Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sixshot sighed as he looked at the two-headed dragon. Tan-yellow jaws were still clamped around the remains of an arm, teeth working into the metal as if were a teething-ring, and if Sixshot didn't know better, the noises coming from his companion could be called moans.

Sixshot wasn't about to step in if they were. Sinnertwin was happy, stable.

It been maybe three vorns at best since the rest of the Gestalt had been lost. Since he'd almost lost Sinnertwin in the aftermath of that disastrous mission. Had opened up the still raw wound losing Danny had left. Weak, his mind had called him, to distress over the death of a Nebulon pet. He'd taken it – him – on in the middle of a war. Of course he'd lose the critter – humanoid.

At least Danny had died swiftly.

Sixshot forced it out of his processor. Here and now mattered. He could still lose the dragon. Sinnertwin's mental state was fragile. The move to split them up had been foolish, but at the time they'd had no choice; none had been happy and Hungrr had fought it tooth and claw. Megatron had done it anyway because that was what war was. You followed orders you hated, you obeyed, and you prayed to Primus you lived to see the next sunrise. The result of the battles that day had cost the Decepticons one of the most devastating units on the battlefield: Abominus.

(Sixshot often wondered if Megatron was still reeling from the loss of His Prime. Of the Guard Not Being There. He didn't voice it though. He had no desire to be scrapped just yet, or thrown about like Starscream. Slowly driven to insanity.

But the signs were there. Sixshot feared for the day Megatron realised what had happened.)

The day Abominus had fallen had won them ground overall, but the cost...

He couldn't forget even if he wanted.

Sixshot crouched as he cleaned his weapons off. The hilt of the Great Sword was stained dark-pink-purple, yet the jewel and blade shone to polished perfection. Not far away, Sinnetwin's alt-mode happily tore into on the remains of Autobots littering the battlefield, greedily gulping down energon or fluids without care. Sixshot thought it feral, but who was he to deny the Terrorcon? Hungrr and Blot did far worse.

The Great Sword sung as he returned it to its place on his back, and moved on to cleaning the rest of his weapons.

Then the dragon's first head jerked up, optics wide with alarm, energon dripping from its mouth. The second head joined it soon enough; all four optics swirling a pained white, tinged with yellow. Claws dug into the ground as his EM-field flared, screaming the glyphs of horror-pain-loss.

A split second later, twin shrieks hit the air as the dragon dropped, writhing in pain, claws digging into the ground. A terrifyingly sparkbreaking snarl followed, optics dropping to sickly, unstable yellows. The aperture was wider than it had any right to be. The dragon staring at Sixshot.

It lunged.

Sixshot stumbled back, though recovered quickly and threw his leg out in a kick that drove the Terrorcon backwards. He backflipped away, face and 'field echoing confusion.

"Sinnertwin?" The only reply was a snarl as the dragon lunged again. Sixshot twisted out of the way, sensors locked on the other Decepticon. This was Odd. Sinnertwin had no reason to attack him. Not since that first, accidental meeting that had gained him a fanclub.

/Hungrr-/

His comlink meet with static. Attempts to reach the others resulted in the same.

Sixshot's optics narrowed and battle mask snapped into place. Well. This was just his bundle of luck. He'd heard stories about broken Gestalt-links and how they drove the poor fraggers mental with the backlash. Monstructor and Piranhacon were prime examples. If the rest of the Terrorcons had passed to the Junkyard –

His hand shot out, deflecting Sinnertwin's attack yet again as the six-changer twisted around again, sidestepping the next attack, but not with ease. Sinnertwin was smaller and the other knew it. Sixshot knew he needed to remain alive to disable the fragger, but not kill him. A selfish desire perhaps, but he wasn't keen on losing one of the last links he had that kept him from joining the Reapers.

Easier said than done, given Sinnertwin only seemed to see enemies.

Oh well.

Sixshot had worked with less favourable odds. He'd once been Gigatron's bodyguard, and was a Phase-Sixer, one of the few who could take on mechs like Dai Atlas, Yoketron, Esmeral, Megatron, Overlord, Tarn, Krok. Or even Ultra Magnus, Strafe, Scorn, Huffer or Jazz. 

Didn't mean he'd just stand there and allow the dragon to attack him though. He grabbed the two-headed creature in a choke-hold, grunting when Sinnertwin headbutted him, horns puncturing armour, but nothing vital. Sixshot rolled with it and seemed to shake it off. He shoved him away, lashing out with a roundhouse to the chest. Unfortunately, the dragon just went with the kick, using its momentum to lash out with his tail. Sixshot grunted, barely able to jump over the tail while avoiding the snap of jaws from the right head. There was no rhyme or reason to the attacks. They came in bursts and sometimes Sinnertwin would back off, whimpering as his optics flickering red before returning to the yellow state.

He's confused, Sixshot realised. Confused, in pain, hurting. It'd be kinder to kill him-

Sixshot shoved the idea away. He had precious few friends. He wasn't going to mercy kill one of them. A selfish, selfish want, but he couldn't do it. He doubted many could actually kill a friend. For as brutal as they were, Decepticons clung to what they could.

But, Sinnertwin needed to be stopped. Emotion shoved down, sealed under lock and key, Sixshot dove head first into war-programming. He was a STAG warrior; a weapon and unstoppable machine. Sinnertwin came at him yet again, teeth sinking into metal. Sixshot pulled his fist back and smashed it into the head while it was holding onto him. When the crazed Terrorcon drew back, he grabbed one of the necks and squeezed, aiming to choke off the air flow. The other head didn't seem to know what to do.

Sixshot's smile was grim as he squeezed tighter, willing Sinnertwin to yield.

Sinnertwin lashed out with a yowl of pain/fear, seemingly uncaring of the damage done to him as long as he could inflict pain on his tormentor.

Ahh slag. Primus hated him. So it was going to be the hard way? Fine by him. When the left head came in for another attack, he grabbed it, claws sinking into the optics as he used momentum to shove the smaller forward. But Sinnertwin was no pushover, and when he couldn't get free of the hand blinding him by struggling, he tried transforming.

Sixshot let him, knowing the damage to the optics would translate to one of the root-mode optics. A handy, if not annoying, feature of bestial modes. Yet Sinnertwin was barely in root-mode before he was slammed face first into the dirt of Animatros, Sixshot landing heavily on top of him. While Sinnertwin struggled to get free, Sixshot pulled an energon knife from subspace and jammed that into a shoulder with a brutal twist.

The Ninja took no joy or pleasure from the yowl of pain, nor the way his friend struggled to get him off. His only aim now was to force shutdown from overheating. Hopefully that would give the broken links a chance to scar over. Well, that was the theory based on the fiasco when Skalor had offlined. But that had been only one mech, and the Seacons were still around. How sane they were was anyone's guess and only the strongest of mechs poked that scrap pile, if simply to keep an optic on them. The less said about Monstructor the better.

Sinnertwin had lost his whole Gestalt. Realistically, he'd likely need to be put down.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the frantic struggles eased and Sixshot chanced rolling the other around to face him. The optics were still a panicked yellow that bled to red then back to yellow, aperture still wide. Frightened and in pain.

Sixshot smiled grimly under his battlemask. While he couldn't do anything to fix the Gestalt programming, the flash of red gave him hope he could maybe keep him on the sanity side of the scrap pile.

"Enough. This won't solve anything!"

The only reply was a pathetically weak snarl, yet Sixshot refused to give an inch. Losing this fight meant losing Sinnertwin; unacceptable. If it was a selfish whim of what empathy he still retained, or a fear of being alone, Sixshot didn't know, didn't care and refused to consider the second option.

Sinnertwin bucked and struggled, and Sixshot head-butted him.

The overclocked mech fell limp, and Sixshot sat up, allowing cool air into his systems as he studied Sinnertwin. The Decepticon was shivering. whimpering, vents a hollow stutter; a good sign Gestalt-links were scarring over. Hopefully.

Primus willing, Sinnertwin would remain sane, or near enough.

Sixshot stood with a wince, finally allowing damage reports to scroll across his HUD. Some were red, most were not. Most of them were superficial, but he ignored them all. Sinnertwin could give as good as he got. He picked the fallen mechaniod up, slung him over a shoulder, and headed back towards the ship.

He'd give basic repairs, then see where things went from there. If Sinnertwin was irrevocably insane, then he'd have to kill him.

It would be a mercy, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Chapter Text

Sinnertwin did not want to online. He did so anyway into a haze of confusion, pain, loss, and fear. Into a desperate, pathetically weak attempt to scramble back from the processor-shattering terror-fear-panic which threatened to devour him whole. He could see it. It gaped and bled energon and the raw sparking of things that should have been there but –

Systems, cascade-coding, instinct shrieked and howled, reeling back as panic and loss and nononononono punched him in the face with a force easily outmatching Hungrr’s bite. Repeatedly. The pings to his brothers kept returning null-and-void with errors ranging from 100-700 errors to a slew of other errors that had him seeing sparks as his own internals malfunctioned.

He pinged each of his Gestalt.

They returned with exactly the same class of errors.

  NO NO NO THEY WEREN’T GONE. THEY COULDN’T BE.

He let loose a scream of a roared shriek as his shattered mind reached for links no longer there, grasping at nothing but the painfully raw silent void of darkness that bled energon and sparked things that could have been warnings. Those were shunted aside, second to everything happening right now.

They were gone.

They couldn’t be gone. “No-Nonono.”

Something moved. A blot – a blob because Blot was gone gone gone of white green black that was familiar yet not. Optics whirled, trying to focus. A mech stood over him, just in sight –

He only had one optic, not two. One of his alt-mode heads had been damaged. The optic swivelled around, taking in everything, trying to see the mech who stood over him. His head couldn’t - refused? to turn on command. It was – familiar. Greens and whites and blacks. Wings. Red optics. blastmask/faceplate/battlemask. Big. Bigger than the Lord Protector-

It – he – stood over him.

Sinnertwin fought, throwing everything he had against the bonds that kept him belly up, submissive. Weak. Vulnerable. Struggles ceased and fear bloomed across his processor when a thick, very large, white hand pushed against his chest, pinning him effortlessly to the slab. As if it was needed. He couldn’t get free of the bonds, what –

Soft words in a familiar voice swept across his processor, but he refused to listen, shaking his head in denial (now it moved. Why didn’t - oh. Motor controls were in a cascading branching failure and he - would have known that if he were sparked but he wasn’t. Was this what it meant to be sparked? Learning everything over again and again?) No. nononono he was belly up, vulnerable. There was a hand on his chest. Over his spark. This was bad. So very very very bad -

The voice spoke again, firmer now. It cut through the hazy-fog-void of his processor like an energon blade. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sinnertwin,”

“No!” He hissed, optics still that sickly yellow as fans and vents rattled, attempting to suck in air to cool overheated systems. His t-cog screebled in protest as it came up against very deliberate anti-transform code. Nonono! This wasn’t happening to him. He –

His intakes heaved, working overtime. Systems wrote warnings in lurid rust-red, and the lone Terrorcon ignored them. Where the frag was his team. Where the frag were they? He was the bottom of the pile, yes, but he was needed. They stuck together. So why was this-

They were not gone. He was malfunctioning. It’d happened to Rippersnapper once. It was only a matter of time before Cutthroat was at his side with her own manner of comfort, spinning gory stories of defeated Autobots that eventually had Blot yelling at her to tell the truth. Hungrr too, because it was expected? No. They cared about each other in their own ways. They were siblings. They fought and slagged off against one other but they were family. A Unit. Onlined and designed for each other in ways few understood.

(Sixshot had understood-)

They would come. They had to, and Sinnertwin refused to show any weakness to the mech above him, known or not. It would dishonour what being a Terrorcon was. What a Decepticon was.

“You don’t have a choice,” the voice said, still soft, calm. In control. Sinnertwin hated it. Loved it. Clung with everything he had to the voice. It – a feeble, weak light in the darkness and he wanted it to grow. It – He should want to snuff it, flee from the tiny, tiny thing that was smaller than him. Smaller and smaller and terrifying, but he needed it too- The voice spoke again. “The others are gone. You’re going to be with me from now on.”

They were not gone. He saw them, there. The inky void was a lie and if he reached for them and got pain, that was normal-

“Lies!” The dragon hissed, optic flickering red for a split fraction as reality cascaded into his shattered mind (that was Sixshot. Sixshot who’d left innermost energon for them all at one point or other. The same Sixshot who let them curl around him in alt-mode after a mission or because they wanted to, who accepted them and understood the bestial instincts and dynamics, though he claimed he didn’t. But actions, not words, spoke loudest within Decepticon ranks).

Sinnertwin screebled and the fragile fragments of his mind spun dizzyingly out of control to the point it hurt to think too much. He just wanted his teammates, wanted to be in a pile of lazy Terrorcons who’d completed a mission, who were sated and content until boredom struck and they resorted to terrorising whatever base they were suck in, or playing tag with a Phase-Sixer who could easily kill them all, or rutting said Phase-Sixer-.

“What would I gain from lying to you?” Sixshot’s hand left Sinnertwin’s chest. Fans clicked over, as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. Stupid, foolish; he wasn’t organic. “If you’ll allow an uplink, I’ll give you the report myself.”

Sinnertwin couldn’t curtail his manic, broken laughter as he struggled against the bonds. He felt sluggish, overheated, overclocked and Sixshot was.. odd. A blur of metal-and-warmth-maybe-safety? yet something was missing and he didn’t know what –

He wanted to curl up. His processor hurt. “Submission. Weakness. Not giving. Never.“

“What choice do you have?” Sixshot leaned in and Sinnertwin was now more than ever acutely aware of his inability to read any emissions field. Not his own, not Sixshot’s. “I could simply offline you now.”

  NO-

The hand returned, and the dragon hissed in denial. He blanched when the restraints tightened, Sixshot staring at him unrevealing, unknowable, as if a monster. Suddenly the depths of the abyss that called, oh so tauntingly and sweetly for him, seemed like a Good Choice.

Yet Sixshot was also a code-wisp. A wisp and thread and a hope he clung to because if the Senior officer was there then so was the rest of the team and he only had to resist the call long enough to see his siblings again-

Sixshot’s hand was heavier than before, vents and fans heaving now and the lurid rust-red warnings seemed brighter. Ominous.

“I could kill you very easily.” Claws dug into metal and Sinnertwin moaned in protest. He didn’t like pain-. “I fixed you, but it would be easy to undo it all.” Sinnertwin knew he blanched fear, judging by the way the Phase-Sixer’s optics lit up in - in delight. A distant, feeble part of him knew Sixshot was within his rights to murder – kill. Punish him in a fatal way. Sinnertwin was a grunt without a Unit, and potential liability. The Decepticons hated liabilities. If he had a Unit, he might have had a chance.

(non-adults and civilians did not count as liabilities.)

  He had no Unit.

LIES. He had a Unit – he had to have Abominus- “LIES. LIES. LIES.”

Mercifully Sixshot’s fist offlined him in one blow.

Sixshot stared down at his friend-sometimes-rutting partner, vents heaving, field blaring distress. Flatline had long ago pressed himself against a wall. Sixshot’s head swivelled to the medic. “Keep him offline and stable.”

Or else.

“-Sir?” Flatline ventured, squealing and pressing himself back against the wall, as if Sixshot were Tarn himself looking at him.

“Need I repeat myself, medic?” That wasn’t Flatline’s official job and he knew it. He didn’t care.

“No, sir. Keep him offline, and keep him stable. W-What about-“

“As long as he’s offline, his mental state won’t deteriorate.”

Flatline nodded, optics pale energon-pink. “Yes sir.”

The six-changer grunted, and made his way out the medbay. He was emotionally compromised and he didn’t care. Between this and Danny’s death, he was entitled to emotions. Megatron would understand. Gigatron’s successor himself was compromised, even if he didn’t see it. Though Sixshot really didn’t feel like going against him by bringing that up.

Sixshot turned the corner towards the firing range, wishing Lockdown was within range. His Amica knew all the places to vent and didn’t ask questions until the venting was done and Sixshot was on his knees, emotionally spent. But Lockdown wasn’t here; the last time they’d been together had been after Danny’s death and he’d invited the other to slaughter an Autobot base. His Clan... Hnnn. Perhaps later.

Sixshot touched his commlinks. It paid to be the Senior Officer of a base. “Oilslick... I need live targets. Autoblock-C will do.”

Chapter Text

Flatline practically squealed when Sixshot's heavy hand fell on his shoulder, field bleating a frantic, if short lived staccato of fear-panic in sharp-sound. 

"How is he?" The six-changer asked, voice betraying his amusement, and Flatline shoved survival protocol and coding and everything else he had remotely related to the fore and then tripled it, internally wincing when it slammed into his processor as if a building had been toppled on him. Again. The things he did for the Decepticons. He smiled pleasantly, as if having a six-changer notorious for mass murder and all sorts of Other Nice Things from the Senix Clan looming over him was an everyday occurrence. 

Same as the last three megacycles you've asked, slagger. He bit back the retort. He liked his spark attached, thank you very much. "Stable. I finished the damage repairs and replaced his fans."

"With no alterations, of course."

If that wasn't a warning squeeze, Flatline didn't know what it was. He knew well what Sixshot was capable of if the mood struck him. Petty violence would be the least of the scientist and experimental surgeon's worries. "Naturally, sir. Shall I rouse him?"

"Do so."

Flatline nodded, the hand finally left him. With an exvent, Flatline set about rebooting his so-called patient while Sixshot stood over the restrained and trapped Terrorcon. Sinnertwin was scrap if you asked Flatline. Scrap and junk and reusable parts. The mechanoid's processor was gone, fragmented and beyond even the saving graces of a hardline jacked into a de-fragging system designed for Megatron. Sixshot was a fool, but who was he to argue with a fragging Phase-Sixer? He'd sooner argue with Krok or Soundwave and come out intact.

(Come to think of it, he'd seen that happen and swore he'd seen them smirking. They both had fragged up humour out the afterburner, and both were part of Megatron's Command-Cohort.)

He watched dispassionately as Sinnertwin's remaining optic booted up with sickly, sickly lurid yellow colours. A speckle of red flickered across it before vanishing. It was disturbing, and he counted himself thankful for the order – threat – against repairing the other optic. The best he'd done was stick a patch over it. Self-repair would take over, or not.  He reset his vocaliser and stepped back with another pleasant smile and salute. "He's online."

Sixshot grunted, but didn't dismiss the ‘medic'. He kept a sensor bead on him though, in case Flatline attempted to make an escape like last time. 

Flatline wisely busied himself with another of his projects, thanking everything he could that his assigned Cadets and probationers weren't around. He knew for a fact Crosshairs would have sooner shot Sinnertwin than treat him. Perhaps he should look into assigning the Cadet sniper-classes. It might be useful…

He literally jumped out of his frame at Sinnertwin's growl, knocking half his desk onto the floor. Oh, Joy. He would have to stay through another round of this…?

A look at Sixshot told him the answer was a clear Yes.

Yay, joy. His life. He hated it. Nonetheless, he cleaned up his mess, trying, and failing, to keep from watching the shipwreck he was stuck with.

"I've heard what losing a Gestalt-mate will do to the team, but not when only one is left. What happened was unfortunate," Sixshot said, regret spiking his voice, and Flatline had not known the Phase-Sixer could feel anything like that. "But I will not allow you to die."

Sinnertwin let out a pitiful whine at the words, shaking his head in stringent denial. "Not gone. Not gone. Hungrr come."

Sixshot cuffed the Terrorcon's helm – Flatline hoped that didn't leave too much of a dent to be worked out- and continued talking.  Still calm, still never raising his voice. "He will not come. You have to accept that and move on."

"You lie! Hungrr come! Cutthroat-" Sinnertwin's normally low growl of a Kaon accent broke, hitching in distress as he struggled and thrashed against the bindings. Not for the first time did Flatline shrink back towards the wall. If the Terrorcon got free –

No. He would not allow his processor to go down that route, thank you very much; he had a project to continue with.

Sinnertwin attempted to bite, and Sixshot punched him outright for it. "What would I gain from lying to you? Your almost Endura's dead."

The hysterical, broken laugh was enough to make Flatline jump, scrambling backwards into a wall in fear. He rarely felt that emotion, but every part of him was screaming to leave, get as far away as possible, and his tripled-amped survival protocols where telling him no. He'd end up slagged this time. Yet Sixshot was seemingly immune, thick claws digging into Sinnertwin's chassis, gouging deep wounds across his chestplates. "You are all that is left of them. I will not lie to you."

Flatline shuddered at the tone. Rarest of Warbuild types, yes. Possessing the full range of emotional reactions his skidplate. Sixshot was an emotionless beast, and what the Terrorcons had seen in him, he didn't know.

Sinnertwin's moan of denial was pathetic, yet he didn't seem to fight against the hand splayed over his sparkplates. The very hand that had hurt him. Even from where he was, Flatline could see it rested deceptively light against overheated, overclocked plating. He didn't have to be a genius to know Sixshot was hiding his EM-field, and that Sinnertwin's was… flickering with confusion and fear and pain and need.

What the pit –

Sixshot exvented slowly, rubbing his hand softly over the sparkplates. "I will not leave you, Sinnertwin. You belong with me now. My Unit."

Sinnertwin's optic flickered red for a klick or two before reverting to the sickly yellow as a terrifying growl rippled its way from Sinnertwin's vocal-unit. It outstripped even the late Dirge's Sigma talent for fear-generation. The part of Flatline that was not purging was already considering designing something like this. Put to use against the Autobots, it'd be invaluable, and if they could get ‘X' - no. Scratch that. Giving it to ‘X' would hand him the keys to their destruction.

Then, Sinnertwin spoke, and Flatline felt his armour clamp down tighter than it'd ever been, his EM-field practically retracting into his very spark. "You are not Hungrr." 

Something in Sixshot's demeanour changed, aggression rippling off him, and Flatline realised he would have a front-row seat to bestial instincts driving the hierarchy and power struggle. He -

He didn't think he wanted the seat he'd been given.  Maybe if he slowly edged towards the door - That sure was a bullet hole a centimetre from his helm.

He did want that seat after all. 

Chapter Text

Keeping a sensor on Flatline, Sixshot turned back to Sinnertwin.

"No, I'm not," the six-changer snarled, low and brutal, as if his bestial side demanded energon from the weaker, smaller mechanoid.

Sinnertwin's remaining optic nearly blew out as it widened, and Sixshot suppressed his EM-field again. "No- Hungrr-"

"Is dead."

This wasn't like the last time he'd put Hungrr in his place to re-establish the ‘pecking order'. This was different. This... This was a test of wills and dominance with far, far more riding on it than bestial instinct. He'd win even outside beast-alt, yet he had to make Sinnertwin realise that.

Anything less wouldn't be tolerable even outside the instinct driving him.

It helped he'd already mapped weaknesses long ago. Strapped to an operating table in what passed for a ‘working' medical bay, Sinnertwin was vulnerable in ways even the most battle-hardened Decepticon would thoroughly debase themselves to escape. Gigatron on his back for repairs came to mind; even then, it'd taken Orion everything he had to keep the Lord Protector calm- with painblockers and medicals in full sight in play. Whatever else Shockblast was, his reports were accurate: Megatron flat on his back on his back was nigh unheard of.

Sixshot didn't blame him. To be on one's back was weakness. Was easy access to sparkplates, spark, and core cabling that, if severed, could cripple a mecha for orns as redundancies and backups struggled to compensate while self-repair worked overtime. Even the main spinal strut was easily accessed if one knew what they were doing. A single press in the right location could cripple joints, compress tanks and fuel pumps, and that was only the unimaginative, crude torture.

If he were creative and patient enough, he could dig into the backups and redundant systems, doing as he willed while keeping the victim alive. Child's play to mecha such as his Sire and Sixknight, yet he was still learning.

But learning would not happen with this mecha. If he wanted to play, he had a pair of slaves for that.

Friend. Ally. Respected. He owed it to Sinnertwin to at least attempt to bring him back from the voided edge of the Junkyard. If he failed, Sixshot doubted he'd be able to yank him back again. The first time had been a miracle. The second, Primus-blessed.

He did not want to see another friend to the Junkyard in as many megacycles.

Selfish? Yes, but he had the right to be. He'd lost far, far too many friends in his long life, and there was few mecha he would push aside his desires for. The last who'd tried to force him, well, he'd heard they still found bits of him scattered around the base.

And his attention -and Sinnertwin's- had drifted.

Slowly he rested his weight against the other's chest, just enough to get the Terrorcon's attention again, EM-field pulled in tight.

"Cutthroat-?" Sinnertwin croaked, the desperate plea echoed by the EM-field's flickering, reaching fluctuations. They found nothing, because Sixshot would give nothing, even as pity shot his spark.

Cutthroat had been a beautiful, focused, lethal air-dancer of a flier with feathers of purple and brassy gold-green body to match. Deadly and cunning, yet caring in her own way. He remembered the severed heads she'd brought him, of how she'd killed tiny terrors for Sinnertwin, then demanded he eat them. Of the aerial dances she weaved only for Sinnertwin. Of the ones she'd done for them all. A song to what was lost, to what they all hoped for but knew was impossible. Their species was dying by degrees and his Clan hadn't even a lead on the Imperial Guard, let alone a True-Prime.

It was as if Primus had deserted them. Punishing them for some slight.

Yet, that was ruthlessly suppressed. There would be time to mourn later. Regret and mercy held no place here. "I am Sixshot of the Senix, former bodyguard of Gigatron, Decepticon Shinobi Consultant City Commander, and a Phase-Sixer."

And owner of Zarak's twins; yet that detail wasn't something Flatline needed to know. Not when the name and titles were little more than a growl, something deep and rumbled, laden with a heavy, heavy meaning that had Sinnertwin jerking under his hands, engines ticking over in a whine he felt more than heard. Sixshot gave them no notice, yet his sensors indicated Flatline was once again attempting to become one with the wall. Tch. The Terrorcon's Support had been better. They'd at least had titanium bearings and he'd seen to it they'd been added to the wider pool of Support his Unit and under-Unit's drew from. "Mine."

"No." Sinnertwin shook his head as much as was allowed; it wasn't much, barely an inch either side. "N-no. Belong to Hungrr. Hungrr the strongest. Leader."

Both Sixshot and Flatline winced at the mangled glyphs. This time, the pressure on Sinnertwin's chassis left a shallow dent close to a seam-line. "I'm the strongest now."

Sinnertwin nodded quickly, but the eagerness in the EM-field gave it away. Sixshot almost laughed. It was the same look the bestial'd worn on their first meeting, back when he'd hoped to walk away from the encounter only partly slagged. "Yes."

It was equally pathetic and endearing. Yet, that did not stop Sixshot from forcing two fingers under the seam's plating, vaguely noting how Sinnertwin stilled -good; intact survival coding. The wolf in him purred, even as he pressed the dent back out. "Do you believe what I'm saying or will it require an uplink?" He absently ran his fingers over the once again smooth armour panel. If he uplinked now, the battle would transfer to the mindscape.

"I... understand. You- leader.."

Leader. It wasn't underscored with meaning the last time Sinnertwin used the word and Sixshot pulled himself up a fraction more, optics dim as he considered leaving the Terrorcon tied like he was. It might not have seemed like much, yet without the underscored meaning of pack, it was useless. Yet, it was also a start. He could work with it, and the idea of plugging in was even more tempting.

A simple program and he could nudge Sinnertwin towards the pack given it had been written to build on the basic meaning of a pack. To slowly nudge his friend towards the desired outcome. It wasn't meant to make something from nothing.

But...

To use it now, or nudge towards a hopefully more desired outcome, even knowing everything could fracture still. Claws tapped against the seam as Sixshot turned everything over a few more times before exventing slightly. He could do this now, yet there was a high chance Sinnertwin was merely playing along. Saying what he thought would get him out of his very vulnerable position and if that was true, the program had more chance of backfiring than success.

Sixshot levelled his gaze at his friend. He could make it an uplink with all the risks and then some. Yet, he felt he owed it to Sinnertwin to do it this way first. To allow the mecha to at least do the basic code-building himself.

Kliks passed and the dragonformer squirmed. Sixshot exvented loudly. This way was kinder than the alternatives. He was pushing ‘pack' to the surface.

Metal squealed as he raked his claws up the chassis, over the throat, and up under the chin, where they hooked as he forced the head up, stretching the throat to the limit as he came in close enough to smell energon and fluids as it pumped though taunt cabling. He breached the distance with a snarl at the whine of denial, battlemask retracting and teeth nipping cabling, glossa flicking over nicked metal. He could do anything; had severed cabling like this before, felt hot, sticky energon as it flowed from lines. So close to the surface he could smell the intoxicating scent. A prelude of what was to befall the prey. "Perhaps I'll leave you like that for a while... Defenceless. Helpless. At the mercy of others..."

The glance up was more an afterthought, head raised just enough to pin Flatline with a look. The flinch told all he needed to know: Warning received. Sixshot then turn his attention back to the Terrorcon. One last lick of fuel lines and the six-changer reigned himself in to an acceptable level. Sinnertwin was not prey; he was a challenger, one who sort to usurp him. The goal was to force out a true yield that would result in pack coding.

"Stop!"

"Why should I?" Sixshot snapped, unmoved by the subharmonics in the whine. He'd seen the Terrorcons fight and force submission from each other many times before. He'd heard the whines, seen the games they played with each other enough times he could write a novel on them. "You will stay on your back til I'm satisfied."

There was a horrific squeal of metal as the sentry attempted to struggle, to pull his helm away from the claws, to get free, optics flashing between yellow and red, then cycling pale reds before flashing straight to whirl of sickly yellows. "NO! NO YIELD!"

"You will, or you'll stay here until you starve." Quick as a flash, the grip changed, from forcing the helm back to gripping the throat with enough force to induce gagging as fans sped up, struggling to drag in cool air.

That's when the low, pitiful, whimper-cry started. Both Sixshot and Flatline had moved to release him before they realised what Sinnertwin was doing. Optics narrowed, Sixshot tightened the restraints to the point Sinnertwin was unable to move then grabbed the nearest welder. Firing it up until the flame was white, he traced a burning line down Sinnertwin's abdomen, ignoring the shrieks, and Flatline's aborted shout as the ‘medic' backed away. "You aren't going to fool me."

The shrieks grew in volume when he held the welder in place for several seconds before removing it. Switching it off, he swapped it out for the nitrogen cooler. It would create a buckling effect and brittle metal, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be dealt with via trip to the CR chambers. Nor was it life-threatening, though it would affect the rate of transformation, but that was expected with buckled plating.

"If I have to fix that-" Flatline started, only to fall silent- and edge back into his ‘seat'- when Sixshot levelled another look his way. Mentally deciding he'd take the surgeon into his Support, he set the cooler aside, careful not to drop it.

He'd sooner tear his spark out than deal with an irate surgeon.

"Do you yield?" Yet even as he asked that, he could still see flickers of yellow in the mecha's optics, still feel the undercurrents of insanity in the ‘field. Of loss and pain and loneliness. The last took the knife already in his spark and twisted it until it would be all too easy to give in, to allow Sinnertwin to feel another's ‘field.

He refused, instead choosing to rest a hand over the sparkplates. Sinnertwin flinched, flinching again when claws drummed against the metal. "Well?"

It seemed an age before Sinnertwin whined again, EM-field broadcasting ‘I am weaker than you'. "I give I give I give. Yield to strongest. Leader... bo-boss mech?"

Despite the mental hiss of denial at what he was doing to a friend, he still picked up the welder, turning the instrument over as he thought about it. Then. He flicked it in, the flame blue-red and easily within Sinnertwin's vision. It seemed genuine; from the order of the glyphs, to how they were underscored, to the cant and pale-red hue of optics and the way the mecha craned his head back.

In many ways, Warbuild coding was a blessing with demanding another yield. There was no trick here, yet Sixshot took his time, running claws over exposed cabling, dipping around to the side and back of the neck, teasingly pressing a claw towards the main spinal strut. It rested there for several kliks before he pulled it back. He dragged it up the helm until he was rimming the closed-off medical hatch.

"Open."

As soon as the port was open, Sixshot plugged in. It wasn't smooth like a medical connection would have been, yet he did not trust Flatline with this. The mechaniod was just as likely to try something as he was to obey. If Sinnertwin protested the forcible punch through what firewalls remained, he didn't hear it. At any rate, the firewalls were laughable. Fragility in a cobbled together mess at it's finest. Oh, they'd do the job, yet they could have been better.

Something he'd work on, later. He had a job to do, and with care, he dropped the program into the mess that was Sinnertwin's coding, trusting it'd smooth the jagged edges somewhat while implanting what it needed to nudge and affirm Sinnertwin's thoughts of him as ‘pack leader'. It was not a Loyality Program, of that he'd made sure. He wanted his friend to seem as the pack leader, yet he loathed the blind loyalty Loyalty Programs brought. Never mind the lack of true choice Slave Coding demanded. Sinnertwin would see him as the pack leader, yes, yet he could - would have the choice of turning away if he ever wanted. While it would nudge him towards what Sixshot wanted, Sinnertwin would be free to pick and choose, to question, to ignore. He would be himself.

Yet, even as he withdrew, he left a multitude of small programs that would also help. From programs that would numb the pain, to ones that would reinforce the primary and hedge his bets he'd be the pack leader.

As long as the primary held, these could fail.

At worst, he'd end up with a half-feral friend who'd listen to him most of the time. At best, his friend would be- as normal and as sane as possible.

The bleeping of an incoming comm message dragged him from memories. "What."

He could hear the swallow before Olin spoke, words near monotone. "Your Sire and the Clan Head are here, Lord Sixshot."

That would explain the swallow. The list of mecha who could force the six-changer into anything was very, very short. It was ill-advised to keep any of them waiting. Even knowing that, his optics slid to the Terrorcon still engrossed in the art of ‘eating' the limb and would be for a while. Small mercies. "Have them meet me in the first antechamber."

Sixshot didn't bother to wait on the slave's reply; Olin would do as told, and Sixshot would reach the destination before his guests, never mind how unwanted meddling elders were in his life, thank you very much.

Like much of the rest of the base, the antechamber was well lit. Unlike the rest of the base, it was filled with trinkets and tokens of glory, bespeaking a room fit to receive honoured guests or high ranking Decepticons (or Below forbid, Megatron himself). His elders were very much honoured guests and staunch allies of the Lord Protector, and through him, the Decepticons. Receiving them in anything less was such an insult even the most out of the way, unglorified outpost had a room such as this.

Sixshot didn't have to wait long. A pale pastel monoformer led them in, pale optics never once meeting the red of Sixshot's. "Your most honoured guests, Master." Though the accent marked her as outsider, lesser, Llyra spoke with a natural fluency, unlike her twin.

He sent her to wait outside with a flick of the hand, then bowed respectfully to his three guests, their ‘fields at ease compared to his own. He waited three kliks before he rose and spoke in his native tongue. "Honoured Sire, Lord brother. I welcome you both and your companion."

While both his Sire and brother were of a height with him, the companion barely came to his waist, smaller than Llyra. Likely a Cadet; it wasn't unheard of for his Sire to take on a Unit occasionally.

"It is good to see you, my Pride."

Sixshot straightened under the title, not missing the curious glance from the Cadet.

"Brother," Knight nodded with a smirk. "Congratulations on your imminent Bonding."

Sixshot's CPU screeched to a halt. He openly stared, optics flicking between the three. No no, a petravorn of No‘s. Hadn't he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with bonds or the like after the one he ‘lost' to a volcano, or the one he'd punted into a star, or the times before then. Though, the one the one accidentally offlined on a sparring match had been mourned. Dashfire'd been intelligent and driven to make the best of an awkward situation. The rest had been vapid things of lesser Noble Clans who hadn't even been trained in the art of conversation. "Wh-" He cleared his vocaliser. "When?"

"Now." His Sire flashed a toothy grin as Knight pinned him with a Look. Sixshot refused to squirm. He was not a fragging youngling, no matter how close Knight was to having a good two-sixths of a teravorn on him. "We do expect one of you to be carrying within a sixth-vorn, of course."

He opened his mouth, clicked it shut, held up a finger, then thought better of everything and slowly nodded with a brittle smile. Sixknight's bestial was a dragon, like their Sire's and second cousin's. To say nothing of how both were Veiði, nevermind Knight was the first Outlier in generations, making him not the Pride of the Clan but the Star. Rolling over and showing his belly was safer than going against them and ensured some semblance of pit-damned dignity, even if he was trying to swallow his words. "By your will. Who?"

"My Carrier is Warmonger and my Sire is R-" the red-and-white started, polite glyphforms as precise as her accent. She was not a native speaker and some part of Sixshot wondered how many words she knew.

"Very well," Sixshot said flatly. There was little doubt this was purely political, and ‘losing' one of Warmonger's direct get would be ill-advised, even without the Bond they'd soon share.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

"My Sire is Ra-"

"Is Warmonger's Conjunx." Technically betrothed, yet with how long they'd been courting, any Clan worth its struts counted it as official. Plus, the timing was right; her ‘field wasn't pinging much older than sixteen megavorn. A blessing; he wasn't sure he could have dealt with anything younger. "Your name?"

"Minerva," the red-and-white said with a short, respectful bow, ‘field pulled in tight a sixth of a klick to late. Though, even with the glimpse of her dignity, Sixshot couldn't deny they'd trained the little thing. "I shall do my utmost to bring honour to my new Clan, my Lord."