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It was strange. This wasn’t what Getaway had thought would happen. Here he was, sitting on a bench with Rodimus in a quiet hallway of the Lost Light while the party on the Vitalis for Thunderclash’s impending passing raged on.
He hated Rodimus.
Rodimus was at best incompetent and at worst a collaborator. Getaway knew this. He had no reason to feel anything profound about this, about sitting here on this bench, his own hand in Rodimus’ as though they were close.
How did he get here? Comforting Rodimus as he wrestled with his self-doubt, about not being like Thunderclash.
Getaway had intended, when he ran into the captain after Rodimus had left his planning session with Megatron, to further erode away at the mech’s self-confidence, his self-esteem, to implant more seeds of doubt to needle at him, all under the guise of friendly advice. He hadn’t, even for one moment, anticipated Rodimus, someone who seemed on the surface to be so self-obsessed and self-absorbed, doing exactly that damage to himself of his own volition, without Getaway’s help. Worse, he hadn’t expected for Rodimus to ask for a listening ear.
Now, here, hand in hand, Getaway looked at the floor.