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He considers entering the Delphi facility, but since there are no doors and everything seems to be covered in rust, Tarn decides against it. He isn’t foolish or curious enough to venture in on his own. As he circles the building, he immediately notices something on the ground between the snow.
He sees a body. That’s odd; he thought all of the bodies would be inside the facility. As Tarn approaches the snow-covered frame, he recognizes it as Pharma’s. The medic is missing his hands, his optics are shut down, he’s covered in dents, parts of his plating are gone, leaving circuitry exposed, and his wings are nearly destroyed. Tarn looks up at the facility’s rooftop. Did Pharma jump and forget to transform? That seems highly unlikely for someone with a jet as their alt-mode. Perhaps his T-cog failed, or the doctor wanted to end his existence. However, that doesn’t explain why he’s missing his hands, which Tarn recalls the doctor being very proud of. Perhaps he’s overthinking it.
Tarn approaches the body in the snow and crouches down next to Pharma. He can’t hear the doctor’s ventilation system cycling; perhaps he has arrived too late. He looks at Pharma’s face, lifeless. And yet, if the doctor were truly dead, his body would already be grey or beginning to grey; this isn’t the case. Tarn flicks a digit against Pharma’s helm, producing two small thunk noises.
The slight contact is enough to get the doctor’s optics fluttering. The distant noise of vents cycling slowly can be heard, as if he’s been brought out of a trance. A cough, mixed with static, emanates from the Autobot’s vocalizer as his blue optics struggle to stay online. The doctor reboots his vocalizer, and words finally come out.
“Who’s...” the doctor mutters as his vision adjusts to his surroundings. His optics catch a dark silhouette, and he immediately recognizes the mech. “Tarn,” he gasps.
“Correct,” the tank confirms.
Tarn cannot tell if Pharma is scared, surprised, a mix of both, or something else entirely. The doctor lets out a shaky vent, almost sounding relieved. Perhaps it’s relief at not being completely dead, Tarn assumes, or at being found in the vast expanse of white snow.
“You’re not looking very well, doctor,” Tarn says, almost pitying but actually amused at the pathetic sight before him. The Autobot isn’t looking so graceful now, is he?
“I haven’t... noticed,” the doctor struggles with his words but still manages to sound disgruntled and sarcastic. One of Pharma’s optics flickers, clearly malfunctioning.
Tarn actually chuckles at that. Looking at the body in front of him, covered in snow, with many dents and scratches, and probably critical fuel levels, there’s really not much to be done.
“It must be your lucky day since I’m feeling generous,” the tank says, standing up from his crouching position. Narrowed blue optics follow him. “I can put you out of your misery,” he adds, arming his fusion cannon.
Pharma’s optics widen, one still flickering, as he stares at Tarn’s cannon aiming directly at him, starting to hum, threatening to shoot him right in the spark.
“Wait, wait!” Pharma coughs through static. “I still function—” Another cough, this time with energon coming out of his mouth. “I can be of use,” he hisses as pain envelops his body and pink fluid drips down his chin.
The fusion cannon doesn’t stop aiming at him.
“Of use,” Tarn repeats. “Doing what, harvesting T-cogs? From where?” He mocks, looking around. “There’s no one left, Pharma,” he smirks beneath the mask.
“I’m... dying,” Pharma grits out.
Poor choice of words. Tarn is getting bored of this.
“And?”
“You... could use a doctor,” the Autobot tries to reason. “On your ship.”
Unfortunately, that was true. They didn’t have a medic on the Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn had been considering getting one aboard the spaceship soon. His fusion cannon twitches but doesn’t shoot, nor does it stop aiming at Pharma’s spark.
“Thank you for the kind reminder,” he says in a flat tone. “I’ll make sure to bring on board a fellow Decepticon with medical skills next time,” Tarn looks down at the jet. “With hands.”
Despite his immense pain, Pharma manages to bark a laugh. “Ha! You seriously can’t think any of those would have… my level of expertise,” the doctor smirks. “I can build myself a new pair of hands— just need the resources for that. Letting me die here would be a waste of my skills.”
As much as Tarn hates to admit it, the Autobot has a point. Before making the deal with Pharma, he investigated the doctor and read his files, everything he could get his hands on. Performing a four-way fuel pump transplant was impressive— beyond impressive, considering that Pharma himself was one of the donors. Nothing like that had ever been done by any doctor in the Decepticon faction. There was no doubt about it; Pharma is an excellent medic with impressive skills, and the Autobot knows it.
Tarn hears a cough, dragging him out of his thoughts.
“You know,” the doctor says, “I don’t really… have much time here,” he adds with another cough, energon spilling from his mouth to his chin.
Tarn huffs out a laugh. “I’m aware.”
He aims his fusion cannon right at Pharma’s face, making him shriek and grit his teeth. Not the turn of events the medic was expecting, and Tarn knows it. The fusion cannon hums and lights up, more than ready to shoot at the Autobot’s worried face; having his processor blown out will definitely kill him for good. Pharma could only pray for a miracle to save him, but he never believed in such things.
“No…” his voice feels so tiny against the roar of the fusion canon at his olfactory sensor, “Tarn— please!”
Pharma tries to move away from the threatening source of energy, but with his systems either shut down or malfunctioning, there is not much he can do. He simply settles on gritting his teeth, offlining his optics, and waiting for the worst.
But that part doesn’t come. The fusion cannon keeps humming right in his face, as far as his audials can sense. The next thing he hears is the other mech chuckling. Hesitantly, Pharma brings his optics online. The fusion cannon is moving away from his face as the chuckling morphs into a proper laugh. Pharma can’t do anything more than snarl murderously and curse under his breath.
“You scrapping spawn of a—”
Tarn ceases his laughing with a huff, and a satisfied hum resonates from his vocalizer. He had totally fooled the medic, and it was worth it to see his face.
Still, something felt off about all this. Tarn remembered the rust on the walls and the bodies in front of the Delphi facility, few of them crumbled to dust. He was almost certain there must be more bodies inside. So, what was Pharma doing outside? And why wasn’t he completely covered in rust?
“What happened here, Pharma?” he inquires, looking at the building. When the medic doesn’t answer immediately, Tarn adds, “I’ll know if you lie.”
Pharma gulps, clearly trying not to burst into coughs. He puts all his effort into a smirk, as his boldness wins over his anxiousness. “I’ll tell you when you bring me to your ship.”
When, not if, Tarn notices. He lets out a heavy vent as he weighs his options. He could simply leave the Autobot here to his fate, to pass out again or die, and he wouldn’t have to deal with him. They were linked only by the T-cog deal, their contract, nothing more. Pharma would provide T-cogs, and the D.J.D. would leave Delphi alone. But now something has happened at Delphi (surprisingly not by Tarn’s doing) and the facility is now... unavailable.
Pharma has nowhere to go on his own, much less in his current state. And they both know Pharma enjoys being alive. Tarn smirks beneath his mask. It will take some time, but eventually, he’ll turn Pharma into a Decepticon— that’s for certain.
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He’s not actually sure how it happened— he must have passed out somewhere along the way— but now he's lying on his back, a notification in his HUD informing him that he’s receiving fuel from an external source connected to a port in his lower abdomen. It also informs him that his major injuries have been tended to (by who?) and he only suffers from minor ones now. Great, he would live, then. How exactly did he get to this point, though?
Ah, Pharma remembers now. He must be on the Peaceful Tyranny— in the medical bay, he hopes. He couldn’t hear anything besides his slow ventilation system cycling and the hum of medical machinery.
A heavy sigh escapes his vocalizer. Perhaps bargaining his way onto this spaceship, of all spaceships out there, hadn’t been the cleverest decision ever. This was the Peaceful Tyranny, home of the D.J.D. But it was either boarding the hateful Decepticon vessel or being left in the snow for an indeterminate amount of time until his eventual death. Did he wish to have been found by another mech other than Tarn? Pits, yes. Any other mech besides Tarn would have been more than fine. Now he would have to deal with the tank and his little happy murderous crew. How fun.
Then, another thought came to Pharma. He’s still infected with Red Rust; he must be. It had been a smart decision to remove his T-cog before releasing the virus into the medical facility (although he really wasn’t a fan of the impact after falling from the rooftop). He would never develop symptoms, unless he transformed into his jet mode, which is impossible without a T-cog, and he’s not foolish enough to install another one. Yet, he could try to infect Tarn. In fact, he could infect all of the D.J.D.
Pharma smirks. Oh, the D.J.D. commander can’t resist transforming. It would be so easy and quick, and Pharma would relish seeing the tank’s face when he’s minutes away from dying due to his addiction to changing shape. Pharma’s smirk grows wider. He’ll definitely kill Tarn.