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By the time Huffer woke up the rest of the ship was in emergency stasis.
He opened his door and found that there were Autobots sprawled in the corridors. Sideswipe's face was shoved into Sunstreaker's belly, and the energon cube that had been half full in his hand had fallen too, leaving a glowing pink stain to spread and dry on the floor.
"Figures," Huffer said, poking Sunstreaker with one foot. The big, brightly painted frontliner didn't even grunt. "The one time I get to take a nap in millions of years... and the ship gets attacked..."
Even Ravage, who had evidently been hiding in the roofing, had tumbled out and fallen in a slumped and insensible pile of dark metal across the brighter floor.
That was the one clue that it wasn't a Decepticon plot, at least... But then, what was it?
"Huffer? Good. I thought you wouldn't be affected," said a familiar, disembodied voice.
"Prowl," said Huffer, peering around. It didn't sound as though it had come from the public address system. "Where are you?" Maybe he wasn't. Maybe Huffer's brain module had seen all these bodies and finally gone round the bend. Of course, he would be the one who would live only to go mad and begin hallucinatory glitches...
"Down here," Prowl said.
Huffer looked down.
"Oh. Of course," he said, deeply sarcastic, as he met the optics of Prowl's disembodied head.
There were wires sticking out the bottom, neatly sliced. Any leaks had been carefully cauterised.
The sight didn't convince Huffer that he wasn't hallucinating, exactly.
Prowl's disembodied head rolled toward his feet.
Huffer stepped away.
"Pick me up," Prowl's head demanded calmly in that so-familiar voice. "We must get to the repair bay, break in, severe Ratchet's helm from his frame, and restore him to consciousness."
Huffer stared at him.
They must, huh?
Why was it always Huffer, that's what he wanted to know.
He picked the head up. It was warm and humming under his hands, heating itself a little too much with the power of Prowl's heavy duty processors. "What in the pit is going on?"
Since there wasn't a single thing moving between Huffer and the repair bay, he looked down at the head as he walked.
"It is a communicable disease—an interfacing virus," Prowl's head said. "I remain online currently because I lack the parts necessary for transmission." He said it delicately, but it was clear what he meant.
Huffer thought about that. He tried not to linger overmuch on thoughts of Prowl's equipment while he was holding his head, no matter how nice that equipment must inevitably have beem. That was... weird. Even for Earth.
"But you didn't," he said, finally. Huffer wasn't one to politely give way just because it seemed awkward. He was like a turbohound with a bone: relentless, and eventually frustrating when one wanted him to stop talking. "You had the parts."
Prowl definitely had the parts: gleaming headlights, a bumper out to here, cute little doors that moved with his thoughts just like a seeker's wings (but less dangerous-looking), a pretty red crest. He still had the crest, of course. It was hot to the touch now, trying to dump heat across its broad surface area in the absence of internal fans. Given how warm the head was, Huffer wasn't sure how much it was helping.
The point was, Prowl had had all sorts of parts when Huffer had gone to take his nap. Huffer had been very aware of Prowl's many... parts.
Most of the ship, with the possible exception of Prowl himself, was fully cognizant of Prowl's charms; the corollary was only that they were equally, painfully aware that he was as disinterested as he was oblivious. Just Huffer's typical luck again, really. The one mech he... well! And there wasn't even a point to asking.
And now he was ...just a head.
Apparently.
His laser core must still have been functioning well enough to wirelessly connect with his processor—at least inside the ship. Probably he could be reattached, if Ratchet wasn't deactivated.
"The disease hijacks the subject's interfacing systems, both to replicate in and for transmission," Prowl elaborated. "Unfortunately, that includes the laser core."
This explained the disembodied head, at least.
"Right. How'd you know I'd be immune, then?" Huffer wondered.
"You are not immune," Prowl corrected. "You were only the Autobot least likely to be regularly interfacing with anyone."
Huffer grunted. And, oh, that was just typical, wasn't it? Beautiful, pragmatic Prowl outright admitted that nobody in their right mind would frag Huffer. Prowl had put his vaunted battle computer to the task and judged Huffer as Least Likely To Get Fragged, Ever.
"Of course," he muttered, disgusted. What else could he have expected?
And so, onwards he stomped.
"Your disinterest in social intercourse could save us all," Prowl went on.
Social intercourse. Uh-huh. Suuure. Huffer heaved a sigh through his vents. It was deep and indulgent and very frustrated. "You say that, Prowl, but you know what I hear?"
Prowl did not sigh through his vents because he didn't have vents.
"What do you hear, Huffer?" he said politely, in the tone of a captive audience who lacked the limbs with which to escape.
He seemed inclined to humour Huffer as long as Huffer kept walking them toward the repair bay, so Huffer went on without hesitation.
"I'm hearing that even Ravage is getting more aft than me."
There was a looooong pause.
"I did know Ravage was on board," said Prowl, very, very neutrally, "yes."
So Prowl had accurately guessed that Soundwave's pet cat was interfacing more often than Huffer was.
Sure, it wasn't personal. Just an extremely accurate analysis built on the back of Praxus's finest computing. ...But that was almost worse, really. And it sure felt personal.
The med bay doors loomed. Thank Primus. And Huffer didn't even believe in Primus.
Huffer shoved them open. "Let's get this over with," he grumped.