Chapter Text
“HEY! KROK!” Misfire shouted across the mounds of corpses. “Look what I found!”
Krok dragged a palm down his face and groaned.
“LOOK! LOOK!! LOOK!!!”
“Misfire.” Krok grumbled the name as both an admonition and a curse while he topped off another bottle of energon. They had been scavenging the deserted battlefield for barely an hour and every few minutes Misfire made a new and exciting discovery. So far, he’d almost seen the Necrobot twice, found several Sharkticon fangs, and made an assortment of inappropriate jokes with increasingly macabre props. Krok shuddered to think what he found now.
This battle had very recently moved off this planet, leaving an abundance of fresh resources for them to gather. Lingering warmth radiated from the broken bodies. He clicked his communicator a few times. Maybe his squad was still nearby.
“KROOO-OOK!!”
“I swear to Primus if I turn around and you’re holding yet another severed head, making the jaw work like some kind of twisted puppet...”
“Ha ha! Yeah!” Spinister chuckled from the other side of the pile. He carefully examined a jagged gear then casually chucked it over his shoulder. It landed some distance away with a sickening crunch. “That was a good one.”
“Maybe the first time.” Crankcase muttered from somewhere nearby. He had the uncanny ability to inflect an eye roll into his speech. Krok had no idea how he did it, but no one knew misery like Crankcase. “The next three times were an exercise in overkill.”
“If everyone could focus on gathering enough quality energon to power the ship and any spare parts that we might need, we’ll get done a lot faster! Maybe this time we’ll actually catch up with the fleet.” Krok shook his head.
They had been chasing the main Decepticon fleet for weeks. Somehow, they always arrived at the latest battlefield after everyone else had left. Krok harbored no doubts about Crankcase’s piloting prowess, but he was starting to wonder about Flywheels’ navigational abilities.
“It’s not MY fault we’re late!” Flywheels muttered, instantly transforming into his chunky tank alt mode. Krok glared at him. Flywheels’ psychosomatic hyperreflexia, which compels him to change shape every time he lies, confirmed his suspicions. Due to his extreme aversion to conflict, Flywheels was deliberately planning complicated routes in hopes to avoid the battles. Krok thought there should have been a more direct route to this planet then the circuitous course through the asteroid field that Flywheels had plotted.
Klik. He clicked his communicator again. Sometimes he felt like maybe he should just accept that he’d never find his old squad. He hunched his shoulders, pushed that thought from his mind, and pressed the small green button a few more times. Klik. Klik. Klik.
“Krok! You haven’t looked yet!” Misfire whined.
“FINE! I’m coming!” Krok set aside his scavenged bounty and climbed up the ridge to see what Misfire found, hoping he wasn’t walking into a prank. “I’m telling you right now, if it’s another funny colored foot, I’ll kick your aft all the way to the Necrobot and back!”
“The Necrobot?! Did you see him??? Where?! WHERE?!” Misfire instantly got distracted. Somewhere Flywheels began to loudly recite a Neoprimalist litany.
Krok was about to remind Misfire to focus when his audials picked up a strange noise. He dialed up the sensitivity on his receivers to decipher the faint static laden sounds.
“Get your fragging- corpse-picking- paws- off- me!”
Optics blazing, Krok recognized strained but distinct vocal patterns. A voice! A voice of someone that sounded less than pleased. What had Misfire gotten himself into now? Krok flipped the safety off his sidearm, clicked his communicator and rushed forward.
Cresting the hill scattered with damaged limbs and slick with spilled energon, Krok jerked to a stop. Misfire had found so much more that a severed head this time.
“You- you found a survivor?!” Krok gasped. Klik.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you!” Misfire beamed proudly, clutching a rather disgruntled wounded Decepticon. The poor lugnut growled, his extreme displeasure completely lost on Misfire. He readjusted his grip and dragged the energon-streaked bundle of spare parts a few more steps. “He’s got the right color badge and everything!”
“Something- wrong- with- your- audials?” The battered bot snarled. Static breaking up his words. “Put- me- the- frag- down!” He squirmed weakly, sparks showering from numerous cracked circuits.
They so rarely found anyone alive! Krok’s spark spun. He clicked his communicator a few times. Krok raced towards them, snagging a chunk of torn electron fabric off the shattered wing of some type of bat-like alt mode. Misfire’s latest find was beyond rough shape. One crimson optic had gone completely dark. Energon streamed freely from dozens of wounds, especially from the gaping hole once occupied by his left arm. When Krok got closer, he realized both legs were severed at the knee. Primus. How was he still online?
“Leave- me- alone!” Despite his brutal injuries, he still managed to bare his fangs and struggle weakly against Misfire’s grasp to no avail. Once Misfire got hold of something, he didn’t easily give it up. “D- Don’t- need- help-”
“Look, Krok!” Misfire grinned, struggling to lug the wounded bot back to their ship all by himself. “I already told him all about us!”
“You didn’t give him the full introduction speech?!” Krok dragged a palm down his face. The poor soldier had been through the mill. The last thing he needed was Misfire yammering about their entire crew.
“He’s abandoned and discarded, yet like everything else we collect! Can I keep him? Please!!” Misfire gave Krok his best puppy dog eyes and hugged his find tightly.
“KEEP ME?! I’LL KILL YOU!!” Rage burned in his one functional optic. He swung at Misfire's face and missed. The extreme extent of his injuries meant he possessed neither the depth perception nor the energy for a proper attack.
“Take it easy, friend.” Krok wrapped the electron cloth around the bot’s shivering frame. If they didn’t get him help soon, he’d die. “You’ll have to get in line to kill Misfire There’s quite a few bots ahead of you.”
“Hey!” Misfire’s wings twitched in indignation.
“FR- FRIEND?!” The bot spat the word like it was poison. Even though his systems were slowly shutting down, he swatted a shaky hand at Krok to ward off his assistance. “Do- you- know- who- I- am?”
Misfire shrugged while Krok positioned himself on their reluctant rescuee’s other side. The one without the arm. If he and Misfire lifted together, the poor spark wouldn’t have to put any weight on the ragged stumps that remained of his damaged legs. Krok nodded to Misfire and they lifted simultaneously. The bot vented sharply. Krok grimaced at the contrast of his gradually cooling frame and the warm energon oozing from his wounds.
“I- am- DEADLOCK!” he gritted through clenched fangs. “Of-Decepticon- High- Command. Surely- you-”
“Sorry.” Krok apologized with a shake of his head. Deadlock seemed honestly shocked that they didn’t recognize him. He must be fairly important. “We’ve been a little out of the loop.”
“What- are-” A rough hacking cough broke up Deadlock’s question. The violence of the cough racked his frame. He spit up a glob of semi-congealed energon on to Misfire’s foot.
“Eww! Gross!” Misfire hopped, frantically shaking his foot and dropping Deadlock. The injured bot shuddered, his engine barely maintaining its uneven rhythm.
“MISFIRE!” Krok braced himself and took the armored bot’s full weight. He refused to drop his injured comrade. His joints squealed. Deadlock was missing the better part of three limbs, how is he still so heavy?
“Oh! Scrap!” Misfire grabbed Deadlock again before Krok collapsed under his substantial weight. They eased him back to the ground.
“Go get Spinister!” Krok ordered, unsure if Spin would hear him if he yelled. One of these days, there really needed to invest in a proper comm link system.
“Don’t worry, Deadlock!” Misfire cheerily called as he transformed into jet mode and streaked away. “I promised to look after you! You’re going to be alright.”
Krok knelt in the dirt, drawing Deadlock carefully across his lap. He tucked the torn cloth gingerly around his battered frame.
“Stop-” Deadlock’s plating bristled at the contact. He tried to push Krok away with his remaining hand. Krok grasped his sluggish fingers and held tightly.
“Take it easy, soldier.” Krok winced as he surveyed the extent of his wounds. “If your core temperature drops too low, not even Spin is going to be able to save you.”
“Why? C-care?” Deadlock forced out in stuttering gasps. His spark was flickering. Krok squeezed his hand with the desperate hope that he could keep Deadlock alive by sheer force of will. He couldn’t lose another one. Not like his squad. No! Krok clicked his communicator. His squad had to be out there...
“Because,” Krok forced a smile into his voice despite Deadlock’s bared fangs. “You’re special, I can tell.”
Deadlock drew a ragged vent and his circuits locked up. Although he must have had a hell of a day, this was the first time Krok noticed pain on his face.
“Why would you say that?” Deadlock whispered. The words tumbled out all at once. Soft, composed, and so unlike his growling defensive savagery. His functional optic started to water.
“You’re a survivor, for one thing.” Krok’s shoulders sagged in relief when the heavy thump of Spin’s rotors vibrated his frame. “I’ve salvaged spare parts from gray frames with a fraction of the injuries that you’ve sustained today.”
“I’ve come back from worse.” Deadlock mumbled a barely audible response. Fluid spilled out of his optic and ran down his dented cheek. Still clinging to Krok’s hand, he rubbed his face against his broken pauldron. “Great. My last optic is fragging off. Leaking for no reason.” He muttered quietly. Krok didn’t contradict him. If Deadlock wanted to keep his tears a secret, then he would respect his privacy.
The sound of two whirling transformation cogs heralded the arrival of Spinister and Misfire.
“See! Spin, look!!” Misfire bounced around Krok and Deadlock. “He’s ALIVE!”
“Not for long.” Spin put his hands on his hips.
“Wow! Rude!!” Misfire gasped. He shoved the hulking helicopter. “You can’t just say that!”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” Spin cocked his head to one side and started counting out Deadlock’s symptoms on his fingers. “He’s missing several limbs, he’s lost nearly all his energon and his spark is on the verge of fade out. You can tell by the pale gold color of the sparks burning on his broken circuits. And another thing-”
“Thank you, Spinister! For your professional opinion!” Krok cut him off before he got into the gruesome details, protectively pulling Deadlock a little closer. “The question is: What can we do to keep him alive?”
“Oh! That’s easy. I can fix him, but I need some stuff.”
"Well. Go get your stuff!” Krok tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. Maybe they could help Deadlock keep his tenacious grip on life after all. Spin nodded, mercifully comprehending Krok’s desire for him to hurry.
“Misfire, show me where you found him. I can make new limbs, but salvaging parts of his old ones will be easier on his system. Then we need-” Before Spin finished listing his requirements, he whipped out his rifle and shot a nearby corpse several times.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“PRIMUS!” Misfire dove behind half of an eviscerated monstercon. “WHAT THE HELL?!”
“What??” Spin shrugged, holstering his weapon. He narrowed his optics at the smoldering remains. “It was looking at me funny.”
“Hurry up.” Krok deadpanned, ignoring the ringing in his own audials from the close proximity gunfire. He was used to Spin’s idiosyncrasies, but time was slipping away from them. Deadlock shivered and his latest growl came out more like a whimper. While Misfire and Spinister gathered supplies, Krok called Crankcase and Flywheels to help him get Deadlock to their ship.