[IDW] Lost and Lonely Space 02/12
Nov. 8th, 2018 06:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Commission fic for Cosmicdanger!
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
chapter two
Frag.
It’s the first thought that enters Deadlock’s head when he sees the captive the Pentas have to trade. Of all the Autobots he expected them to acquire, Ratchet is not one of them. What the frag is he doing out here? Why isn’t he at Optimus Prime’s side like usual? There isn’t even any news on the Decepticon network about Ratchet being missing.
Frag, frag, frag.
The Pentas have no clue the value of their prisoner. But Deadlock’s not stupid. His fellow Cons know good and well who that red and white mech with medic brands stamped on his shoulders is.
On the crate to Deadlock’s left, Falchion perks up. “Well, when they said they had an Autobot for trade, I didn’t expect it to be such a high-value target.” He slides off the crate and nudges Deadlock with an elbow. “Boss is going to be happy about this, isn’t he?”
Deadlock shrugs off the elbow and glares. “I don’t care what makes Turmoil happy.” He slides his attention toward the approaching Pentas and their cargo.
Ratchet, at least, doesn’t look harmed. He’s not restrained, save for the slave collar around his neck. If there’s recognition in his optics, Deadlock can’t see it. But then, he supposes a high-value medic wouldn’t remember the leaker he once saved in the Dead End. Probably had saved more of those in his ledger than are worth counting.
“That’s not what I hear,” Scorch snickers.
Deadlock glares at him and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s aware of the rumors. Decepticons like to chatter like a gaggle of younglings before their first training day. Instead, he focuses his attention on the two Pentas, barely sparing Ratchet a glance.
“You’re late,” he says, even as he has to tilt his head back to look into their eyes. He fragging hates tall organics. Isn’t there some kind of cosmic law where organics shouldn’t get so large?
The Penta on the left, a pale yellow in comparison to his bright magenta partner, snorts a wet sound. “You’re early,” it retorts in that mechanized, fake voice Deadlock has always hated. Universal translators have no personality to them.
“Caught you a good one there,” Falchion pipes up. “How’d you manage that?”
Deadlock grinds his denta as the two Penta exchange glances. Unicron save him from rookies who don’t know the first thing about bargaining with space pirates.
He punches Falchion in the side of the head, hard enough to make a point and cause him to stagger, but not so hard he becomes deadweight. He sends a narrow beamed comm “shut it, you moron,” and Falchion hisses, rubbing his head, optics narrowed in anger.
He doesn’t retaliate. Which is wise of him. Probably because his gaze drops to the hand Deadlock rests on the handle of his blaster. Warning. Reminder.
“Good one?” Magenta Penta echoes, and its grip on Ratchet’s upper arm tightens, making his plating creak. Ratchet winces, but says nothing. In fact, all he’s doing is staring at Deadlock. “How good?”
“It doesn’t matter. We already agreed on a price,” Deadlock growls.
Yellow Penta sneers, showing off rows of serrated teeth. “Decepticons not trick us.” He gives Ratchet’s arm a shake. “This one worth more to others?”
“It’s not a trick if we didn’t know your cargo in the first place,” Deadlock snaps, his armor bristling. To his right, Scorch slides off the crate with an intimidating clomp of his massive feet. “Now we brought your trade. Give us our merchandise.”
Magenta Penta ignores him and grabs Ratchet’s face, forcing Ratchet to look up at him. “You worth something?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Ratchet says, with more verve then Deadlock would have expected for a mech who’s been captured and is about to be sold to the opposing army. “In fact, if the Autobots knew you had me, you might have yourself a good old-fashioned bidding war. Could come out rich by the end.”
Deadlock’s engine growls. Ratchet, you idiot. You have no idea what you’re bargaining with.
“That so?” Magenta Penta says, and his lips curl into a broad, frightening smirk. He tilts his head and eyes Deadlock narrowly. “The price is double.”
Falchion snarls and stomps forward, but Deadlock slams a palm on his chest and shoves him back. He hisses a warning at the idiot rookie who’s going to get them killed. Primus, but Turmoil owes him for sending him off with this greenhorn.
“No,” Deadlock says, and draws a blaster with his free hand, fingers resting on the hilt. “We had an agreement. You are bound by your word.”
Yellow Penta laughs. “Doesn’t work the way you think it does, Cybertronian,” he says. “You’re on our turf. It goes how we say it goes.”
Falchion growls, and the blaster on his shoulder whirrs to life, humming with restrained charge. Scorch’s hands start to glow, armor shifting and clicking aside to form the weapons installed on his frame.
“Double,” Magenta says. It sounds like a challenge.
Fine. If that’s the way they want to play it, Deadlock has no issues with taking the hard way.
Deadlock lifts his chin. “No.”
He lifts a hand and fires, not with the blaster he’d readied, but with the other, the one they aren’t prepared for. Two shots, crackling darkly through the air and slamming into Yellow’s shoulder, making him loosen his grip on Ratchet.
“Betrayers!” Magenta snarls, and the docking bay abruptly drops into half-light, emergency beacons flashing and sirens screeching a warning.
It all goes to the Pit.
Falchion and Scorch are his subordinates and technically, his responsibility. But when the shooting starts, Deadlock only has optics for Ratchet, who finally stirs, yanking free of Yellow’s grip and lashing out at Magenta with a kick that would make any Decepticon proud.
Crunch goes Yellow’s nearest knee, and he howls as it crumples beneath him.
A stray shot sends Falchion spinning backward, his abdomen smoking, his frame writhing in agony. Deadlock’s heard stories about the weird and deadly weapons the Pentas tend to carry. If they survive this, Shockwave will be delighted to know the rumors are true. He’ll probably want one to study.
Priorities.
Scorch snarls and darts forward, tackling Magenta as if the Penta isn’t twice his size and twicely armed – literally and figuratively. They grapple, rolling around the floor, and Ratchet tries to make a break for it, but not back toward the corridor and the trading base. He runs for Deadlock’s ship like he thinks he’s going to steal it.
Yellow’s not down.
His primary snaps out, long and gangly, wrapping around Ratchet’s ankle. Down Ratchet goes, clattering to the floor, and he whips around to his back, kicking at the hand hauling him back.
Deadlock fires, taking out one of Yellow’s eyes, and it splatters organic goo everywhere. Deadlock fires again, misses, but only because he’s twisting to avoid Yellow’s return fire, the purple-crackling energy whizzing past him, exploding where it slams into a wall, lighting the bay with bright charge.
Scorch yelps, and there’s a wet, sickening crunch. Deadlock can’t tell if its bone or strut. Ratchet suddenly has a blaster, and he’s firing at Yellow, hitting him in the shoulder and the chest, but the energy smacks against Yellow’s chest armor and fizzles into nothing.
He kicks again, breaks Yellow’s wrist, and the Penta growls as his hand goes limp and Ratchet tears himself free. He scrambles to his feet and takes off again, and this time, Deadlock intercepts before Yellow can give chase. He kicks, high and hard, foot snapping against Yellow’s face.
It crunches beneath his foot, green blood like ichor spattering out. Yellow rears back and Deadlock fires, one-two-three pulls of the trigger, until the Penta’s head is a pulpy mass. The corpse goes limp, dropping like a wet sack.
Something smacks against his back, and Deadlock staggers forward to catch his balance. He manages to spin around, but not soon enough to avoid the blastershot that slams into his abdomen. He has a moment of panic, before he realizes it’s not the same type of weapon as what had taken down Falchion.
He’s just brimming with luck today.
It does hurt, however, and Deadlock grits his denta against a surge of electric fire racing through his lines. Magenta’s dragging himself to his feet, mouth bloody, spitting out a gob of broken teeth. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, blaster dangling from his fingers, but the other primary hand grips tight around something.
“The General will hear of this,” he says, voice gurgling.
Deadlock’s vision drops to Magenta’s belly, where a hilt protrudes, blood welling up around it. Scorch isn’t moving behind him. Well, at least he’d been good for something.
“The General can kiss my aft,” Deadlock snarls, and he fires again, and again and again, backing toward his ship as he squeezes the trigger. He tracks Ratchet’s rapid flight toward the open cargo door.
Deadlock winds through the cargo he’d brought for trade, only briefly mourning their loss. Turmoil will have his head for leaving it behind. Well, Turmoil can kiss his aft, too. Deadlock rather likes living, and the loss of cargo is a fair trade for his life.
He gives Scorch and Falchion a passing glance, but their biolights are dim and their paint greying. They’re dead and no more use to him. They can rot here like the rest of the dead no one else seems to care about.
Deadlock twists to avoid Magenta’s next fire, and returns volley, though his shots go wide and high. Magenta’s slumping, blood pooling around his feet, empty hand cupping his abdomen, the other still clenched tight. He’s sagging toward the floor, spitting up blood and teeth. His clenched fist lifts as Deadlock backs onto the ramp.
“Cybertronian scum,” Magent gurgles, and his fingers open, one by one by one, until a small cylindrical object drops from them, blinking blue in the dim.
Frag.
Deadlock breaks into a full dash, storming into his ship as though his spark depends on it, because it does. Ratchet’s staggering ahead of him, panting, looking around like he can’t figure out which way is the bridge. Deadlock catches up, grabs the back of his collar and hauls him to the adjoining corridor and the emergency exits.
“What the--”
“There’s no time!” Deadlock snarls and shoves him toward the nearest shuttle, his elbow slamming into the emergency release as a loud, ominous rumble starts up from outside the ship.
Sirens sound as the door cycles open, and Deadlock yanks Ratchet inside with him. He smacks the panel to close the door and hustles it to the bridge, throwing himself into the chair and powering up the shuttle as quickly as possible. Another ominous rumble shakes the shuttle, and alarms scream.
“Get in the damn chair!” Deadlock orders as the thrusters roar to life, restraints leaping out of the chair to wrap around his frame.
His cable snakes out, notching into the panel as readings and alerts stream into his cortex once it recognizes his permissions. He flicks switches, and the engine hums through the compartment, docking clamps releasing as the countdown to launch begins.
Frag the countdown. There’s no fragging time.
Deadlock punches the emergency release, reaching up to flick the switch to do so.
Click. “Let me go,” Ratchet demands.
There’s a blaster pointed at Deadlock’s head. He ignores it.
“We don’t have fragging time for this,” he says, and punches the accelerator.
The shuttle launches itself off the side of his ship as the distinct whomp of a massive explosion slams into the back end.
Ratchet tumbles backward, blaster flying from his fingers, and there’s a stream of curses and thuds and crashes. He’ll survive so Deadlock focuses on steering them away from the massive ball of fire rising behind them. Trust the Pentas to be crazy enough to blow up a portion of their trading station just to prove a point.
Afts.
Deadlock shoves the accelerator forward, throwing them into maximum thrust, as a wave of crackling fire radiates from his back and into the rest of his frame. He vaguely remembers absorbing a blow there, but he can’t think about that right now. The blast nips at their heels, threatening to consume them, and open space is their only refuge.
Curses mutter behind him as the shuttle rattles into range of a jump, and Deadlock only calculates for a half-second before he decides the risk is worth it. He doesn’t have time to plot a course. All he can do is pick the first open drop and hope it doesn’t put them somewhere even more dangerous.
“Hold on to something!” he shouts and flips the switch.
He doesn’t pray. Primus isn’t listening anyway.
The entire shuttle lurches as the last reaching arms of the blast grab hold of the rear thrusters and bites down, tearing into metal. For a moment, the shuttle wobbles, and Deadlock feels the grip of the wormhole slipping away. He punches the accelerator again, giving it a rapid burn, and the shuttle leaps forward, diving into the swirling vortex with the last echoes of the blast chasing after it.
He takes half a vent to mourn the loss of his ship. He really liked that ship. It meant freedom from Turmoil, to a certain extent. It meant freedom from a lot of things.
He’s going to miss that ship.
The shuttle drops out of quantum space and blasts into a new corner of the galaxy, the last tendrils of an explosion chasing after it. A shudder runs through the small ship, and warnings stream loudly through the bridge, until Deadlock slams the mute button so he can hear himself think. He has no idea where they are, the GPS rapidly click-clicking as it tries to pinpoint their location.
His back hurts. His side burns.
He can’t seem to feel his feet, and that’s not a good sign.
Damage reports stream across the cable connection and through his cortex. The rear thrusters are damaged. One of the stabilizing wings has been bent. They’re mobile, but repairs will have to be made eventually.
“What… the frag… was that?” Ratchet snarls from somewhere in the back of the shuttle, and the sound of him clambering to his feet is a distant noise compared to the ringing in Deadlock’s audials.
“That was me saving your aft,” Deadlock says. Shaking fingers flip several switches as he throttles down to a more meandering pace. “Try and be a little grateful.”
“Grateful?” Ratchet echoes. He stomps toward the bridge, his field preceding him like a violent, buzzing thing.
Or maybe that’s the buzzing in Deadlock’s cortex. He’s not sure anymore. He tilts his head, left and right, but that doesn’t seem to help. If anything, that makes him dizzier.
“You almost killed me!”
Ratchet’s voice makes Deadlock wince. He presses a hand to his abdomen and looks down, sees the energon staining his palm, and then realizes he’s sitting in a pool of it.
Well.
That’s not good.
“You were almost dead anyway,” Deadlock snaps, or slurs rather.
His vision goes staticky on the edges. He slumps in the chair and something crackles wetly in his vents. Deadlock groans, coughs up energon, and strains trembling fingers toward the auto-pilot.
It’s the last thing he manages to do before he tastes the grey. He hears the dull buzz of a voice, hands on his armor, and then he doesn’t feel much else.
***
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
Frag.
It’s the first thought that enters Deadlock’s head when he sees the captive the Pentas have to trade. Of all the Autobots he expected them to acquire, Ratchet is not one of them. What the frag is he doing out here? Why isn’t he at Optimus Prime’s side like usual? There isn’t even any news on the Decepticon network about Ratchet being missing.
Frag, frag, frag.
The Pentas have no clue the value of their prisoner. But Deadlock’s not stupid. His fellow Cons know good and well who that red and white mech with medic brands stamped on his shoulders is.
On the crate to Deadlock’s left, Falchion perks up. “Well, when they said they had an Autobot for trade, I didn’t expect it to be such a high-value target.” He slides off the crate and nudges Deadlock with an elbow. “Boss is going to be happy about this, isn’t he?”
Deadlock shrugs off the elbow and glares. “I don’t care what makes Turmoil happy.” He slides his attention toward the approaching Pentas and their cargo.
Ratchet, at least, doesn’t look harmed. He’s not restrained, save for the slave collar around his neck. If there’s recognition in his optics, Deadlock can’t see it. But then, he supposes a high-value medic wouldn’t remember the leaker he once saved in the Dead End. Probably had saved more of those in his ledger than are worth counting.
“That’s not what I hear,” Scorch snickers.
Deadlock glares at him and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s aware of the rumors. Decepticons like to chatter like a gaggle of younglings before their first training day. Instead, he focuses his attention on the two Pentas, barely sparing Ratchet a glance.
“You’re late,” he says, even as he has to tilt his head back to look into their eyes. He fragging hates tall organics. Isn’t there some kind of cosmic law where organics shouldn’t get so large?
The Penta on the left, a pale yellow in comparison to his bright magenta partner, snorts a wet sound. “You’re early,” it retorts in that mechanized, fake voice Deadlock has always hated. Universal translators have no personality to them.
“Caught you a good one there,” Falchion pipes up. “How’d you manage that?”
Deadlock grinds his denta as the two Penta exchange glances. Unicron save him from rookies who don’t know the first thing about bargaining with space pirates.
He punches Falchion in the side of the head, hard enough to make a point and cause him to stagger, but not so hard he becomes deadweight. He sends a narrow beamed comm “shut it, you moron,” and Falchion hisses, rubbing his head, optics narrowed in anger.
He doesn’t retaliate. Which is wise of him. Probably because his gaze drops to the hand Deadlock rests on the handle of his blaster. Warning. Reminder.
“Good one?” Magenta Penta echoes, and its grip on Ratchet’s upper arm tightens, making his plating creak. Ratchet winces, but says nothing. In fact, all he’s doing is staring at Deadlock. “How good?”
“It doesn’t matter. We already agreed on a price,” Deadlock growls.
Yellow Penta sneers, showing off rows of serrated teeth. “Decepticons not trick us.” He gives Ratchet’s arm a shake. “This one worth more to others?”
“It’s not a trick if we didn’t know your cargo in the first place,” Deadlock snaps, his armor bristling. To his right, Scorch slides off the crate with an intimidating clomp of his massive feet. “Now we brought your trade. Give us our merchandise.”
Magenta Penta ignores him and grabs Ratchet’s face, forcing Ratchet to look up at him. “You worth something?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Ratchet says, with more verve then Deadlock would have expected for a mech who’s been captured and is about to be sold to the opposing army. “In fact, if the Autobots knew you had me, you might have yourself a good old-fashioned bidding war. Could come out rich by the end.”
Deadlock’s engine growls. Ratchet, you idiot. You have no idea what you’re bargaining with.
“That so?” Magenta Penta says, and his lips curl into a broad, frightening smirk. He tilts his head and eyes Deadlock narrowly. “The price is double.”
Falchion snarls and stomps forward, but Deadlock slams a palm on his chest and shoves him back. He hisses a warning at the idiot rookie who’s going to get them killed. Primus, but Turmoil owes him for sending him off with this greenhorn.
“No,” Deadlock says, and draws a blaster with his free hand, fingers resting on the hilt. “We had an agreement. You are bound by your word.”
Yellow Penta laughs. “Doesn’t work the way you think it does, Cybertronian,” he says. “You’re on our turf. It goes how we say it goes.”
Falchion growls, and the blaster on his shoulder whirrs to life, humming with restrained charge. Scorch’s hands start to glow, armor shifting and clicking aside to form the weapons installed on his frame.
“Double,” Magenta says. It sounds like a challenge.
Fine. If that’s the way they want to play it, Deadlock has no issues with taking the hard way.
Deadlock lifts his chin. “No.”
He lifts a hand and fires, not with the blaster he’d readied, but with the other, the one they aren’t prepared for. Two shots, crackling darkly through the air and slamming into Yellow’s shoulder, making him loosen his grip on Ratchet.
“Betrayers!” Magenta snarls, and the docking bay abruptly drops into half-light, emergency beacons flashing and sirens screeching a warning.
It all goes to the Pit.
Falchion and Scorch are his subordinates and technically, his responsibility. But when the shooting starts, Deadlock only has optics for Ratchet, who finally stirs, yanking free of Yellow’s grip and lashing out at Magenta with a kick that would make any Decepticon proud.
Crunch goes Yellow’s nearest knee, and he howls as it crumples beneath him.
A stray shot sends Falchion spinning backward, his abdomen smoking, his frame writhing in agony. Deadlock’s heard stories about the weird and deadly weapons the Pentas tend to carry. If they survive this, Shockwave will be delighted to know the rumors are true. He’ll probably want one to study.
Priorities.
Scorch snarls and darts forward, tackling Magenta as if the Penta isn’t twice his size and twicely armed – literally and figuratively. They grapple, rolling around the floor, and Ratchet tries to make a break for it, but not back toward the corridor and the trading base. He runs for Deadlock’s ship like he thinks he’s going to steal it.
Yellow’s not down.
His primary snaps out, long and gangly, wrapping around Ratchet’s ankle. Down Ratchet goes, clattering to the floor, and he whips around to his back, kicking at the hand hauling him back.
Deadlock fires, taking out one of Yellow’s eyes, and it splatters organic goo everywhere. Deadlock fires again, misses, but only because he’s twisting to avoid Yellow’s return fire, the purple-crackling energy whizzing past him, exploding where it slams into a wall, lighting the bay with bright charge.
Scorch yelps, and there’s a wet, sickening crunch. Deadlock can’t tell if its bone or strut. Ratchet suddenly has a blaster, and he’s firing at Yellow, hitting him in the shoulder and the chest, but the energy smacks against Yellow’s chest armor and fizzles into nothing.
He kicks again, breaks Yellow’s wrist, and the Penta growls as his hand goes limp and Ratchet tears himself free. He scrambles to his feet and takes off again, and this time, Deadlock intercepts before Yellow can give chase. He kicks, high and hard, foot snapping against Yellow’s face.
It crunches beneath his foot, green blood like ichor spattering out. Yellow rears back and Deadlock fires, one-two-three pulls of the trigger, until the Penta’s head is a pulpy mass. The corpse goes limp, dropping like a wet sack.
Something smacks against his back, and Deadlock staggers forward to catch his balance. He manages to spin around, but not soon enough to avoid the blastershot that slams into his abdomen. He has a moment of panic, before he realizes it’s not the same type of weapon as what had taken down Falchion.
He’s just brimming with luck today.
It does hurt, however, and Deadlock grits his denta against a surge of electric fire racing through his lines. Magenta’s dragging himself to his feet, mouth bloody, spitting out a gob of broken teeth. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, blaster dangling from his fingers, but the other primary hand grips tight around something.
“The General will hear of this,” he says, voice gurgling.
Deadlock’s vision drops to Magenta’s belly, where a hilt protrudes, blood welling up around it. Scorch isn’t moving behind him. Well, at least he’d been good for something.
“The General can kiss my aft,” Deadlock snarls, and he fires again, and again and again, backing toward his ship as he squeezes the trigger. He tracks Ratchet’s rapid flight toward the open cargo door.
Deadlock winds through the cargo he’d brought for trade, only briefly mourning their loss. Turmoil will have his head for leaving it behind. Well, Turmoil can kiss his aft, too. Deadlock rather likes living, and the loss of cargo is a fair trade for his life.
He gives Scorch and Falchion a passing glance, but their biolights are dim and their paint greying. They’re dead and no more use to him. They can rot here like the rest of the dead no one else seems to care about.
Deadlock twists to avoid Magenta’s next fire, and returns volley, though his shots go wide and high. Magenta’s slumping, blood pooling around his feet, empty hand cupping his abdomen, the other still clenched tight. He’s sagging toward the floor, spitting up blood and teeth. His clenched fist lifts as Deadlock backs onto the ramp.
“Cybertronian scum,” Magent gurgles, and his fingers open, one by one by one, until a small cylindrical object drops from them, blinking blue in the dim.
Frag.
Deadlock breaks into a full dash, storming into his ship as though his spark depends on it, because it does. Ratchet’s staggering ahead of him, panting, looking around like he can’t figure out which way is the bridge. Deadlock catches up, grabs the back of his collar and hauls him to the adjoining corridor and the emergency exits.
“What the--”
“There’s no time!” Deadlock snarls and shoves him toward the nearest shuttle, his elbow slamming into the emergency release as a loud, ominous rumble starts up from outside the ship.
Sirens sound as the door cycles open, and Deadlock yanks Ratchet inside with him. He smacks the panel to close the door and hustles it to the bridge, throwing himself into the chair and powering up the shuttle as quickly as possible. Another ominous rumble shakes the shuttle, and alarms scream.
“Get in the damn chair!” Deadlock orders as the thrusters roar to life, restraints leaping out of the chair to wrap around his frame.
His cable snakes out, notching into the panel as readings and alerts stream into his cortex once it recognizes his permissions. He flicks switches, and the engine hums through the compartment, docking clamps releasing as the countdown to launch begins.
Frag the countdown. There’s no fragging time.
Deadlock punches the emergency release, reaching up to flick the switch to do so.
Click. “Let me go,” Ratchet demands.
There’s a blaster pointed at Deadlock’s head. He ignores it.
“We don’t have fragging time for this,” he says, and punches the accelerator.
The shuttle launches itself off the side of his ship as the distinct whomp of a massive explosion slams into the back end.
Ratchet tumbles backward, blaster flying from his fingers, and there’s a stream of curses and thuds and crashes. He’ll survive so Deadlock focuses on steering them away from the massive ball of fire rising behind them. Trust the Pentas to be crazy enough to blow up a portion of their trading station just to prove a point.
Afts.
Deadlock shoves the accelerator forward, throwing them into maximum thrust, as a wave of crackling fire radiates from his back and into the rest of his frame. He vaguely remembers absorbing a blow there, but he can’t think about that right now. The blast nips at their heels, threatening to consume them, and open space is their only refuge.
Curses mutter behind him as the shuttle rattles into range of a jump, and Deadlock only calculates for a half-second before he decides the risk is worth it. He doesn’t have time to plot a course. All he can do is pick the first open drop and hope it doesn’t put them somewhere even more dangerous.
“Hold on to something!” he shouts and flips the switch.
He doesn’t pray. Primus isn’t listening anyway.
The entire shuttle lurches as the last reaching arms of the blast grab hold of the rear thrusters and bites down, tearing into metal. For a moment, the shuttle wobbles, and Deadlock feels the grip of the wormhole slipping away. He punches the accelerator again, giving it a rapid burn, and the shuttle leaps forward, diving into the swirling vortex with the last echoes of the blast chasing after it.
He takes half a vent to mourn the loss of his ship. He really liked that ship. It meant freedom from Turmoil, to a certain extent. It meant freedom from a lot of things.
He’s going to miss that ship.
The shuttle drops out of quantum space and blasts into a new corner of the galaxy, the last tendrils of an explosion chasing after it. A shudder runs through the small ship, and warnings stream loudly through the bridge, until Deadlock slams the mute button so he can hear himself think. He has no idea where they are, the GPS rapidly click-clicking as it tries to pinpoint their location.
His back hurts. His side burns.
He can’t seem to feel his feet, and that’s not a good sign.
Damage reports stream across the cable connection and through his cortex. The rear thrusters are damaged. One of the stabilizing wings has been bent. They’re mobile, but repairs will have to be made eventually.
“What… the frag… was that?” Ratchet snarls from somewhere in the back of the shuttle, and the sound of him clambering to his feet is a distant noise compared to the ringing in Deadlock’s audials.
“That was me saving your aft,” Deadlock says. Shaking fingers flip several switches as he throttles down to a more meandering pace. “Try and be a little grateful.”
“Grateful?” Ratchet echoes. He stomps toward the bridge, his field preceding him like a violent, buzzing thing.
Or maybe that’s the buzzing in Deadlock’s cortex. He’s not sure anymore. He tilts his head, left and right, but that doesn’t seem to help. If anything, that makes him dizzier.
“You almost killed me!”
Ratchet’s voice makes Deadlock wince. He presses a hand to his abdomen and looks down, sees the energon staining his palm, and then realizes he’s sitting in a pool of it.
Well.
That’s not good.
“You were almost dead anyway,” Deadlock snaps, or slurs rather.
His vision goes staticky on the edges. He slumps in the chair and something crackles wetly in his vents. Deadlock groans, coughs up energon, and strains trembling fingers toward the auto-pilot.
It’s the last thing he manages to do before he tastes the grey. He hears the dull buzz of a voice, hands on his armor, and then he doesn’t feel much else.
