We're Slightly Less Screwed

With a groan the mech in front of me onlined his optics.

“Hey look, Sleeping-Fucking-Beauty is back from the damn ball. How you feelin’, Princess? Have a nice stasis nap, since you over fucking reacted? Fucking hell. You’re just as bad as Blake.”

I rolled my eyes. Why the hell did we want him back so badly? Wasn’t one Blake enough? I doubted that I was going be able to handle both of them. There’s no way in hell the regular soldiers were going to be able to.

“I will kill you Squishy,” he growled.

“I’m sure, because it’s gone so well for you so far. I thought Sideswipe was ridiculous, but at least he has a reason when he attempts to kill someone.” Usually that reason is Blake.

Once again Sunstreaker tried to hit me. Before he could shock the shit out of himself however, his arm gave out and came crashing down on the floor. Bright blue energon began to pool underneath it.

I sighed, and picked myself up, which hurt like hell, but with my luck this idiot was gonna bleed out, and there was no way Sides was going to be able to handle that.

“You severed an energon line. You have two options: let me fix it or kill yourself. Before you tell me to frag off, remember that if you die, so does Sides.”

His usual glare remained intact, but instead of trying to kill me again, he gave me a curt nod.

I felt around for something metal. I still couldn’t see well, but the glowing blue liquid was giving me enough light to manage. I don’t know what it was that I picked up. It may have been part of Sunstreaker. It may have been part of some other captive that the cell had formerly held. I didn’t care.

I tossed it at Sunstreaker’s good arm.

“Make me a wrench,” I instructed.

Rather than fight with me, he made the wrench. I went over and found the source of the energon flow. I was thankful for the lessons in bot repair that Ratchet had given and that Blake had drilled into my head. I could online communications and weapons in my sleep.

Luckily the line had just popped out. It wasn’t severed or anything. It was a simple fix. Reattach the line and then tighten the clamp.

The pain radiating from my ribs was excruciating (not to mention the rest from my battered body), but I had to save this asshole, because he was probably my only way out of that fucking cell.

Plus it would suck if Sides died, because Sides was actually pretty cool. And Primus only knows what his death would do to Blake. I wasn’t ready to deal with that again.

When I was done, I stepped back and observed my work. “That should work for now. I can fix that optic too. I learned that much.”

“I don’t need any more help from a-“

“Fuck! Quit being so fucking difficult. We could probably get out of here, if you weren’t half fucking blind and your systems weren’t down. Get over your fucking self, and let me help you so that we can both get the fuck out of here.”

“Both?”

“Yes, both. If you think for one fucking second that you’re leaving after I’ve saved your ass, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

“Whatever. It’s fair, though the thought of being indebted to a fleshy makes me want to empty my tanks.”

“Again, get the fuck over yourself.”

I moved, so that I was standing in front of his face. His facial plates were dented, and it was a bit harder to fix, since I couldn’t go through the routes that they’d shown me before.

“What are those marking on your sides?” he asked.

“Bruises,” I answered.

“Not those, the images.”

“Tattoos,” I replied, a little taken aback that he was actually showing interest in something involving a human. Something that didn’t involve murder.

“Tattoos?”

“Simple version: permanent art done by jamming ink in our skin with needles.”

He scoffed. “Hardly art. Bumper stickers. Not art.”

I might’ve “accidently” tugged a little too hard on a bundle of wires, causing him to screech in agony. The optic online turned red.

Not my best idea, but he called my tattoos bumper stickers. I broke my hand off of a kids nose once, because he looked at me and said some shit about me getting tattoos was like putting a bumper sticker on a Ferrari. Anyway, I ran like hell—despite the pain—to the wall. He shocked himself into stasis again (for the eighteenth fucking time). Once I was sure he was out, I approached him again, finishing what I had started.

“I should’ve thought of this earlier… fucking bumper stickers.”