Chapter Text
WARNINGS: Mild to moderate gore. Slashy or gen, you can decide.
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The plan had been going swimmingly well... up until now.
Krok cursed as he was forced to stop, unable to ignore the biting ache in his calf. He huffed as he fell against a tree, tired optics falling to his wounded leg. A deep gash running the length from knee to ankle, bleeding oil and energon. He glanced back, immediately noticing the trail he'd left behind. Not that it mattered - his pursuers didn't need the trail to find the Decepticon.
Krok cursed and punched the tree. He limped a few steps before breaking into another sprint. Every minute movement of his wounded leg sent shocks of pain up into his thigh. He stumbled clumsily as he had been the past five minutes; but so far, so good. He was still alive, at least.
Though Krok imagined not for very long, with the way things were going and the shouts of the Autobots growing closer.
Krok forced off his pain receptors, but that didn't make running any easier. He pushed his way through tall, blue sawgrass, its thorns scratching and leaving tiny grooves in his armor. Whether it was the foliage or his leg, Krok grunted and tripped, rolling along fresh mud, back out into the open.
The Decepticon sat up with a grumble, immediately checking his leg; he was losing more and more energon. They hit a fuel pump; running only made the bleeding faster. Krok didn't have time to think as he could hear his pursuers cutting through the sawgrass. With a pained grunt, he pushed himself back to his feet, swayed, and nearly fell again; managed to catch balance, limp, then resume fleeing.
The ship wasn't much farther, fortunately. Krok could see it over canopies of the approaching patch of jungle. He tried to contact the others, but these thick trees were blocking and distorting his transmissions. Everything he sent and received came out warbled static with only a few coherent words punching through the white noise. But Krok received confirmation from each of his teammates to know they were still alive.
That was six minutes ago, however.
Krok kept his mind focused. He was over-exerting himself, he knew, and exhaustion was kicking in, but he had no choice. He was unarmed, bleeding, too tired to fight; running was all he had left. God, and he would berate himself later for his failure, for a wound he would tell himself, despite disagreements from a few of his comrades, was easily avoidable.
Now was not the time, however. Krok would lecture himself and nurse his wounded leg and pride once back on the ship.
Though Krok knew, of course, the moment he stepped out into open space with nothing but a hundred feet of dirt and grass between him and the jungle, his enemies had him at his most vulnerable. He expected the first few, clear shots, dodging them, lamenting the loss of his gun. But with his wound and his fatigue, Krok knew it was inevitable--
Ah. Fifth time was the charm. Krok snarled as one shot struck his good leg. Go fucking figure. He fell forward, face first into the mud. No time to sulk or recuperate; he ignored the warning sirens going off in his head, attempted to push himself back on his feet. When that attempt failed, Krok reluctantly looked back to assess the damage.
Leg still wounded and bleeding? Check. Second leg missing a huge chunk out of his foot? Check.
"You underestimated us, genericon."
Krok flipped onto his rear, feeling the first droplet of rain hit him like a bullet between his wide optics. He looked up as the three Autobots approached him, their guns cocked, smug grins on their faces.
"You run pretty fast, coward," the blue Autobot sneered.
The green 'bot added with a chortle, "But not fast enough."
"Poor thing," the yellow Autobot tsked in mock sympathy. The rain was picking up quickly, and now the trio of Autobots were closing in.
"I suppose we should put him out of his misery," Blue suggested, his comrades snickering menacingly.
Krok pushed and scooted along the ground, and he realized, even without the taunting laughter of his enemies, just how pathetic he looked. Like some poor, scared animal high off adrenaline. But the adrenaline was wearing thin now, and had been the reason Krok managed to escape in the first place.
The Autobots stopped a few feet before the fallen Decepticon. "Got any last words?" Green asked, and three guns were aimed at Krok's head.
"Go to Hell," Krok answered, voice strained. "Not the best choice of last words, but the sentiment remains."
The three chuckled. "Suit yourself."
Krok was about to switch off his optics, take the death with quiet dignity-- Suddenly, there was a blur of magenta and yellow, followed by a loud, surprised gasp. The loud explosive crack of a gun going off--
Krok's optics powered back online, just in time to watch the Autobots scatter in shock. The blast left a trajectory of smoke in its wake, and warm, fresh energon trickled from a grazed cut along his cheek. Blue and Green were now firing and yelling at a new target, but Krok could not see between them. Yet whatever it was they were shooting must have been powerful, given the gut-wrenching, painful shrieks from its victim.
The rain and steam rising from off the ground clouded Krok's vision. What the Hell was going on? Blue yelled at Green and the two split apart, just as their Yellow comrade was thrown between them, hitting the ground and skidding up to Krok's side. The Decepticon winced at the remains of the Autobot, now just a torso and part of a mangled head.
"Back up's all most here!"
"Frag, watch--!"
Green went down with a howl, a blast ripping through his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was just Blue now, and Krok could see he was scared. He backed away from the rolling clouds of fog and steam, the rain pelting down hard now. Krok quickly checked the Autobot corpse for any sort of weapon.
A loud thunderclap was followed with a pained, irritated growl. Blue lowered his smoking gun, cackling. "Got you, you crazy glitch!" he jeered.
The Autobot's victory was short lived. Whether it was incredible confidence or sheer stupidity, the unarmed force charged. Another shot fired, but missing; Blue cursed and went to flee--
Krok watched as the mysterious attacker pounced on the Autobot, tackling him around the waist. They went crashing and rolling along the ground, mimicking the groans of the storm above. Blue managed to shove his assailant off, flinging mud in its face. This gave him just a small window of opportunity, but as he scooted away, getting onto one knee--
A hand the size of his entire head shot up from the ground and grabbed him by the face, thick fingers curling around the sides of his helm. Blue gasped before was yanked back down, flipped onto his back, and pinned beneath his attacker. The hand remained clasped around the Autobot's face, and his cry for either mercy or a swift death to the bastard holding him down was cut short as his head was crushed easily like a melon. The metal and armor and steal made a disgusting, loud squelching noise, bits of circuitry and processer-matter spraying the ground nearly over two feet.
Krok sat there, exventing loudly, wide-eyed and still very confused. As the clouds of mist parted and his optics adjusted to the rain--
"Spinister?"
Spinister took a moment to study all the energon and viscera coating his hand and dripping down his arm. He gave a small, disappointed grunt and stood, carelessly shaking some of the mess off. He looked back at his fallen comrade, and Krok could see that cold, feral rage in his dark optics. Spinister stood, collected the nearest discarded gun, the sound of a crunch-splat as he crushed an optic under foot.
Krok watched Spinister approach him, saying nothing. He stopped in front of him, turned, cocked the gun in his hand. A second later, and three more Autobots emerged from the sawgrass and fog. They came to a sudden halt, immediately spotting the corpses of their deceased comrades. Their horrified gazes turned on Spinister, shielding the Decepticon on the ground, gun pointed, splattered and covered in gore.
The Autobots looked to one another. "We outnumber you, Decepticon," their leader hissed, bravely taking a step forward. Three guns turned on one.
"Get out of here," Krok scowled. He kicked at the back of Spinister's leg with his busted foot. "Go!"
Spinister said nothing, firm, beastly gaze locked with the Autobots'. They were at a standstill, silently plotting. They would not underestimate this Decepticon as their former comrades had.
It was a tense, uneasy moment that felt like an eternity. No one made the first move. Rain pounded the mud, winds picking up to roar through nearby trees. The tension was palpable and suffocating.
Krok went to order Spinister to retreat again, but the sudden howl from above caught everyone's attention. The ground began to rumble. Krok's head snapped back, the Weak Anthropic Principle moving above their heads.
Spinister took this moment to fire at the Autobots. However, one had remained vigil, and returned fire, shoving his comrades aside. He took the hit, his arm flying from its socket; Krok angrily shoved his heel into Spinister's lower back, pushing him into the mud, the laser blast ripping through the air mere seconds where he once stood.
Krok mistook the photon blast from the ship as lightning at first. It struck the ground in front of the Autobots. Then a second blast, then another and another and another, and the Autobots cursed, forced to retreat.
Haha! I am become Death, destr--
Shut up!
Krok and Spinister looked up at the ship, Misfire then Crankcase's voices blaring from the overcom.
Are you two still alive? You got two kliks to get your afts on board or we're leavin' you to the Autobots.
Krok exvented. For a moment, he was suspended in disbelief. After all that, had he just... survived? He stirred when Spinister suddenly climbed back to his feet, coated in mud, the rain quickly taking to cleaning it off. He slowly turned, staring down at his leader.
With a chuff: "Now who's the stupid idiot?"
Krok blinked. The shock turned into annoyance. "You!" he snapped. "I told you to retreat!"
"I wouldn't leave you here," Spinister scoffed. "Dead or alive. Would prefer alive, though. I like living you better than dead you. But if you were dead, we'd make good use of your parts, yanno."
The chronometer is ticking, lovebirds!
Krok scowled. He wasn't for unnecessary violence, but boy would he love to slug Misfire in the face right now. Suddenly, Spinister was bending down, scooping him up in his arms; Krok instinctively latched on.
"You took some mighty stupid risks. Not that this is a surprise or anything."
Spinister shrugged. "Autobots rub me the wrong way. 'Specially those rats."
Krok tilted his head. "They were no different from the standard, run of the mill Autobots."
"Meh."
The two were on board the ship a minute later. Crankcase and Flywheels were waiting for them.
"I believe that was three kliks," Krok teased, raising three fingers. Spinister still held him in his arms. "Maybe three and a half."
"You woulda done the same," Flywheels snorted. "Besides, Primus does not approve of abandoning your comrades."
Crankcase gave a loud, suffering sigh.
Flywheels approached the two, holding out his hands. "Here," he offered, reaching for Krok, "let me--"
Spinister jerked aside, pulling Krok flush against him. Both Krok and Flywheels were surprised. Spinister just glared warning at the visored mech.
Flywheels slowly stepped back, hands raised. "Sorry," he apologized, "just trying to do a good de--"
"Oh, shut up," Crankcase interjected angrily. He shoved Flywheels off and turned back to his comrades. "Next time, we're leavin' you to the wolves," he sneered before following his sulking, whining friend, leaving the two alone.
Krok inhaled deeply, optics glowing. "It's good to be home."