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Landing without scanning was their first mistake, but they didn't have a choice. The Scavengers could cheat a lot of things, but a ship without fuel? That wasn't one of them. It shared a list with the laws of physics (sometimes), Krok when he was angry, and--
"Tarn?! Is that fragging Tarn?!"
"Of course it's Tarn. Who else has fusion canons trying that hard to compensate?"
Fulcrum would level Misfire with a glare for that comment if he wasn't too busy staring at the collapsed, limp form of a tank at their pedes. "What do you think he's doing here?"
"Who cares? Now's our chance to give his sorry aft what he deserves." Misfire was already pulling out a gun, ready to blast the mask right off Tarn's face when Fulcrum jerked his arm to the side.
"Hold on!"
"Hold on? You lost your fraggin' mind? You trying to save Tarn's life now?"
"No! But isn't this suspicious? Where's the rest of the D.J.D.? What happened to him? What if this is a trap?"
"He's lying unconscious on the ground. What's he gonna do?"
"Not him, the others! The--"
"He's moving." Spinister's voice cut into their argument, and everyone's optics snapped to the form on the floor.
A sluggish, pained groan crept past Tarn's lips, quiet, muffled through his mask. In a second, Krok had his own gun out and trained on Tarn's sprawled frame. The barrel lightly pressed into Tarn's helm as he attempted to lift his face off the floor. "Don't move, Tarn," Krok commanded, another mumble was his only answer.
"What'd he say?" Fulcrum asked.
"I think he said 'Who's Tarn?'" Misfire said.
"Be serious."
"I am serious!"
"Shhhh," Krok hushed both of them as the tank tried to mummer again.
"--not Tarn." His words were slurred and slow. He pressed a palm to the floor, tilting his helm up until Krok's gun sat square between his optics instead. "I'm Damus."
A silent glance passed between every Scavenger before landing on the, very obviously, purple mask of Tarn.
"Who?"