been that hard, not with how anxious everyone had been to see him. Crankcase already gave his gruff, short version of the events that have transpired, then Misfire talked for what felt very much like hours and it really didn't cover anything important. To his relief, Fulcrum gave a slightly more thorough report that ended with I am seriously glad you are awake because I don't know how you command anyone here and our crew isn't even that large, sir. Welcome back. Meanwhile, Spinister had told him the following: "Pharma was stupid. We cut off his wings and threw him out. And we found you. That was good. Dent's here, I guess, and then Misfire stole a baby. You don't look dead. That's nice."

Now, he has this: Gladbag is unconscious in his medbay, which he's swallowing easier than the very real problem before him.

A Knight of the Circle of Light, promising his servitude until Krok determines it has been fulfilled.

"Let's start with why you decided a hostile approach was best," Krok suggests.

It's a strange situation, having this giant warrior kneel on the floor before him. Axe is about as tall as Grimlock, but unlike their Dynobot companion he's completely self-aware. He had been armed, but complied in giving his sword and axe temporarily. Yet, Axe keeps his position clear, that Krok is in command right now and the knight is not.

Axe tips his chin up and keeps his optics locked with Krok's. It almost feels like a challenge, and Krok doesn't waver.

When Axe smiles, it almost throws him off.

"It was impulsive," Axe admits. "For that, I am sorry. The settlement I'm from was attacked by individuals I've never seen before. I want to say that they were drones, but I don't actually know who or what they were. We were under the impression that the Decepticons were responsible."

Krok snorts.

"I know how that sounds." The knight sighs and bows his head. "I was ordered by Dai Atlas specifically to retreat, on the possibility that none of us would escape or survive. Regretfully, I believe he was correct; when I returned, there was no one. I have been searching for the other knights, but I'm afraid I've had little luck in finding them. It was during my wanderings that I found your friend in his shuttle."

"He's not really a friend," Krok remarks. "But I suppose he isn't an enemy either at this point."

Axe chuckles at that. "In any case, when I was searching for fuel for him, I saw the Decepticon badge and my reaction was not suitable. It wasn't until I saw Dent's badge that things started to come together. This is... no ordinary ship, is it?"

"Ordinary is about as far as you can get, but it is still a Decepticon vessel," Krok informs him firmly. "Dent was taken in out of mercy, and Gladbag is... I'm not even entirely sure, but I don't want him dead."

"And Grimlock?" Axe asks, tilting his head curiously.

Krok folds his hands together. Originally, he had let Misfire and Fulcrum convince him that bringing Grimlock on board was a good idea. While Fulcrum said that the war was over therefore it shouldn't matter, Misfire indicated that Grimlock would be useful no matter who won -- and both of them weren't wrong at the time. Grimlock should still just be the crew's ticket to an easier life on Cybertron, yet Krok isn't blind to the fact that he's gradually started become more part of the crew than expected. Worst yet, Fulcrum stands up for him and has obviously become fond of their not-quite-captive.

He doesn't know that even if Grimlock were to suddenly become violent in the next ten minutes that he wouldn't hesitate to shoot. Krok wants to say he would open fire, but the truth is harder. He dislikes it. Things were much simpler before he started to give mercy to these Autobots and playing in the snow with them. Pharma was a regretful choice, but the oddly optimistic Dent has been clearly a helpful addition. Gladbag's crew caused them trouble when they first met, but the pathologist has gradually been making up for that by letting them kill his crew, repairing Spinister, and assisting Fulcrum at Styx.

So where the hell does he draw the line here? It almost upsets him how muddled up this faction business has become so quickly after the war. Months ago, he wouldn't have hesitated just throwing them out of the airlock, but they're hurting for help; pride and tradition can't interfere in their choices.

Krok remains as aloof as he can. "He carries his weight, even if he's not all there. That's all that matters."

The answer draws an interested look from Axe, but the knight doesn't press, thankfully.

"Let's say I buy your story about the attack on the knights." Krok shrugs. "How long would your servitude last, and what are the terms?"

"As long as you determine, and that is up to you." Axe grins so genuinely that the Decepticon isn't sure how to interpret it yet. "I think you can decide what is fair. You do not seem unreasonable to me. Surprising, actually; I have met more stubborn Decepticons before."

A knight under his command. That could be easily taken advantage of, yet Krok can quickly see it becoming a problem, too. Axe is big; he's going to need a lot of energon. That's not precisely helpful for a ship full of hungry Decepticons, but he's also a giant warrior. That's fairly useful, especially in this lot when their best fighters are Spinister and Grimlock.

"Axe. Help complete the breakdown of the shuttle. After that, I want you to help Misfire take stock of what we have left in the cargo bay."

The knight bows his head, a gesture of traditional respect that Krok can't remember ever receiving. "As you wish."

Chapter Text

First of all, I feel like I do owe an apology.

The chances of me finishing this story is incredibly slim at this point. I don't want to get into the unnecessary details, but I haven't been able to really be involved in the Transformers fandom as I used to due to personal reasons. Still, that's not to say that I don't feel proud of this story and I know I have readers that have loved this journey just as much as I loved writing it. All of you have been supportive, telling me wonderful compliments and giving me the confidence I needed to feel like I knew how to write these characters. To this day including the re-introduction of the Scavengers, I feel like I've written these characters well and challenged myself to see if I could write original characters that were interesting to the reader (such as Gladbag), and characters that we barely knew and see how that turned out (such as Dent). I feel like I did that pretty decently.

So I wanted to at least give my readers the respect of telling them that, unfortunately, I would not be continuing this tale. I did, however, want to provide a summary of events that were supposed to happen.

Chapter 9: Colony Omicron

I had the opening for this written, so I'll include it here:

-=-=-

A shuttle from the late Mad Minute.
11 Days and 1 hour ago.

The escape was not difficult, not physically. The whole matter still shakes him to the core more than he cares to admit, but more importantly he's been able to leave this place. It was stupid, maybe, to hope that he could go somewhere quiet and forget about the rest of the universe and let the universe forget about him. It is not as if he's immediately known and recognizable like Optimus Prime, Prowl, or Jazz, but it's enough that he'd like to throw his history behind him and be away from everything else. A quiet life on a remote colony didn't sound so bad in theory, but it seems like it can never be so simple.

He sinks into his seat, folding his hands together neatly as his shuttle finally leaves the docking station. He's free again for the time being. That's all he could ask for.

Slowly, he reaches around to his back, dislodging his box from behind his table slabs. He looks over the container, running his fingertips over it briefly, almost delicately even if it's far from being fragile. It could withstand more damage than he himself can even manage, and yet he feels the need to treat it with care.

All in all, though... wasn't it too easy to leave? They just let him go. They let him leave without a fight. True, maybe the entire situation didn't quite concern him, maybe they don't know, but it was too simple.

He knows that nothing can be so simple. Nothing comes without a price.

He cannot squash the panic rising in him. He reaches behind himself again, more desperately, scratching around. No, it isn't there, there's nothing there, there's no tracking device. Glancing around his shuttle, he wonders where to look now. Clutching his box to his chest, he starts to check under the console, under his chair, somewhere in the keys of the console, but there's nothing.

A pause is made in his search, and his optics can see some loose plating just above the main console, next to the pilot's chair.

He frantically pulls at the plating, throwing it off as he spots it: a tracking device. It's wired directly into the shuttle!

It's impulsive and stupid, but he grabs onto the device, yanking it directly from the wiring.

He'll be safe, Gladbag tells himself.

Pulling the device from the cables triggers an explosion, throwing him into stasis lock.

-=-=-

The Weak Anthropic Principle.
Now.

Eventually, the cargo bay had been cleared enough and as organized as it could be. It was done with more ease what with the extra set of hands and bulk that Axe had to offer; after said management of their unfortunate but necessary clutter was more or less completed, all that they had left to do was wait until they could reach Colony Omicron. That left them with an emptier cargo bay, piles of scrap, and unusually little to do until they would manage to make it to their goal.

Keeping occupied on a trip is essential, especially when most if not all of the crew is on edge and hungry. It could be argued that exerting energy is probably not the best way to go about it, but it's better than having any kind of dissonance in the unit. With that in mind, it fell to Krok to figure out what to do.

"SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT!!" Misfire shrieks.

A crumpled piece of garbage badly forced into a spherical form rests in Krok's hands. Two empty hoops are hung up in the cargo bay, one at each end as goals. He grips the ball in his hands before he throws it toward one of the hoops.

It bounces off the edge and into Crankcase's waiting hands.

"Oh c'mon! It was like three feet in front of you!" Misfire wails, rubbing his hands over his own face in overly dramatic despair. "I could make a shot better than that!"

Krok squints at him.

"Okay, maybe not, but now Team Pinhead has it!"

"I really don't remember agreeing to that team name," Fulcrum mutters.

Crankcase chucks the ball toward the K-Con. "Just ignore him! Hell knows I try to!"

The balled up scrap pile is caught, though barely; Fulcrum fumbles a moment before he gets a good grip on the damn thing. He looks up, trying to figure out how far the goal is from his position, but before he can start calculating his odds a gigantic figure stands in his way.

"Not so fast," Axe says, folding his arms and wearing a broad smirk on his face.

"Ugh, it's not fair using the knight who swore an oath to serve you in the game!" Crankcase complains.

Krok shrugs. "We were short a player."

There's no way he can outdo a warrior that's almost twice his own height! Fulcrum ducks his head a little and gives his position a brief thought until he makes his decision: "Grimlock!! Grimlock, pick me up!"

Quickly coming to his rescue, the Dynobot rolls into the command easily enough. He scoops up Fulcrum into his hands, lifting up the technician, giving him just the extra height he needs to throw the ball toward the hoop. Even as Axe extends his hand to try to block it, it's too late: Grimlock's help is what he needs to make the shot.

"Noooo! This is lame! This is super lame, why did we agree to let Grimlock team up with the guy he listens to?!" Misfire groans. "My life as an athlete is over!"

"Two can play at this game." Krok picks up the ball. "Axe!"

Immediately understanding, Axe ducks down and lifts Krok onto his shoulders. "As you wish!"

Coming down from the bridge above, Dent walks into the cargo bay and finds himself standing still to really take in the view of the (mostly) Decepticons fooling around and playing a game with each other. Granted, it involves Axe and Grimlock, but nonetheless it's amusing and almost startling to see them behaving like this. Sometimes, Dent doesn't always quite remember he's traveling and getting along with people who used to be his sworn enemy. It's crazy how the end of the war has put them into a situation like this. They're people who don't think twice to torture and murder those who oppose them, which isn't exactly endearing to Dent for understandable reasons. Yet, at the same time, they behave like this, goofing off to kill time until they've made it to the colony.

Dent eventually wanders over to Spinister who's sitting out from the game. He has a cracked datapad in his hand and a stylus, implying he's supposed to be keeping track of the score of the two teams. When the Predabot peeks over, he sees that Spinister's really been doodling nonsense on the screen.

"You're not playing?" Dent asks, a little surprised that Spinister's been left out.

"Nah, Krok says I can get a bit rowdy," Spinister replies.

"Are you kiddin' me? I almost lost the other half of my head the last time you joined us!" Crankcase sneers. Behind the mechanic, Fulcrum and Krok are awkwardly wrestling each other on top of Grimlock and Axe's respectable burly shoulders to see who can steal the ball.

Spinister shrugs. "Eh," is all he has to say in defense of himself as he focuses back on his doodling. "They'll probably let you join if you ask, y'know."

"Uh, I dunno, I don't really wanna get in the way." Dent shakes his head. "Besides, wouldn't it be uneven?"

"No no, totally join our team! We gotta beat them!" Misfire calls for Dent.

"Is that breaking a rule or anything?"

Misfire scoffs. "Pff, rules are for nerds and Magnuses!"

As Dent starts to rise to his feet in consideration of joining, his eyes lock onto Crankcase's for a moment. The pilot's expression seems almost uncertain for a moment before abruptly looking irritable. It's a strange transition, and eventually Crankcase gives an annoyed sigh before he walks away from the game.

"Knock yourself out. I got stuff to do," Crankcase grumbles.

"Ah, hey. I can just..." Dent starts to say, then trails off as he watches Crankcase storm off back onto the bridge.

Just like that, the nameless game comes to an abrupt end. For a moment, Krok and Fulcrum are frozen in time, watching their companion go. Krok's hands are shoving Fulcrum's impressive chin up while the technician has one hand gripping a shoulder fin and the other harmlessly poking Krok in the eye to partly blind him. The amount of investment Misfire has in the sport is gone as his shoulders relax and he sighs in a way that suggests he's bored now.

"Mm, suppose that's that." Krok pats Axe's shoulder and the knight helps set the Decepticon down. "Back to work, all of you -- assuming there's anything that can be done right now."

The group disperses away. While Krok is likely heading to his quarters to brood and consider his options, Axe sets off after him to likely make himself comfortable outside of the commanding officer's room as a hulking yet oddly friendly bodyguard. Misfire wanders away, yet Spinister remains in the cargo bay, looking at his own drawings suspiciously as if he isn't sure what to make of his own art.

That leaves Fulcrum with Grimlock. The K-Con gives a friendly pat to Grimock's arm as the Dynobot sets him down. "You're getting pretty good at reacting to a request, bud. Good job!"

"Mm. Me Grimlock good," the Dynobot affirms.

Dent feels a bit helpless at the moment; his hands wring together as he's watching the pair with mild curiosity. Already, Fulcrum has made himself comfortable on a box with Grimlock sitting beside him, and he's fooling around with some kind of box in his hands. Dent recalls that Fulcrum's room as some puzzles sitting on his desk, and he assumes that this must be another one that he's picked up along their travels.

Right now, much like everyone else, Dent doesn't have much to do and it allows him to dwell on things. He transforms into his beast mode and settles down into a corner of the cargo bay, letting his tail twitch.

Ever since his last major conversation with Crankcase regarding Magnaboss, it feels like the mechanic is doing whatever he can to avoid Dent. He doesn't understand it. It seemed like they were getting along really well, and it felt appropriate to be honest with him. Granted, Spinister sort of maybe threatened him into it, but the bizarre surgeon had a point: often it seems like some secrets causes injuries or even deaths, and there really isn't any point in keeping it from Crankcase and the others. Before the whole thing on Delphi, it was definitely a secret project, but now it doesn't matter.

In any case, ever since, it seems like he always just misses Crankcase or he's excusing himself to go somewhere else. Dent can't think of what he must have said to cause this. Aren't they friends? He likes Crankcase; he's gruff and has a bit of a temper, but Crankcase is also smart and seemed like he cared about Dent's well-being. What changed?

-=-=-

Fulcrum would be back to working on Gladbag's box, determined to open it. He's successfully bypassed several locks, but the last two are giving him trouble.

They arrive to the colony, and Gladbag wakes up. He's disorientated, and realizes his box is missing and demands it. After he receives it back, he realizes where they are and tells the crew they need to leave immediately.

The WAP is grounded and the citizens of the colony comes to arrest the Decepticons. Grimlock initially reacts poorly until he's told to stay behind with Axe, Gladbag, and Dent. The 'Cons are taken away and Gladbag reluctantly explains that the colony was not what he thought it had been. It's mostly safe for Autobots or former Autobots, but Decepticons? Out of luck. They're carted off and determined to see what use they can be. Gladbag says that several end up in the hands of the Raiders, but he's clearly hiding something since it doesn't quite explain how his shuttle ended up the way it was.

Either way, they end up agreeing that they need to break out the Scavengers.

Chapter 10 would be breaking out the Scavengers. It would have been all daring and heroic and ridiculous, of course.

The Scavengers find themselves stuck on a carrier with another Cybertronian whose origin cannot be immediately determined. It would have been either Lyzack or Override, and either motivation would have been very different. Lyzack was looking for her brother who IS currently a Decepticon (Leozack), and Override would be seeking one of her own who had left her planet (Ransack). I don't think I ever quite decided on which I liked better, but they would have unofficially joined the Scavengers after everything was said and done since their motives aligned.

The Autobots (former or current) plan a rescue for the Scavengers. They first need to submit themselves to medical review before they're allowed onto the colony. At this point, they corner the medstaff and they stage the rescue, breaking onto the carrier before it can take the Scavengers. Gladbag confronts one of the members of the colony violently, furious that he'd been betrayed and nearly sold out to the Raiders, specifically to Burnout which he would name.

The Scavengers and their random party members are able to leave. The ending of this chapter would indicate that the WAP was investigated and they found the arm from the time the Scavengers found the debris left over from the Lost Light -- specifically Chromedome's arm.

Chapter 11 would be a random adventure where the WAP ends up finally breaking down and everyone is scattered across a random planet. It would have introduced some new interactions (Gladbag, Spinister, and Misfire; Krok is stuck babysitting Grimlock; Fulcrum, Crankcase, and Dent; Axe and Override/Lyzack). Misfire keeps trying to find a way to make Gladbag laugh or smile and is getting frustrated that Gladbag doesn't find him charismatic or hilarious while Spinister helpfully points out that Misfire is kind of just annoying, Krok realizes he has no idea how the hell to manage Grimlock and wishes he had Misfire or Fulcrum to help him, Fulcrum awkwardly tries to find a way to get Dent and Crankcase to talk to each other, and Axe is creating a bond easily with Override/Lyzack either through Override's playfulness (physically reminding him of Drift and personality reminding him of Wing) or Lyzack's pride of being a warrior(physically reminding him of Wing and the personality reminding him of Drift).

Gladbag nearly loses his box to a pit of lava but Misfire manages to rescue it, which DOES make Gladbag smile in gratitude. Misfire asks if that means he can ask what's in the box and Gladbag does not tell him, but he thanks him for helping him. Krok finds he can't make Grimlock go anywhere he doesn't want and is stuck with him, but has a small monologue about how difficult the post-war life is. It strikes some kind of nerve with Grimlock who bunts his shoulder, which is enough to help Krok coax him to help him find the others. Crankcase finally admits to Fulcrum that he's uncertain of how to deal with Dent's faith and trust in him. Fulcrum convinces him to stop giving Dent the cold shoulder as much as he has been. Axe and Lyzack/Override find the others and they meet back up at the WAP and fix the damn thing.

Chapter 12 would be the start of ending Fool's Paradise finally.

Krok takes the time to try to discuss with Gladbag the exact circumstances of his relationship with the Raiders. Gladbag is disinterested in talking to him about it, but Krok coldly makes his point that although Gladbag has helped them in the past he will not excuse a secret if it puts the crew in danger. Reluctantly, Gladbag explains: the Raiders were arranged several centuries ago, and one of their commanding officers is Burnout who he did know a long time ago. Burnout was once an Autobot who worked with him on a team of Cleaners who picked up the remains of Autobots left behind in their war, and Burnout was obsessed with studying and learning about rare alt-modes of Cybertronians. The Cleaners eventually discovered that Burnout was keeping corpses of Cybertronians for himself that were of rare forms. Burnout was also responsible for killing a close friend (and heavily implied to be a conjunx endura) of Gladbag's, an Autobot medic named Remedy. Gladbag admits it was probably an accident, but after everyone discovered what Burnout was doing, he'd fled without explaining himself after the accident.

He goes on to establish that because of his alt-mode, Burnout has set his sights on him and the box. Again, Gladbag does not explain what is in the box.

To their reluctance, the WAP lands for supplies, as they do. The crew splits off to gather supplies as quickly as possible. Gladbag refuses to step out of the ship. Unfortunately, there are Raiders among the crowd who notice some of them: Fulcrum, Grimlock, Axe, Lyzack/Override, Krok, Misfire, and Dent.

The Raiders (including Brushfire, Sweep, and Ransack) chase them, and Gladbag hears what's happening. Misfire and Dent are kidnapped, and Gladbag reluctantly steps out of the WAP to arrange for his own capture to give the rest of the crew time to escape.

The chapter ends bleakly, but Fulcrum realizes something: Gladbag has a tracer he's placed onto himself that he can track.

Chapter 13 would involve dealing with the Raiders. Heroics and junk.

Krok and Fulcrum set themselves up for capture once they realize that they're close enough to the Raider base. Spinister and Grimlock are supposed to break them out, while Crankcase, Override/Lyzack, and Axe are supposed to find Misfire and Dent. Crankcase and crew find themselves face to face with a Cybernaught with a different head than usual that's suspiciously green, and Krok and Fulcrum are taken directly to Burnout.

Burnout has the box and is trying to interrogate Gladbag to inform him how to open it. He stops when he sees Krok and Fulcrum, and is disappointed that he'd be brought "just a monoformer" but feels that's somewhat adequate for his collection while he investigates Fulcrum with more interest before he's disappointed to find that Fulcrum does not have his explosive any longer, but is sufficiently pleased that he has a K-Class to add in his collection. Burnout brags that he was able to use a mnemosurgeon's arm (which he obtained from Omicron and it is, indeed, Chromedome's arm) to force the combiner to his will, and that he reformatted Dent to fit his Cybernaught.

Fulcrum demands to know what happened to Misfire, and Burnout scoffs and says that he has no interest in keeping such a boring frametype and is submitting him to the Galactic Council for a reward. Burnout pauses, then becomes suspicious that it'd been too easy to pick up Krok and Fulcrum, and he realizes his excitement got him carried away. He tells Gladbag that he thoroughly examined him for any tracers and wants to know how he managed to be followed anyway -- and Gladbag spits out a tracer from his mouth onto the floor. Krok signals for Grimlock and Spinister, who help them escape. Fulcrum and Grimlock split off to find Misfire, which leaves Spinister, Krok, and Gladbag to deal with Burnout and his flunkies.

Crankcase has already realized that it must be Dent fused to the Cybernaught. I never quite decided how I wanted Crankcase to break Dent out from his brainwashing, but I assure you it was gonna be real touching. Dent says he can't unfuse from the Cybernaught, and that he's stuck but he takes Crankcase, Lyzack/Override, and Axe with him to break into the stronghold further.

Fulcrum is assist by Brushfire, Sweep, and Ransack to find Misfire. When inquired on their motivation, Sweep sternly says he's more interested in looking out for his own than living under Burnout, and since things are finally looking like Burnout is about to be dealt with then he has no qualms about it. Unfortunately, they're too late, and Misfire has been deployed to the Council.

In the midst of fighting, Spinister is distracted by facing Spoilsport, who he finally kills without much talk about it before he's back to assisting Gladbag and Krok. Dent crashes in with the others, and while Burnout attempts to cut them a deal. Gladbag approaches him, hand extended, only to use his buzzsaw to cut off Burnout's head. No deal.

The ending of the chapter would end bittersweetly. The Raiders' HQ is being abandoned by those who once dwelled in it. Brushfire, Sweep, and Ransack escape to places unknown, but together. Fulcrum expresses that they don't have much time if they want to rescue Misfire from the Council, but there's certainly no room on the WAP for Dent. Gladbag agrees to stay behind and try to fix what was done to Dent. Krok orders Axe to remain with them. Override/Lyzack takes her leave, her own path not yet done.

The contents of Gladbag's box are never revealed. I do know what's inside.

Dent and Crankcase say good-bye, leaving Crankcase more bitter than ever. This would branch into the ending of the first season of MTMTE, with Fulcrum staging his rescue for Misfire.

I never quite decided if I wanted an epilogue of everyone reuniting, but I think I would have liked to have done that, particularly with Dent and Gladbag and following up wtih Axe making his way to Lunar-1 to discover what had happened with everyone. But this summary is, in essence of what would have happened, obviously with potential changes.

A few random curious notes:
- Once upon a time in the chapter with Pharma, I almost decided to have him successfully remove Spinister's hands, only to get them destroyed later on, leaving Spinister with pincers instead. He would have to struggle a little with trying to decide his own usefulness, but I didn't feel like it would have fit too much for Spinister who seems pretty complacent with himself. It would have spurred the reveal of Gladbag's box contents.
- Originally instead of Axe, Drift was going to end up on the ship. I had a back up plan in case Drift showed back up in the comics, and that was of course Axe.
- I had debated "resetting" Grimlock at the end of FP so that he would go back to being slower than I had developed him, but I was never happy with the idea and I'm just gonna shrug about it.
- I'm not disappointed with how the Scavengers showed back up in canon. I thought, for the most part, I had taken my stance with the characters pretty well and I felt pretty justified. Sure, Misfire ended up in the caretaker role instead of Fulcrum, but I like that idea just as well for canon. Otherwise, I think I made some adequately in character choices.

I think that's about it. Again, I apologize for never finishing. I hope knowing what was to be helps with answering some questions. Thank you all for having been such wonderfully loyal readers. I'm only sorry for not finishing what I started.

With love,
Alba