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The thing on the battlefield unfolds and keeps unfolding, like the artistry of an ancient transformation sequence, metal shifting and locking and spreading and shifting and never seeming to come to an end. Hot Rod stares. Even as Autobots and Decepticons flee, voices raised and sirens blaring, Hot Rod stares. Even as the thing on the battlefield unfurls into teeth, and claws, and optics.
He meets those molten gold optics—meets some of them—with his own, and despite the thing not having a front or a back or sides it seems to turn toward him. It clambers closer on limbs that are still shuddering and resolving into things like shapes, and then it's looming over him, and he realizes that molten might be exactly the right word, because they're dripping. The optics bleed and run as if the glass is melting out of them, but endlessly, like a just-barely-leaky fuel tank, and every drip drip drip onto the grey bodies below sends up clouds of noxious smoke as it slags holes in them instantly.
His HUD tries to warn him about the fumes, then gives up and seals his vents automatically. He stares.
It reaches a clawed hand out to him, gold running down its fingers from the optic in its wrist, and brushes the side of his face almost tenderly. The liquid that drip drip drips down his face and into his seams burns like only atmospheric reentry and laserfire can.
"Hi," Hot Rod breathes. "Come here often?"
It laughs, sharp edges rasping against each other, and molten gold streams down his cheeks as it brings its forehead to rest against his.
(The thing from the battlefield is named Deadlock, and before the battlefield he was a mech, and no, Hot Rod, he doesn't want to talk about it.
Oh, and also, he bites. A lot. But gently.)