Ep. 1 - Adaptation - [Closed]

[Flatline]

It felt good to be back to normal.

The clear ability to think was absolutely wonderful. Ever since he had awakened? There was that constant screaming and screeching of alerts in his cranium. The sound was deafening, to a point he was almost begging for it to stop. He was AWARE he was basically out of Energon, he was AWARE he needed coolant, he was AWARE he needed to tend to himself, to constantly shriek reminders? Was just going to drive him mad. But now that he was repaired? Now that he was back to mostly normal order? He could function. He could think, he could start to act like himself instead of working through a haze.

The Decepticon had learned some basic concepts from others on this world and its inhabitants. But despite handed over thoughts and assumptions on the populace below? It was all still a bit hazy to the doctor. Those he spoke to didn't seem to know the terms, or more than what was absolutely needed. It was understandable though, even Flatline did not care too much to learn it all, but he felt he needed to know some core fundamentals. All he did know for certain? Was that he should seek out an alternate form that did not stand out as alien tech. This would permit him to blend in to the world, and traverse through it without raising alarms. While he was certain the Decepticons didn't really CARE about being found out? It was better to just be spared the hassle of dealing with the cockroaches.

-----

A decidedly alien piece of machinery rolled down the desolate environment. Its shape was sleek, with a broad sharp grill across its front. The wheels, didn't even seem to have any support rubber on their frames, the metal bands a sharp chrome that looked like it would rather slice through things than drive over it smoothly. The underside hooked up, akin to a greyhound if it were an animal, while the back panels had a bold red blazing across its surface. The shield of glass across its front, was nearly pitch black, the innards unable to be seen in any way. The vehicle had an ominous air about it, almost as if whoever, or whatever was within, was looking and hunting for something.

Everything was dark, the night sky plunging the land into complete seclusion. Silver light from the crescent moon, applied a thin layer of illumination upon the landscape, enough to barely make out the contents of the environment to not run into anything. For a mech? It just meant amping up a contrast capability in the optics, but even then it was awfully murky. What could be seen of the land was almost depressing though.

Barren farmland, a few cows and horses absently scattered about, as well as some fields of crop. There was some homes speckled in-between these large expanses, with a few different options of vehicles slapped down. However a lot of the vehicle options were either horrendously mutilated, put up upon cinder-blocks to be mended or repaired, or were simply far too tacky for Flatline's tastes. There were even huge tractors and other things that even if he liked the chunky beasts? They would be way outside his capabilities to take on.

This expanse of land had been chosen simply BECAUSE of its inability for him to draw unwanted attention and land himself in trouble, but at the same time it shot him in the foot, as he was having problems locating what he needed. With a growled huff, he finally turned down a short driveway that dead ended into a gate that appeared to house metal instead of animal or plant. Past the cyclone mesh, appeared to be large masses of dilapidated cars, and other scrap material such as refrigerators and mechanical components.

The front black panel of what appeared to be glass, snapped back on the vehicle, before the entire framework split into a horrendous maze of moving parts and mechanics. Within moments the shape of the spiky car was gone, and soon, Flatline arched up into his full humanoid state of being. His head rose, looking down almost condescendingly upon the area over the fence, arms hung slack from his side, with red optics searing through the darkness with an intense look of focus and determination. His long right forearm, raised up, and gripped onto the top edge of the metal grate, not even seeming to notice the barbed wire intending to stop intruders. The mech was un-phased, simply clamping over this deterrent, before wrenching the gate back and away with a loud clatter.

Dogs barked in the distance in protest to the sound, but he didn't take heed, his frame leaning forward into a gradual walk. He moved with a sort of grace that was unfitting for his larger torso shape, thin legs planting down solidly, as the gyros in his shoulders provided superb balance capabilities that made his motions roll fluidly. It was with this stride, he hunted around, finding that closer the home? There were nicer vehicles stored amongst the scrap yard under overhangs and covers.

Finally optics fell upon a car that was in one piece, and was not horribly mutilated. It was an old Cadillac car that was a weird sort of cream color. While he didn't need to adopt the color, thankfully, it seemed like something that could work for him shape wise. It was not like he needed to go out often, and didn't NEED it to be some fancy sports car. It just had to be nice enough to not look trashy. Just as he was about to inspect it further to make his choice, something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

The man that must have owned the property had to have been an individual that collected and refurbished old cars, much of the dilapidated messes being works in progress. However amongst the mismatched completions, sat an old hearse that seemed mostly, if not completely done. Its paint job needed to be finished, and the hood was up and pulled away, but that would not impair anything to the mech. As such, Flatline moved over, inspecting the oddity. It had sleek lines, and just looked odd, not as bland as the other things, and because of this? He straightened up his spine, and scanned it.

The bright light pierced through the framework with intense calculations and control. After the scan had occurred, plates across Flatline's body shifted and twisted positions. Panels snapped up and back, metal pulled straighter in areas, while two ventilation grates wrenched open upon his chest above the secondary arms. After a few moments of his form recalibrating, all the while his frame ridged from the calculations, he finally relaxed, running a hand down his face to try to shake off the odd feeling of the new framework. But what he had not anticipated was his actions catching attention.

The crashing gate, barking dogs, and bright light, had gotten the attention of the homeowner, who came out with a flashlight to see what was happening. The beam of light cut through the night air with ease, blasting upon Flatline's lower legs, before the beam raised up to see what they were attached to. Red optics contracted a bit, as Flatline slowly turned to face off with the human.

That was when the human started to yell in horror and tried to flee, the flashlight getting dropped to the ground with a clatter.

[Deleted]

Rest did not always come easily to Red Alert. Some nights it was worry which kept him awake, the feeling something was wrong or was going to go wrong the minute he offlined his optics and powered down. Other times it was nerves, a baseless feeling of unease that tricked his systems into believing he was in danger and thus needed to be awake even when he consciously knew the opposite was true. Other times still, it was the noise. Silence was a concept he understood, but not one with which he was very familiar. Even in the dead of night when the base was still, even in barren wastelands ravaged by war, there was still sound. There was always sound. Footsteps, echos, the hum of power generators, the thrum of spark-pulses, the hiss of grass being rustled by the wind a mile away---

There was no wondering why he so often had trouble sleeping.

On such nights, when sleep eluded him, Red Alert had ways of quelling his restlessness. He kept busy, and occupied his mind until it finally agreed that recharge was a good idea. He paced, he went over paperwork and mission statements, he did maintenance work on cameras and sensors and the like, and on occasion he joined whoever was on monitor duty. Failing all of that, if he had the luxury of doing so in relative safety, he would leave the base and go for a walk or a drive. It was the closest thing to a break he ever took, though even then he always tried to make himself useful somehow. He was no stranger to multi tasking, and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t be doing something productive while he waiting for his restless systems to tire themselves out.

Thus, after informing the mecha on monitor duty (as they were the only one’s up at that hour) of his plans, he went out on a late-night patrol and hit the road. His tires sailed smoothly against the asphalt as he traveled further and further from the base, until it was little more than a speck in the distance. Not wanting company on the roads, he wound his way down towards a more rural path (as opposed to heading towards the city where the outpost’s Resident Humans lived) and soon the mountains gave way to stretches of field and farmland. Red Alert found the air to be remarkably crisp and clear, thick with the scent of cultivated flora of some sort--alfalfa? He had no idea, what the humans decided to call their food was none of his concern. He didn’t need to know the name of it to appreciate the fact that it was easier on his olfactory sensors than the cornucopia of noxious odors he encountered on his first trip to Jasper.

He found the atmosphere of the countryside preferable to that of the city as well. It was quieter there, for a given measure of “quiet” when one had audio receptors as sensitive as his own, and considerably less busy. There were no business lining the streets, no traffic, no pedestrians out and about. One could almost mistake the area as uninhabited, if not for the barns and houses that occasionally peppered the landscape. It was an odd thought, one Red Alert had so rarely that it was practically a novelty, but to him the place seemed almost...peaceful.

At least it did until a terrified cry tore through the air and shattered the land’s fragile tranquility like it was made of spun glass.

Red Alert screeched to a sudden halt as the cry reached his audios. He froze, trying to both determine the direction of the source of the scream and figure out how to respond to it in the span of thirty seconds. He had two options. He could ignore the sound and carry on his way, as he had no business meddling in human affairs, and whatever was going on was none of his concern. Or, he could investigate and potentially risk exposing his existence, and by proxy the existence of his species, to unwitting humans over something that might not even be a life-threatening issue at all. From a logical standpoint, the decision should have been an easy one.

But then that first fearful cry dissolved into frantic, terrified shrieking, and Red Alert found his conscience overruling his better judgement.

Swearing at himself and his damned bleeding spark, Red Alert picked up speed and raced down the road, following after the cries that pierced through the air. From the looks of things, they were leading him towards a makeshift scrapyard. He could only hope whatever was going on there was less sinister than the gruesome possibilities his treacherous mind was concocting.

[Flatline]

Silence.

It could be all consuming, it could be maddening. Sure, there was no thing as true silence; there was no way for it to be truly devoid of all sound unless you were deaf. Eventually auditory receptors scramble to pick up on anything, if it's one's own spark beat, or the faint hum of electricity coursing through cables. But when ambiance sounds became that faint and gentle for others? It may instill some calmness. For Flatline? Not so much. The only reason this desolate land was not bothering him, was because he had a goal.

A goal, or a focus, something to occupy his mind, made it so that he did not notice the suffocating silence that reminded him of his past ship. Being trapped on that thing, drifting aimlessly through the void of space, it was so quiet it almost seemed to fry and burn at his receptors. Now? Any reminder of this could start to drive him mad, as if he believed the desolation to return. Luckily? The humans shrieking added to the fact he definitely was not in space any longer.

The huge form of the mech loomed overhead with an imposing figure compared to the small human. Its frame appeared pitch black in the darkness, details only glinted upon its outline as the moon was behind the frame of the beast from his view. Piercing out from the void of its silhouette, were the two red optics that looked down upon the human with a disapproving look. But just as soon as the man had started to yell? He had turned heel and tried to run, making the mech react as well.

One should never turn their backs upon a predator. One should never flee in such a manor. The action of running triggers an innate need to catch and stop, to force their hand. Flatline may have been content to just observe the human from the ground, but the moment he turned and ran? He realized such observation would be cut off the moment it could get under something or in a building.

As such curiosity transitioned to aggression.

The large mech's frame rolled forward, the man fleeing as fast as he could. But he was not young any longer; he was not in his prime. As such, it did not take long for the Decepticon to catch up to him. A heavy post of a foot rammed the earth beside him, causing gravel to kick up from the force of the impact, the foot itself imbedding down a small amount. This caused the man to stumble, but what followed next cut off the man's yell, and kept him from hitting the ground. The Machine's left hand had swung around, and snatched him off of the ground.

The force of the snatch was so violent, dust and bits of sand were kicked up into the air in the palm's wake, smearing a smooth patch on the earth where the side of the hand had scraped. It was a miracle the man's neck didn't snap, as he was lifted up rapidly to eye level on what he would call a mechanical beast. His lungs wheezed and struggled to refill, letting out frantic sounds of terror that were half formed. He was grasped from the waist down, his hands clawing at the metal to no avail.

Flatline's optics looked at him, the small human petrified with fear to a point it almost seemed color was draining from him. Or maybe he was injured, perhaps a broken leg, the Decepticon didn't know offhand, and did not particularly care. He just wanted to learn some, even if it did not help his work on the Nemesis at all. As such? His small secondary arms reached forward.

One sharp forefinger and thumb, pulled up the human's own arm by the wrist, manipulating it carefully to view how the inner 'mechanics' were sheathed in a malleable layer of flesh. It was fascinating to view the fragile material, and Flatline was just about to start to twist the limb back to see the extent of its flexibility. This action would most likely have dislocated the man's elbow if he was lucky, but most likely just have ripped it clean off, since humans were so delicate compared to Cybertronian. Lucky for him? A sound caught the Medic's attention to stop this.

Flatline's head reeled back, and turned to look over, hearing the sound of a vehicle coming. He wondered what some little fleshling was doing out so late, as most all others seemed to be indoors with their lights off. He turned about face then, hearing that it had turned and was coming into the scrap yard. The crackle of rubber against gravel was unmistakable, and Flatline was not about to lose out on possible other test subject.

With the man still in hand who had fallen quiet out of shock and horror by now, Flatline moved forward at a brisk pace. He somewhat felt powerful for a change. Typically he was weak, feeble, and not really strong against others. Against these little things? He was a GOD and it gave him a bit of an ego boost. For once he could feel like Megatron able to literally backhand others aside at whim! As such he approached the vehicle rapidly, stepping into the headlights and swinging a hand down not even a split second later.

His right hand clasped onto the hood of the fire chief's vehicle, long bladed nails digging lightly between the glass and front hood panels, to get a grip on the lip there. His form loomed over, putting some of his weight on the hood, while simultaneously dragging it forward and towards him about a foot, the wheels grating against the stone below. He had stooped down in preparation to wrench back his arm further, in an attempt to haul the thing onto its back bumper to keep it from going anywhere, when an aura caught his sensors to halt the motion before it began.

Flatline's lighter grey faceplate, twisted from wicked mischievousness, to surprise and alarm, when the electromagnetic field of a Cybertronian caught his sensors. No earthly car had that, and his optics fell down just as fast as his smile had, viewing the logo on the top hood that was a few feet away from his face.

Instantly his hand let go and wrenched back as if he had touched molten lava, taking a step away to put some distance between himself and the unfamiliar bot. Without thinking, without processing really his actions, without even taking a moment to consider consequences, Flatline reacted with a split kneejerk motion. His left arm that had been holding the human? The human that was by now screaming again for help to the fire sheriff that was not there? Suddenly launched forward in a harsh throw to literally hurl and use the small meatbag as a weapon against the Autobot.

"Catch!"

[Deleted]

He moved towards the makeshift scrapyard in a blur, streaking past the fields that mirrored him on both sides in a flash of red and white. He was undoubtedly violating traffic codes the way he was moving, and while he usually held laws and regulations in high esteem, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care about them at that point in time. To him, intercepting a possible crime-in-progress held precedence over minding speed-limits on empty stretches of road.

He reached the gated lot quickly, his tires spraying gravel in his wake as he turned sharply off of the paved road and onto the worn driveway of the scrapyard. At the speed he had been going, he had managed to reach the place in less than a klik--not even two minutes. But even so, Red Alert feared he might have been too late, that the worst might have come to pass in the few, brief moments it took him to pull into the drive.

The screaming had stopped, and whoever had made those first dreadful sounds weren’t making anymore.

Steeling himself in preperation for the worst, Red Alert drove forward down the long drive towards the open gates of the scrapyard and grimly noted the way the gate hung awkwardly from its hinge. Either it had been poorly maintained, or something had forced it open.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out what that something was when it lumbered out from behind a pile of scrap that had been blocking his view.

The figure was tall, oddly proportioned, and unmistakably Cybertronian. He couldn’t see an insignia identifying their faction at the angle he was looking from, as they had their back turned to him, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if they turned around to look at him, he would see a pair of red optics glaring back at him.

Unfortunately, he was was correct in his assumption. The mech turned his head towards him, his deep red optics glowing in stark contrast to the darkness they were surrounded by. Worse yet, in his hand he held a human, undoubtedly the one who had been screaming in terror moments ago. He was pale and shaken, his eyes wide and watery, his face still with as he was overwhelmed by shock. He was frightened--so very frightened--but he was alive.

Red Alert never thought he would be grateful for having insomnia, but in that moment, he found himself thankful that he hadn’t been back at the base, recharging. He didn’t want to think of what might have happened that poor human if he hadn’t been out to prevent whatever it was that was going on here.

As the Con crept forward, Red Alert projected a hologram into his driver’s seat to create the illusion that it was simply a human who had come across him. He couldn’t transform, not now, not when the mech still had the human in his hand. Primus only knew what he what he would do if he knew what he was truly dealing with; use the human as a hostage, probably, or kill him out of spite. Neither outcome was one Red Alert was willing to take a risk on. He would have to wait until the Con was distracted, bide his time until he had the opportunity to safely remove the human from him.

That opportunity came soon enough, when the mech reached down and clamped a clawed hand down upon his hood. It took considerable effort on Red Alert’s part to resist the urge to run the mech over, but he managed. If he knocked over those stilt legs, it was the human who would be caused the most damage when the mech came crashing down. So he simply sat and waited, tolerating the mech’s manhandling of him until a look of sudden realization passed over his face. It was then that Red Alert made his move, his plates shifting and pulling apart with a hiss of hydraulics as he rushed into his bipedal mode while the mech was still reeling from the shock of his discovery.

He had barely managed to get his arms back into their proper position when the mech shouted “catch” and--to Red Alert’s complete, horrified disbelief--threw the human at him. Thanking Primus for his quick reflexes, Red Alert reached out to catch the poor man by the torso, so as to avoid an unfortunate collision between his head and the hard metal of his hand. Instinctively he drew the man towards his chest and turned slightly to the side to shield him from the other mech’s reach, should he try to make a grab for him again.

He shifted the man against one shoulder, holding him there with his left hand as his free arm shot out towards the Decepticon before them, the plates of his forearm shifting and rotating until at last Flatline was staring down the end of a rifle that was already humming with charge.

“Move, and I shoot.” His tone was firm, broking no room for argument.

The man against his shoulder was breathing hard, making small, terrified sounds as he tried in vain to work himself free. Red Alert grit his jaw against the sudden pang in his spark and concentrated on projecting his holo-avatar behind himself.

Over his shoulder, the man would see a fire-chief in full uniform holding his hands up in a placating gesture, mouthing the words “It’s okay.”

[Flatline]

It would be rather difficult all things considered to mistaken Flatline for an Autobot, for he was almost cliché in how 'evil' he looked. The pitch black and blood red paintjob, the crimson eyes, and the angular sharp build not particularly common among the Autobot ranks. Add onto this all his shoulder emblem? And you had an easy to recognize Decepticon. The emblem was that of a red cross, with the Decepticon logo emblazoned within its center. It made it apparent once one saw it what his allegiance, and function was meant to be.

While Red alert transformed into his humanoid state, Flatline took a few more steps in reverse to keep distance between them. He didn't know what function this other mech was programmed to do, or how brash he was. Last thing he needed was for him to just try to ram him right away, or swing some wrecking ball fist at his chest. Granted, this one did not appear that large all things considered, so he doubted he was a frontliner or anything of the sort. Nonetheless, such details did not matter, as the Decepticon hurled the human at him with reasonable force behind it.

It was a bit of a pity that Red had managed to catch the human safely, as Flatline would be lying if he was not hoping for a hard enough splat to get a view of what lay within the animals. But while he was disappointed, he didn't let it deter him, his chipped teeth plate gritting against itself, while his lip peeled back into a sneering snarl of distaste. What really botherd him was the fact his ploy to distract, did not buy him enough time to actually do anything with it. Sure, if he was trained as a fighter, he could have done a myriad of things in that moment gifted from the distraction, but he was not capable at this time. Because of this? He found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

It was time to rely upon different tactics.

Flatline's weight rolled back gradually, his head raising while arms lowered down on either side of him. It appeared almost passive in a way, like he was giving in to the demand. Even his tiny secondary limbs, folded up underneath what would be comparable to pectoral plates, seeking shelter as best they could. His head turned to one side then, observing Red carefully, namely his rifle.

"Really now... Are you going to heartlessly shoot down a Medic?"

While he asked this, a gnarled grin pulled back, while his eyes were half lidded with a calm look that didn't portray any fear for the weapon aimed at his form. His shoulders rolled up and back, while larger palms faced up, in a sort of shrugging motion to further convey his passive stance. While he talked, his voice rolled out with a slick tone, calm, collected, with a touch of dismissal over the threat.

"Our kind don't really have artillery or weaponry to speak of... and it is not in an Autobot's nature to be so... RUTHLESS..."

Upon the word 'ruthless' he leaned forward, the grin growing even broader with the accented word. His eyes even winded some, the thin white pupils locked now upon Red's own optics. Overall Flatline's expression for that moment appeared very aggressive, yet beside this intention, he didn't make a move to close the gap, instead pacing some to the side. His right hand flicked up in the air, rolling on the ball joint absently.

"Or you could try to prove me wrong; Primus knows it would not be the first time I made a miscalculation."

A droned tone, a roll of his eyes. He seemed dissatisfied to even admit this, though it had a secondary reason as well for why he spoke so frankly. He used the roll of his eyes and now sideways glance to observe something carefully, optics still half lidded as if he were deep in inner thought and contemplation.

"Though you Autobots tend to be so... predictable..."

With that, he swung his shoulders forward, and his large hands rammed into the earth forcibly with enough power to send some gravel into the air from the impact. But this was not really what should be noted, for the most important fact was the way his shoulder cannons both snapped down and forward with a hard click from the forward momentum. The very SECOND they were aligned properly?...

One fired.

A massive harpoon many feet long launched out from the cannon with a loud boom that rattled through the silence of the farmland. The end of the post was laced in many jagged barbs and sharp edges, that all snapped out in mid air. But it seemed his aim was rather... piss poor... as the metal post blazoned past Red at a very close distance. Unless he tried to dodge the wrong way? It would miss. It really seemed like the medic had very poor aim, like he had failed at his own ranged attack, however this was not the case.

The barbs pierced seamlessly through a large refrigerator that had been lying within the rubble behind Red Alert, twisting once inserted so that they were locked in securely. This harpoon, lead back to Flatline's own cannons via a thick heavy duty chain, the length of which having suddenly gone taunt as the gears within whirred into motion. With two more thuds, his post feet locked into the ground a good foot or two each, before the engine in his cannon pulled into high gear and violently wrenched back on the chain with enough force to pull the fridge AT Red Alert's back.

Flatline was counting on the Autobot being too distracted with the 'failed' attack, to realize that it had all been done intentionally. He was also banking on them holding their fire and not doing so right away. Granted, all of this could change at any moment, but even if he was hit? He would heave the chain back as fast as he could, mindful if he had to catch the fridge so he would not hurt himself.

[Deleted]

Red Alert’s optics flashed as they zeroed in on Flatline, narrowing slightly in distaste, as if he found himself looking at a particularly disgusting mess someone had left on the floor instead of a mech--specifically a medic, if Flatline’s words were true. One glance at the cross symbol on his shoulder confirmed that his claim had merit, but that did little to change Red Alert’s stance towards the mech. Medic or not, he was still a Decepticon; one who had been terrorizing a human mere moments ago, preparing to do Primus knew what to him. Red Alert wasn’t keen on cutting him any slack just because he was a medic, and (presumably) a non-combatant--as far as he was concerned, the mech’s faction negated any leniency he may have otherwise been given.

Hell, his appearance alone negated any leniency he may have otherwise been given. Red Alert didn’t believe there was anything wrong with judging a book by it’s cover when said cover had “sinister” printed on it in large bold font. Aside from the dark, unwelcoming paint job and the sharp, pointed edges, the mech had an unsettling smile and a slick-as-oil voice that better suited an interrogator or a sleazy salesmech than a medic. Red Alert had him profiled as a wicked individual right of the bat, and it would take a surplus of evidence to the contrary to convince him otherwise.

Not that Flatline seemed inclined towards changing Red Alert’s opinion of him. Quite the opposite, really. The mech’s every word, every slight change in his tone and expression, only reinforced the assumptions Red Alert had made of him. He watched the mech carefully as he spoke, his optics narrowing as he turned his head and lifted his hand--technically those were movements, and he could have shot him for them, but he wasn’t holding quite so stringently to his word. He didn’t want things to dissolve into violence unless it was absolutely necessary, and shooting the mech for tilting his head would have been excessive and uncalled for.

He should have done it anyway. It would have downed the son of a glitch before he could try to attack him with that damn harpoon.

Luckily for Red Alert, the end of Flatline’s little speech gave him a split-second warning of what was to come. That was the fault of prideful mecha: they tended to hint at their intentions, using wordplay to build up their oncoming actions to make them seem more grand. Unfortunately for Flatline, Red Alert lived up to his name--he was quick to notice the emphasis he placed on his final word, and the way he shifted his posture in preparation for…something. What, exactly, Red Alert didn’t know at the time. All he knew was that Flatline was moving, and it was likely in his best interest that he get out of the mech’s way.

He briefly contemplated opening fire on him, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Protecting the human was his top priority, which meant he needed to move, quickly. Which he did. Red Alert was no master of hand-to-hand combat. He wasn’t an expert marksman or a living weapon, but he was fast, his reflexes were sharp, and his protective instincts only made them sharper.

He may not have been able to take Flatline out in a single shot, but damn could he dodge.

He hit the dirt a shortly after Flatline did, diving to the side as the harpoon rocketed past his shoulder. He didn’t bother to see what it had hit - he was too preoccupied with landing on then rolling off his shoulder (the right, so the human he held against his left wouldn’t suffer any damage.) Rocking off his shoulder, he pushed himself into a crouch and raised his rifle.

He didn’t act, so much as react. He could have aimed for Flatline--he should have, since he was the easier target, and injuring the mech would have gone a long way towards neutralizing the threat he posed--but his damn code had more sway over his subconscious decisions than he’d like to admit. Instead of Flatline’s head, or his chest, or even one of those little secondary arms, he aimed for the chain of his harpoon, and fired.

With any luck, the chain would break and Flatline would be short a weapon. Likewise, the fridge he was trying to bludgeon him with would continue to travel forward under its own momentum--however with the chain severed, Flatline wouldn’t be able to control its direction. Best case scenario, it would crash into him and knock some sense into his head so he could fully realize what a terrible mistake he had just made.

[Flatline]

The fact his vocals had punctuated the upcoming attack, was just further evidence of Flatline's untrained ways. He thought he was being clever, he thought he was doing a decent misdirection to make the Autobot believe himself unarmed or not ready for combat. While he was not really... ready... he did have some things that he could use in battle if it came down to it. Either way, the harpoon was set free, and it missed its 'target' as intended. What was not anticipated? Was how far the paranoid bot would lunge.

He expected maybe a lurch to the side, or a swoop of the frame to avoid the harpoon, something subtle to conserve energy like a warrior would perhaps do? But instead Red seemed to hurl himself as if it was a wide mouthed blaster cannon that had shot at him intending to vaporize his entire frame instead of the thin barbed post. This somewhat put a hamper on Flatline's plans, and made him start to come up with a secondary course of action right on the fly.

Despite this dodge, the chain went taunt and it started to reel back quickly with the heavy whir of the inner mechanics. But Flatline was no fool, he knew that this attack could easily be turned against him; he was prepared for it to possibly fail. For what he lacked in strength? He made up for in intelligence, so the true battle in play here, was more wit than brawn between the duo.

The barb within the fridge unlatched after it became apparent the massive piece of metal was not going to collide with its intended target. This caused the momentum of the fridge to no longer gain velocity, and for it to crash to the earth and slide towards Flatline with what speed it had gained. The harpoon itself now appeared to be a streamlined javelin, pulling back, but instead of being able to return to its reset position? It was shot.

The chain snapped with a loud clink, causing the javelin to swing back at him completely uncontrolled. Flatline's eyes widened with alarm, as he combined two motions into one to try to save himself damage. Or... keep WORSE damage from occurring.

His framework bent forward into a low jump, akin to the dive Red had taken moments prior. However, this was not fully identical, as he would not be landing upon his shoulder, but rather upon his hands. His stooped position permitted the severed javelin to slam into his shoulder area, goring into the metal some and causing sparks from the clash to skitter out and back away from him. The javelin did not get stuck thankfully though, as it collided with the ground not far from his frame. With this forward leap, in addition to keeping the javelin from hitting his core frame, permitted him to hurl over the fridge that was scoring a smooth path of gravel in its wake.

Flatline landed upon his forearms, almost akin to a great feline, his hindquarters pulling up to permit his feet to hit the ground with enough force to hurl himself back into a proper upright run right at Red Alert. There was a crazed look in his eyes, an aggressive ferocity to try to end things as fast as possible. In a way he was almost being overly crazy with this attack, but really what choice did he have? If he kept his distance he would get shot by the other's gun, so he had to try to close the distance and worry about the lesser of two evils. Hopefully the downright psychotic look in his eyes, and the suddenness of the lunge would be enough to buy him a couple seconds as the Autobot processed the motion. To add to this? he even let out a gnarled screeching sound.

While Flatline closed the gap, his right arm rose up and back. The palm split literally in half, with two fingers and a thumb on one side, two fingers on the other, this sever in forearm continued splitting up nearly to the elbow. This permitted previously hidden panels within the form to swing out, and rapidly create the shape of a circular saw that screamed into motion with that familiar almost horrifying sound of its speed.

If he got close enough? If he could close the gap and get within range? He would swing the circular saw in an arching hack at Red. If he was permitted time to aim? He would go for the Autobot's throat, to try to slice into it enough for a decapitation. If he had to swing widely and take what he would get? He would be happy for a torso strike as well. But really? Any bit of metal in his path would be happily taken, the saw plenty capable of ripping through armor and cables like paper.

"You should have left me be!"

[Deleted]

Combat was not something Red Alert often saw. As a security specialist, his time was more often spent on the homefront than on the battlefield. He worked behind the scenes, applying his skills and experience to strengthening his factions defensive measures rather than their offensive capabilities, so he rarely found himself in a position where drawing his rifle was necessary. There were times, of course, when extra manpower was needed on the field and he was one of the few mecha available to fulfil the position, but more often than not he stayed behind and tended to the base, ensuring it was defensible.

This caused him a brief moment of concern as he fired at the chain, as he worried that perhaps his aim was not as well polished as it used to be, due to his lack of frequent practice. His mind raced, trying to jump three steps ahead and figure out what he would do if his aim was off. Unfortunately, he didn’t have long to think. Fortunately, he didn’t need to, as he proved to be a much better shot than he originally anticipated, and his shot hit its mark. The harpoon’s chain severed, just as planned, and it rocketed back towards its owner--who could no longer control it.

Red Alert took that moment as his chance to set the human on the ground, twisting slightly so that he could set him down behind him, out of Flatline’s line of sight...and line of fire. The unfortunate man was shaken, and likely in shock if his trembling hands and blank stare were any indication. Red Alert pitied the poor man but neither of them could afford him the time he needed to wrap his mind around the situation--Flatline would not be distracted by his own attack backfiring upon him for long, so time was something they had precious little of.

Once he set the man on the ground, ensuring with a quick glance that he could, in fact, support his own weight, Red Alert released his hold on him and was dismayed to find that he didn’t immediately try to run. He simply stared up at him, watery eyes wide and uncomprehending. Several colorful curses ran through Red Alert’s mind as he lowered his voice and attempted to speak to the man in the softest (albeit most urgent) tone he could manage.

“---Run. Quickly. You need to find someplace safe.”

The man wavered slightly, but still did not move, his eyes fixated upon the face of the otherworldly automaton looming over him like it was the shadow of death itself. (Red Alert couldn’t really blame him given the circumstances, but that didn’t make him any less frustrated with his unresponsiveness.) Swearing out loud this time, he stole a glance over his shoulder at Flatline, just in time to see the mech charge toward him while letting out an unholy screech of outrage.

Whipping back around to face the man, his optics flashing bright in alarm, Red Alert resorted to desperate measures. Hoping humans possessed a fight or flight response, he slammed his hand down on the ground next to the man to jolt him from his stupor, and raised his voice to a near shout.

“Move, damn it!”

To his infinite relief, that seemed to do the trick. The man jolted to attention, recognition filled his eyes once more, and he wasted little time following the order he had been, bolting in the opposite direction as quickly as his shaky limbs could carry him.

Red Alert was about to breath out a sigh of relief when he remembered he still had one more concern to tend to. Protecting the human and getting him out of harms way had been his immediate concern, his top priority---dealing with Flatline had fallen to the wayside, albeit for a few seconds only.

Unfortunately, those few seconds were all it took for Flatline to advance upon him and seize the upper hand.

It had taken him too long to get the human to run - by the the time Red Alert could finally turn his focus back to Flatline, the mech was already closing the distance between them….with a Primus damned rotary saw.

Red Alert didn’t have time to think of a response. Instinct was already pulling him backwards away from the blade, but he could not move quickly enough to escape unscathed. Flatline had moved quickly, the momentum from his sprint carrying his arm forward as he swiped his blade down across Red Alert’s front, slicing him from shoulder to hip in one smooth stroke as he fell backwards onto the ground.

Instead of a spray of energon, however, the medic would be greeted by the sight of energon simply welling in the wound he inflicted, leaking sluggishly, if at all. His blade cut deep enough to draw blood and a sharp, pained hiss from the security director, but other than that? It had sliced through armor, and little else.

Not that Red Alert was going to give him time to realize that. Gritting his teeth against the sharp, stinging pain throbbing from his newly acquired wound, he seized the seconds following Flatline’s attack to counter it with one of his own. The medic had likely been banking on his attack being lethal, or disabling, and in doing so he left himself open and vulnerable to retaliation. He was not experienced with close-quarters combat, and it showed.

With any luck, he wasn’t terribly experienced with dodging and expecting the unexpected either, so that when Red Alert jerked to the side and kicked at the spindly needles Flatline had for legs, he would be able to sweep them out from under him and knock him off balance.

[Flatline]

Stupid humans. Did they not realize when a time to flee was in order? Could they not see when they were given a golden opportunity for self preservation? Flatline was not blind to the fact the human stayed there. During his entire rush of an advance, it was as if the little animal had shorted out some connectors in its processor. Really? Flatline had no idea how the organic life forms worked, hence why he wanted to study it, but alas... before he got up to Red Alert? The creature finally wised up and fled with all of the capabilities its small frame could muster. It would not take long before they would vanish into the darkness to seek shelter, lost to the environment and lost to his curiosities.

A pity...

But as much of a disappointment the loss of a test subject was, Flatline had far more dire things he needed to focus on, namely the Autobot that was before him and now in range of his circular saw. Oh how wonderful it would be, to rend Red apart. Already Flatline's thoughts danced in imagination of taking this bot's head to Megatron. Holding it out, the cables of the severed neck clutched in his bladed fingers, presenting it like some trophy of pride and arrogance. He wanted this to be true! He needed it to be true! He had to make his mark to their Lord and he would do so with this Autobots blood!

The circular saw swooped past with a loud grinding whir, sparks spraying up from the contact point to illuminate between them with flickered yellow. This yellow light quickly disappeared, but as Red hit the ground before Flatline? A different light formed, that of freshly spilt Energon. The blue glow speckled and welled, wonderfully tracing out just how his blade had landed, though was not as prominent as he had hoped.

A Medic was a Medic, and he knew when a lethal strike was applied or not. This? Was just a mesh wound, and he knew he had to try to follow up before the Autobot could recover and right himself. It is because of this, Flatline's maw parted in a savage hiss of agitation and anger, taking a few measured steps to loom over the felled bot with an imposing stance of domination. The circular saw that had the faintest smear of blue, raised up into the air, ready to swing down when...

He was kicked.

The thin post like limbs buckled to the side with a hard clank of metal against metal. His thin joints were susceptible to damage, and due to this? He careened down a moment after this with his balance completely compromised. This perhaps was not the best of options, as the Decepticon fell towards Red Alert, and the circular saw was the leading object between Flatline's fall and Red's body. With a heavy sheering slice, the saw impacted with the full weight of Flatline's form. Luckily? It was not Red that was hit, but it was exceptionally close.

The blade had rammed right beside his head, the honed edge mere inches from having ripped right into the paneling of his helm casing. If Red were to look to the side? The light from his own optics would shine in the polished metal, able to see his own reflection. If Flatline had fallen a bit more to one side? Well... it is best to not dwell on how ugly that could have gotten. Alas, the weapon was basically negated now, as it was imbedded up to its rotation point in the stone below and forced to a halt. The rest of Flatline's frame ended up colliding atop him with a hard bang, before his form tried to rise up. His knees rammed down on either side, to try to sit upright and heave away, but his saw was stuck, rooting him down temporarily.

This was way too close for comfort, way WAY too close. The medic did not like this one bit, and he tried to pull and twist his stuck right arm to get free as soon as possible, a look of disgust and hatred with a dash of panic basically stapled permanently on his features. With a rapid motion, he swung his left hand down in a violent hacking slash towards Red's face, to try to distract him. He did not need the Autobot to know he was a sitting duck, and did not need him to manage to damage him in return!

Paired up with this slash, the secondary arms actually went into motion for a change. The small fingers swung down, and grasped onto the severed slice on the Autobot's chest. The needle like tips clawed and pushed against the started 'incision' in order to get a good grip on the metal plating. They were not terribly strong, but they were sharp, and plunged in with small punctures to latch onto either side of the scoring. Once a secure grip was formed, they wrenched and pulled in opposite directions, trying to yank the plate apart further to make the bleeding more severe.

"SUBMIT!"

[Deleted]

His kick landed with a solid, satisfying impact against Flatline’s thin, stilt-like legs, sweeping them both out from beneath the mech in a single swift movement. Unbalanced, the mech had no choice but to topple over--unfortunately for them both, he pitched forward instead of falling to the side as Red Alert had anticipated he would.

Needless to say, this was a bit concerning for both parties.

The medic came crashing down on top of him, his expression twisting with anger and the slightest hint of panic. His face, however, was not what Red Alert was watching. His attention was riveted to saw at the end of the mech’s arm, his optics brightening in alarm as they watched the blade came down. He felt a sudden flux of heat behind his optics, followed by a sharp sting as the finials at the sides of his helm crackled with a burst of sparks that faded and died as quickly as they came. They signaled to him what he already knew--that he was in immediate danger, that he needed to act. But there was very little he could do in three seconds time, other than tense and wait for the ax--or rather, saw--to fall.

And it did.

Much to Red Alert’s relief, when it fell, it buried itself into the ground instead of his forehead--though just barely. It bit into the concrete ground mere centemeters away from the side of his helm, briefly pelting him with a spray of debris before the blade stuttered to a stop and tore the ground no more. Now, he had experienced similar close calls before, but Primus on a bloody Piston. Watching that spinning, serrated saw spiral down towards his head was one of the more nerve-wracking incidents he had the misfortune of experiencing...recently.

Not that he had the time to appreciate the near-miss. Flatline was quick to set upon him while he recovered from his shock, rearing his clawed hand back to bring it down and slash it across his face. Red Alert had little room to move; though he saw the blow coming he could do little to avoid it. His only option was to lessen its damage, and so he turned his head sharply, so those sharpened fingers would would be more likely to catch the side of his helm than his optics.

Four new blue lines were added to his growing collection as Flatline raked his claws across his plating, three on the side of his helm, one on his face, leading down from his cheek across the corner of his mouth, and down his jaw. The pain was sharp and sudden, enough to make him cringe and swear something that could not be repeated in polite company, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Until it was followed up by those secondary arms tearing into the wound on his chest, trying to pull him apart at the seams. Then he screamed, optics burning near white as those clawed fingers punctured his armor, agitating an already painful wound as they wrenched and tore with all the strength they possessed. Which, unfortunately for Flatline, wasn’t much. His attempts to wound Red Alert further were woefully ineffective--they hurt like a slag-sucking son of a glitch, but those weak, secondary arms could do little to bend his armor back and promote further bleeding.

Flatline attacked with his secondary arms out of panic. He had attempted to regain the upper hand, to disable red Alert in any way he possibly could before he had the chance to retaliate. Had he been able to think with a clearer mind, he might have realized that attacking his enemy with such fragile limbs was not the most sound decision.

Naturally, Red Alert’s first instinct upon realizing he was being caused pain was to make it stop. Unfortunately for Flatline, this meant shooting his hand up to his chest to intercept the claws trying to tear their way to his internals, and seizing them in a crushing grip. Much to his surprise, Flatline seemed to freeze as he took hold of his secondary arm, his frame tensing and going rigid. Red Alert didn’t waste time contemplating this strange reaction--instead, he took advantage of it, seizing the opportunity to exploit the mech’s apparent weakness. He jerked the arm back roughly, stifling a pained hiss as those tiny claws caught in his plating and widened the punctures they had made on their way out.

He didn’t stop pulling until he heard a sharp, sickening crack and felt a wash of energon spray across his hand. Once he did, he quickly released the mangled little limb and focused his efforts on getting Flatline off of him before he could recover from the injury he had just been dealt. He braced his shoulders against the ground and launched his arm forward, shoving hard against Flatline’s chest with his blood-slick hand, while his gun arm wound back to drive his elbow into the mech’s jaw. The combined force was enough to send the mech lurching to the side, the knee that had kept Red Alert pinned in place lifting off the ground long enough for him to roll out from underneath the medic.

Once free, he staggered to his feet, wincing and bringing a hand to his chest to assuage the sharp, throbbing ache that pulsed in tune with his spark as he righted himself. He quickly threw up a few firewalls to numb the pain and quiet his loudly protesting dermal sensors, before spitting out the energon that had welled in his mouth from the cut across his face, and turning his attention back to Flatline. His optics glowed as fiercely as the barrel of his rifle as he aimed them both at the medic, and when he spoke, his tone was harsh, having lost all of its earlier patience.

“...What. Did I say. About moving?”

[Flatline]

Some kind of spark? But... what? How? He had not hit the Autobot with the saw, despite his best efforts, and yet there had been some kind of flicker of lights? Was it even before the blade had hit? Those fleeting seconds were so fast, Flatline could not rightfully recall the order, just that something had gone wrong and he was not sure exactly what. He did twist his 'wrist' that supported the blade, but despite the fall it was not damaged, so the sparks didn't shoot out from his own rotary joints. What had happened? Flatline would have liked to put more processing power into this question, but really? There was no time for that nonsense.

Even if he didn’t truly believe it to be nonsense.

Flatline sat down and ground his knee into Red Alert's abdomen, holding him to the best of his abilities while he was trapped there atop him. It was with this stability; he lashed out with his violent assault. The glisten of Energon was that much more apparent in the dark light, and this visual display of an injury paired with the follow-up yell of agony that was formed from the actions of his secondary limbs? Caused Flatline's red optics to flare with wicked joy. The barely visible focus ring spiraled as the lens contracted further into the pinpoint white dot.

Sadly, the strength in his second pair of limbs was not on par with his primary ones, meaning that the strains and pulls did little to actually wrench the armor open. He realized quickly it was a futile motion, but his one arm was stuck, and the other occupied so it could not help by using the larger strength capability. This primary left hand had swung back after his slash, the long thin fingers clutching painfully around Red's throat. One could almost hear the gears and strain in Flatline's hand, as he tried with all of his meager strength to crush the Autobot's neck under his grasp, hoping it would cut off Energon pipelines from the primary body, to suffocate the processor.

"I do not understand why Lord Megatron has not destroyed you all already!"

These words snarled as his form stooped down further, light grey faceplate getting nearer to Red's, the psychotic look of wicked joy apparent with the gnarled grin. A low chuckle shuddered out, the sound hissing and ominous with a light rattle to it. His secondary arms, had redirected their motions, no longer trying to pull apart, but now dig down deeper. The palms went flat, attempting to spear the fingers as far in as he could between the thin groove.

"You are feeble! Weak! This is Laug-"

Instantly all mental processes locked up, and Flatline's words cut off abruptly. His form halted, and the grinding compression of his primary arm had pulled back into a loose grip, the spindly fingers draped across the delicate machinery of Red's throat. This change was exceptionally apparent in his eyes, which transitioned from thin slits, to large orbs of horror. He did not even seem to be looking at Red any longer, the eyes unfocused, appearing into nothingness before him.

His arm...

HIS ARM!

The crushing grip on the secondary limb caused it to try to reflex pull away to no avail, the strut in its internal framework bending under Red's grasp. The small fingers flared apart in frantic twists, while the other wrenched out of Red's chest cavity to fold under the pectoral plate as if hiding from a similar fate. The Medic's lower eyelid twitched, his gaze falling slowly from the void in front of him, down towards the arm that was in the Autobot's hand. His voice was low, no longer slick with vile intent, no longer arrogant and prideful. It was almost a whisper.

"...no ...no ...Please..."

The brutal cracking sound and snap of cables rupturing were accented by a screeching scream of agony that boomed across the desolate land. If people far down the street had slept through everything up until this point? They would not be doing so any longer. The sound raked through his vocalizers, causing a static crackle to form from the sheer volume forced to rupture out of it. The secondary arm was broken off at the elbow, the saddle hinge pulled apart, so that the only thing holding the crimped and mangled chunk was a string of cables that served as tendons. All of the pipelines that had fed the limb Energon, were ruptured and the vibrant blue splattered down onto Red's hand, a few drops falling to his chest.

Shrieking yells fizzled out to broken static, the sound no longer even recognizable as a cry of pain, as Flatline was pushed aside with ease. The crackled pops, were accented by his right arm finally wrenching free from the concrete, which was in tandem with the elbow colliding with his jaw. Flatline's head snapped down and to the side, while his arms pulled back to fold across his chest in a protective manor. The right palm swung over to clap over the secondary limb, which just caused more white hot pain to rupture up his neural net.

It was blinding, the pain was so severe. It really shouldn’t be, it was just a small limb, and had no bearings on his life. Both of them could be sawed clean off and he would not die of Energon loss. But each one was chock full of highly sensitive sensors, from temperature, to measuring distances from fingertip to fingertip, to accurate pressure plates and tiny ball and socket joints for delicate articulation. It was like frying all the sensors in his mind at once.

The popping of electrical static, crackled from Flatline's maw, while he remained huddled to the side in a passive stance of defeat. Energon speckled at the lower edge of his mouth, trailing down his faceplate to his jaw line. His right arm cradled the forearm of the left secondary that was barely hanging on by a few thin cables. Upon the Autobot's words, his red optics turned to peer his way. They seemed dimmed, the once contracted lens plates, now dilated to a much broader white iris. He knew what he had to do, he knew what must be done. If not for his escape? Than for his actual survival.

Fans whirred as he wheezed in a few hard breaths from his downed, almost fetal, position, the internal engine audibly revving as it seemed he was amping himself up for something. This escalation continued to whir, to a point his form was visibly heaving with each breath he forced through his radiator. A split moment later? And he wrenched what remained of the limb off, severing the cables fully so that they would not be agitated further by having the weight of the forearm hanging off of them. A crackled yell turned scream of rage during this moment, as he reeled about face and kicked off the ground towards Red, the broken off limb securely grasped in his palm.

A snap of metal, swift movements, and the rapid transformation took form during his lunge. What had once been the Decepticon, was now the slick black hearse that had tinted windows so opaque it was near impossible to see the red interior. The vehicle rammed down upon its wheels which ground at high speed against the concrete, propelling straight at Red while peeling out some of the rubber into streaks on the flooring. Flatline was expecting him to dodge, expecting him to avoid. This would be fine as far as he was concerned, as hitting him was not his intended goal. Flatline was going to get out of this area as fast as possible, and try to make a hasty retreat.

[Deleted]

When he leveled his arm upon Flatline, he had locked down the hydraulic systems his shoulder and elbow to keep them both steady as he lined his sights. He had wanted this to be quick, and clean, and accurate. No mistakes. No misses. No room for Flatline to dodge or counter.

The mech was lying prone on the ground, shaken and curled protectively around his wounded arm. Energon trickled down his side, glowing mutedly in the dark as it pooled on the ground beneath him. He was venting hard, his shoulders heaving as laid there, panicked and pained, curled up like a dying animal.

Red Alert felt something heavy settle in his chest as his rifle began to charge, the plates of his arm vibrating slightly as his scarcely-used weapons systems whirred to life.

He was going to shoot him. He wanted to shoot him. After the mech tried to decapitate and gut him within the span of a klik and a half, holding his fire would have been a fool’s mistake. Hell, not shooting the mech at the very start of their encounter had been a mistake--one he realized too little too late. He was not about to make the same mistake again.

That’s why he had the barrel of his rifle directed at the mech’s head. It would be quick, over in seconds. One shot, that was it. He just needed to fire one shot to put an end to this entire mess.

He reminded himself of all this twice over, and still he couldn’t help but hesitate.

He tried to stare down his sights, to focus on his aim, but his gaze was drawn, almost compulsively, towards Flatline’s wounded arm. It was bent at an unnatural angle, twisted out of recognizable shape. It hung loosely from its owner’s abdomen, held to his frame by wires and prayers alone. Red Alert tried to look away from it. He tried not to think about it either, but his optics and mind both betrayed him and forced his focus back to the wound every time he tried to escape from it. They reminded him, unnecessarily, of the medic’s suffering, of the fact that he was already downed, that he seemed significantly inhibited by pain….

That he was responsible for the mech’s condition.

He shook his head, tried to focus on his task. One shot. He kept reminding himself, it was just one shot. He had already locked onto his target, so he didn’t even need to look. He just needed to fire. It was easy.

...It should have been easy. He should have been able to just think, and fire, and be done with it. He should have been able to level his rifle at a mech who had tried to kill him mere seconds before, and take aim without his damn conscience screeching protests in his audio. Flatline was dangerous; he had already made an attempt on his life, and he would undoubtedly make another if given half the chance.

Red Alert tensed. His arm began to tremble softly.

Flatline was a menace.

But he was hurt, and Primus how he had screamed when he dislocated his arm---

He wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Red Alert if their roles were reversed.

But he had fallen still with fright, he loosened his hold on his throat, he had begged him not to---

He was a threat that needed to be neutralized.

He had whispered please--


Flatline screamed, his ragged cry of agony piercing through the air. Red Alert looked up sharply, the sound snapping him out of his revery fast enough to give him whiplash. Flatline was up, moving. He had torn his mangled arm from his frame, clutching it tightly in his hand, and Red Alert’s rifle was still charged, he could feel the heat thrumming in his arm. He hadn’t fired on him. That scream of pain wasn’t his doing.

He wished he could say he didn’t feel the faintest amount of relief wash over him upon realizing that, but he couldn’t.

Biting out a curse at himself, his poor timing, and most damningly, his Primus forsaken code, Red Alert did just as Flatline expected him to and dodged out of the way as he charged forward, allowing the mech to speed past him rather than attempt to immediately halt his progression. The moment he was no longer in danger of being run over, Red Alert spun on his heel and aimed his rifle at Flatline’s retreating form. He fired three shots: the first hurt, the second did too, and by the time the third shot was fired his protesting weapons systems had gotten the hint that he wasn’t going to stop shooting just because they were refusing to work properly.

Without waiting to see whether the shots landed, he rushed his frame through a quick transformation, plates shifting and realigning at a hastened pace. It did nothing to make his shredded chest-plates ache less, but so long as switching to his alt didn’t worsen the wound, he didn’t particularly care that it agitated it. Within seconds, his tires hit the dirt and he kicked up a spray of gravel in his wake as he peeled out of the lot and followed after flatline.

The medic may have gotten a head start, but he doubted a hearse could outrun a sports car for long.

[Flatline]

Pathetic

How could he be so stupid?

He was right there... weak... feeble...

It would only take one shot!

One pull of the trigger

...Coward

Flatline's tires screeched against the pavement as he departed, his engine going as hard as he could manage to do so. The roaring of the motor was almost painful in a way, as it was causing his internals to heat up quickly. But this pain? Did not compare to the hard impact of the rifle slamming into his frame. The first shot had missed luckily, however the following two had struck their mark, searing and burning painful wounds into the back panel of the Hearse's hatchback. The black paint had scorched back to expose the grey metal below, the center point of the circular wound goring into the frame.

Trying to filter out the agony, and throw up barriers to block his own pain receptors as best he could, he throttled his engine, putting extreme force on his systems. He did not relent, not even when he got onto the main road that was a bit smoother, taking it as an opportunity to haul even quicker. It was here he started to realize he may have made a mistake.

If he still had his standard Cybertronian vehicular form? He would have been a lot further, a lost faster by now. He was almost comparable to a greyhound on earth. The sleek frame low to the ground, with concave undercarriage that reduced weight. He could have been going at impressive speeds. But not. No... He seemed to pick something that went slow.

WHY!?

Why did he just SETTLE thinking it would not matter? Why did he think he would just get a shape shift to blend in, and would not be caught in a chase!? Actually... answering that was simple... he was a Medic, once he was on the ship? He would not need speed to get around. It was a frivolous shape shift. But no... no... here he was, trying to flee from... what was that!?

The side mirror on the hearse twisted enough to see Red Alert catching up fast. Whatever form the Autobot had? It was obviously superior in function, and was catching up on him with alarming speed. As such, the Decepticon let out a low growl of anger, trying to push his engine as hard as he could to try to get up to a higher velocity. With the rough road though, it was difficult, and going any faster? Would likely hurt himself. He had to find someplace he could hide, someplace he could gain an upper hand. He had to try to locate an area where speed? Was not everything, and that he could use his wits over his lack of brawn.

"Have you not done enough damage!?"

He roared this back loudly, while taking a hard turn. The roadways transitioning from the rough unkempt lane, to a more used trucking rout, the pavement significantly smoother. This eased some pain on his suspensions, but also meant the Autobot would be on his tail fast. Or perhaps... was that a good thing? When the Autobot was gaining on him, right up behind him, Flatline suddenly hit his brakes as hard as he could.

Rubber screeched and left horrific dark smears across the roadway, while the Autobot rammed right into him, the crackle of metal of both their injuries rather loud and apparent. Flatline himself, let out a loud cry of angry pain, as the back hatch of the vehicle was further slammed in as well as the bumper. The hit was so severe the back window of the hearse burst with a rain of the opaque black glass. But his goal? As painful as this was? Was achieved, as it had slammed in the front bumper of Red, but most importantly?

His headlights...

After the contact was made, he tried to floor it again, the duo not even making it to a complete stop as the Hearse sped down the lane. The back tail lights were out, and with Red's own headlights gone? Being able to see in this inky darkness would be a challenge. This should help him put some distance between them, his black frame blending in seamlessly in areas.

A short ways down the highway, the environment was becoming more urban and less rural. While it was not full on city, it had many more structures that had been put up some time ago. It looked old, condemned in areas, and definitely not lived in by anyone, or any companies. One structure stood out to Flatline. It was a three story office building that had many windows punched in. Some had boards on them, graffiti scrawled across its side, with caution tape looped about its base. It was scheduled to be condemned, due to structural issues, but the Decepticon didn't know this, turning and darting down into the underground garage that sunk three floors down.

Once on the slope down to the second underground level, the vehicle's frame seemed to burst apart into a series of moving parts, before he fully took on his humanoid shape once more. His back panels were caved in upon multiple points, his third lowest spike on his spine twisted brutaly. He lowered down onto all fours, and stumbled a bit, Energon dripping down onto the ramp below him from his stub of an arm and the two gun wounds on his lower back. The remainder of the limb was still in his hand, but he quickly stashed off to the side and hid it, making a note of where it was. Once this was hidden, he moved deeper into the decrepit bowls of the building.

It was confined, it was small, it was very much like a cave with multiple spires holding up the upper levels. But even then? Some holes were punched through, the floors above leaking their contents through gaping openings into the garage below. Flatline's teeth clicked, as he limped up to one of the support posts.

Long claws flexed, before slamming into the stone, his frame hauling off of the ground level to climb inverse upon the ceiling. For a moment his post legs struggled, until the magnets within clutched onto the rebar sunken into the concrete, pulling the posts down securely. In a scurried motion not unlike an insect, he slid up into one of these openings that made a sort of cave, trying to hide. While it was on the 'first floor' of the garage, the rubble around him was a shield, meaning one would need to go down to the second floor and look up to find him.

Either he would escape?...

...Or he would ambush.

[Deleted]

He wasn’t wrong in his earlier assumption: it did not take him long at all to catch up to Flatline, despite the mech’s head start. His engine roared as he shot down the road, his tires kicking up clouds of dust in his wake as he advanced upon Flatline. The medic had made a poor decision with his altmode choice - a hearse might have been practical and inconspicuous, but it did not allow for quick acceleration. Red Alert, meanwhile...well, a Lamborghini wasn’t exactly the most common of vehicles, and it tended to draw attention, but for what it lacked in discretion it more than made up for in speed. With a top speed of over 200 miles an hour, it was little wonder that he caught up to Flatline as quickly as he did.

Unfortunately for Red Alert, he didn’t quite catch up to the mech in the way he had wished to.

He had intended to drive up next to the mech, to sideswipe him and run him off the road. It was a simple, straightforward plan that was shot all to hell because it relied on logic and he was dealing with a madmech.

Flatline, in slammed on his breaks, his tires screeching as he came to an abrupt stop. As close as he was behind him, Red Alert did not have the good fortune of being able to swerve away or hit his brakes in time to avoid the impact. The best he could do was lessen it, and even then breaking as hard as he could only slowed his speed by a small margin. The end result? He crashed into the other mech head on and near full-force, his front end buckling on impact.

The feeling was not unlike being full-body tackled by a tank.

Shocked and disoriented (and in a considerable but not debilitating amount of pain), Red Alert was too dazed by the collision to immediately follow after Flatline as he hauled his (now dented) aft and got the hell out of dodge. After taking a few brief moments to make sure he had no internal damage, he had to wonder what in Primus’ name had possessed the mech to do that---then he tried driving forward, and he found his answer.

The crafty son of a glitch had broken his headlights.

Without their illumination the road ahead of him faded into a hazy sea of ink, and he had nothing but the moon and stars to light his path. Needless to say, this made following after Flatline considerably more difficult.

Or at least, it would have if his hearing and sense of smell weren’t so superb. Though he couldn’t quite make out what the area ahead of him looked like, he could still follow the roar of Flatline’s engine and the pungent scent of freshly-spilled energon leaking from his frame. Backing up, Red Alert turned away from the mess of shattered glass in front of him (he was NOT risking damage to his his tires) before picking up speed to once again follow at Flatline’s metaphorical heels. Staying on one side of the road proved to be a bit more difficult than before, but otherwise? He had little trouble following after Flatline, who had taken a few twists and turns, which lead himself (and by proxy, Red Alert) to what appeared to be a run down structure of some sort. An office, it seemed. One long ago abandoned, judging by the rotting siding and broken and boarded windows.

Red Alert stopped at the entrance of the parking garage next to the building, into which Flatline’s trail lead. He transformed gingerly, trying to ease the pain of shifting bent and broken plates back into proper alignment. He was only mildly successful. Once back on his feet, he took a moment to examine his injuries. He lifted a hand to his chest, wincing at the damage. Sliced diagonally and crumpled all to Hell? Oh yeah. Ratchet was going to blow a fuse. His only saving grace was that the damage was ugly, but not terribly serious---a few welds and a bit of hammering and he’d be fine. No internal damage to worry about, just (somewhat badly) rumpled plates.

Rolling his shoulders, he angled his head slightly and stared into the black abyss that was the unlit tunnel before him. They had reached the end of the chase. Flatline had sought shelter, a place to hide, and in doing so he boxed himself in. He wouldn’t be able to run off again, not this time---He was going to make sure of that. Lifting a hand to the side of his helm, Red Alert comm.ed base, sending a message to whoever was awake and on monitor duty, as he stepped forward into the darkness.

As he walked, he informed the mecha on duty about the situation. He had wanted to do so earlier, but he hadn’t exactly been given many good opportunities to distract himself with a phone call within the past fifteen minutes, what with all the chasing and trying not to become a murder victim and all. He placed emphasis on the unfortunate human man, asked that his apologies be given to agent Fowler, who would have to contact the man and sort things out with him later, lest he start spreading information he wasn’t meant to know. He gave a basic rundown of his and Flatline’s quarrel as well, though he spoke in generalities and neglected to mention the injuries he had endured, focusing instead on relying Flatline’s known weaponry and apparent combat skills (or lack thereof.) That was the only information that was relevant, after all - he was calling his comrades for backup, not medical aid.

By the time he finished the call he had followed Flatline’s scent deep into the lower level of the garage. He couldn’t see very well in the pitch black, but his olfactory sensors were still sharp, and the scent of fresh energon was difficult to miss. He saw nothing when he first scanned the room, and he didn’t dare take another step into it until he knew just where Flatline was---even though he knew help was on the way, he refused to be caught off guard again.

Frowning, he attuned his audios and olfactory sensors to the area around him, before slowly dragging his gaze up towards the ceiling. So. That’s where he was hiding.

“I know you’re there.” He said flatly, as he began shifting his arm into a rifle once more.

“I’ve given you too many chances already.” Primus, but he was already regretting his next words and he hadn’t even said them yet.

“--But if you surrender now, you get to live.” His rifle whirred loudly as it built charge, the sound echoing against the walls of the empty floor.

“And I mean now.”

[Flatline]

Flatline was ever so grateful that his plan had worked. If he had went to the trouble to get rear-ended to a point he was dented to crap and back, and his idea failed? It would have been a large loss and needless amounts of pain. But once he drove off? Once he tried to pick up speed again? He could somewhat see the figure of Red Alert rolling to the side of the road with no headlights visible. It made him feel like he was in the clear and that he was going to be able get away. Once he got somewhere safe? And was sure the pest Autobot was gone? He could call for a space bridge.

He was hoping he could slip to the Med Bay unnoticed, and try to tend to the most of his injuries without conflict. He definitely did not want the higher ups to know he missed out on an opportunity to snuff out an Autobot spark. Or that he was so 'worthless' in combat that he got himself pummeled. If he had known Red was also not trained as a fighter? He would have been THAT much less amused.

Now that he was safely tucked away in the structure, his right hand raised up carefully to place at the side of his head. The motion activated the com-link there, as he felt secure enough to request a means of escape. However once he did so? He found that his hiding choice, while it was secure, sunken and somewhat a glitch to find, was too far blocked by concrete and rebar to transmit through. His communication device was not really the top of the line best best. It really had only been needed to transmit requests across the lab back at the larger facility, a much smaller distance with walls that did not hamper as much. Before he could even speak, all he could hear was static, which caused him to start to growl before a sound caught his audios.

Red eyes flicked down towards the opening, the spines on his back bristling up. Or... at least two of them did. Two arched up in an aggressive display, while the damaged third twitched and hung slack from the joint. He could hear the bot talking, but it was distant. Was there another here now!? The thought made his spark stall a moment, eyes widening while his maw twisted back into an angery sneer of distaste and rage. But the more he heard Red's mumbled voice talking and echoing in the concrete maze, the more he realized there was not another's voice mixed within. Unless this one had a twin? That adapted the same audios? Then there was only one... or... the other was like Soundwave...

Because of the possibility there was a second, he eased back a bit more, leaning his head away from the opening. If the mech had walked below the hole? Unless he climbed up a bit he would be unable to see the medic. That was one of the boons of not having natural strip lighting like some other Autobots did. His frame melted into the shadows so long as he hid his optic light. It was because of this, he was that much more alarmed when the bot did not have visual contact. Yet... found him?

Flatline's processor whirred rapidly while he took in the Autobot's words and the sound of his gun. Really? He had to play smart here. He had to play off of the foes weaknesses. Already, Red Alert had displayed very poor judgment about finishing a foe that was weak and feeble. If he could play off of this, he could see what was down below and not get his head blasted off. With visual confirmation of one or two bots? Would drastically change his course of action.

The Medic remained quiet then, his right hand gingerly moving underneath the stump of his severed secondary arm. The motion was not for support though, and in fact? Did not even touch the limb, but instead permitted the small dribble of Energon to start to pool in the concave shape of the palm. While this occurred, he dialed back his audios, and played up his deception. He was a Decepticon after all, and damn well he was going to exploit his skills.

"Don't shoot... don’t..."

He sounded so weak, so broken, a rattled cough ripping through his frame a moment later. He visually was still out of sight, as his hand with the puddled Energon? Then pulled up to his mouth. With a sneer of distaste, he pulled the mater into his maw, holding it there as he moved forward. He calculated the drop was not that far, the actual clearance of the garage rather tiny for the two of them, and because of it, he rolled his head forward so he literally dropped from the opening with a hard smack.

Flatline had made sure to roll when he landed, so he hit on the back of his neck shield which protected his head, then the weight slid down his spine as the rest followed. While it was functional, it looked far more brutal than it was, especially with the way his legs rag dolled behind him to slap onto the ground. It was with this motion; he ended up lying on his back, head craned up to look at Red Alert feebly. The small punctures on his lower frame leaked Energon down, this mixed with what he did next hopefully making it look like he suffered internal damage in the collision.

A rattled cough spluttered from his frame, as the Energon collected from his injury, was coughed up and out, the liquid splattering down around his maw and up his faceplate. It had gone so far to nearly hit his optics from the spray, the liquid then dribbling from the corner of his mouth towards his jaw line and vents. It was a very convincing act, making it seem that perhaps the car accident? Had caused some shards of metal to punch into an organ case.

Now that he was there, he could glance around some. His optics could only see one Autobot though, and no apparent backup. This was a huge relief, and he was ever thankful that he had been mistaken on that front. Though it now meant that perhaps help was on the way, he had to be talking to someone, and it didn’t sound like he was yelling at him? Hard to say as he could not hear WHAT was being said... but alas... he was still here, laying on his back in front of the enemy that had a weapon trained on him. Only catch was? Is that so did Flatline. With a lurch he hacked again a shudder raking his plates while his arm slid off his chest to slap down upon the ground. He twisted his balance a bit, trembling in pain, while in actuality the motion was hiding the actions of his turret.

"I... I think you hit my crankshaft..."

He gasped this out, contorting once more in supposed agony. While he spoke, he pushed the rest of the Energon from his mouth, letting out another cough that had significantly less 'spray' effect. He knew the mention of a crankshaft injury could be seen as possible, and rather dangerous, given its function inside to turn reciprocating motion to rotational, thus powering other functions in the body. That was... if this idiot even knew what the crap it was. Perhaps he should have just said spark casing. Even though that was far from his lower back, the little 'idiot' had to understand that right?

Flatline's assumptions on Red's intelligence was... lacking...

It didn't matter though, as once he got on target, and felt comfortable with his aim, he shot his remaining harpoon with that familiar bang of the fire. It had so little forewarning to it, that it could almost be seen as an accidental discharge. The sound was loud, even more so than out in the fields. It was not exactly a secret that he fired, though the spiked post ruptured out at alarming speeds so responding could be a bit bothersome. This time? He did not bother aiming for the torso, and he did not try to aim for his head. Instead? He took advantage to the relative close distance, and the fact they were in an extremely confined space, to fire at the exposed rocket launcher on his shoulder.

What kind of idiot sticks live artillery by their HEAD!? Hur de dur! THAT ONE! That’s who!