His squad was three other mechs: , a former medic who had stopped carrying medical supplies after the first month; Runnel , a scout with a cracked voice box who communicated in static clicks and gestures; and Javelin , their commander—a sleek, arrogant femme who still believed the war could be won with proper tactics and discipline.
Javelin looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned away. “Log it as MIA. Get some recharge, Zero.” autobot-7712
“You left,” he said, kneeling beside her. His medical training was nonexistent, but even he could see the damage. Her core energon lines were leaking—a slow, fatal drip. “Why did you leave?” His squad was three other mechs: , a
They had been stationed at Outpost Theta-9 for six weeks. The Decepticons were thirty klicks north, dug into a derelict spacebridge hub. Neither side had enough ammo for a real fight. So they bled each other slowly: snipers, mines, sabotage. “Log it as MIA
Petal. A small, bright-yellow femme who had worked in the same docking bay, back before the War. She had been the one who recalibrated the cargo clamps when they drifted. She had laughed—actually laughed—when he accidentally triggered the emergency purge and sprayed coolant all over her finish. He had not thought of her in vorns. He had assumed she was dead. Most of the dock crew were.