Rust Spot

ashes to ashes rust to rust

"Pinhead?" he heard Misfire ask his voice was distorted and echoey. Another wave of horrific pain radiated from Fulcrum's midsection, and he felt the need to purge. Half congealed fuel exploded from his mouth in a pink sticky rush. All over Misfire.

"ewe ew ew primus dude that's fragging gross! What the pit!" The jet leapt off the couch and started freaking out.

"phAAA! gross you got it in my transformation seams! Where's a cloth!" Misfire shouted as he ran around the small common room. Attracted by all the noise, Krok poked his helm in the doorway.

"What are you two doing in here?" he asked, a stern tone creeping into his voice.

"Pinhead fragging spewed all over the place, I think his visco was tainted or something." Misfire said as he started to wipe his plating down with Crankcase's polishing cloth. "it got all over my paint! I just waxed this too!" he complained.

"Misfire, you're already vomit pink." Krok rolled his optics as he came all the way into the room. Sure enough Fulcrum was rolled in a ball of misery on the couch, impressive chin buried in his beige chest plate. He groaned softly as Krok kneeled in front of the couch, avoiding the puddle of spew.

"You ok there Fulcrum?" he asked gently as he put a hand on the other's shoulder.

"I feel like my tanks about to explode." he gasped out, before gagging and sending another wave of purged fuel out of his intake. This time it dribbled all over his front

"What did you give him? He looks like shit!" Krok glared at Misfire.

"don't look at me! It was your can!" the jet shrieked while tearing a few pages out of a magazine and wiping himself with it.

"Fulcrum, what's happening? Where does it hurt?" Krok asked softly as he pulled an optic shutter open. The little light behind the glass was hazy and unfocused, and the surface metal of his face was heated

"My insides.... They are transforming without me...... hurts." Fulcrum groaned. That was the closest he could come to describing the rolling stabbing cramping pain in his guts.

"Oh man he's dying! What if he's contagious! Then we are all screwed! I don't wanna die!" Misfire wailed.

"Misfire, shut up. He's not dying, at least I don't think he's dying. He's probably just hurt somewhere from the fight and didn't realize it until now. Remember how long you were walking around with that broken landing gear before you noticed it?" Krok resisted the urge to rub his optics.

"oh yeah that SUUUCKED!" Misfire brightened considerably.

"Come on fulcrum, can you stand? That's it. Nice and easy." Krok coached as he pried fulcrum off the couch. The orange bot was small, but dense, and was hard to mech handle. It took most of Krok's strength to prop him up under one shoulder and steer him out into the hall.

"Where are we going?" Fulcrum moaned as he shuffled along

"We- are getting you- to Spinster's workshop. There we'll get you patched up." Krok grunted under the effort of moving them both. Fulcrum had gone fully limp and was dead weight.

"nooooo.... He'll take me apart again. I need my parts!" Fulcrum protested weekly. Everything was spinning in a carousel of hurt.

"I won't let him take you apart." Krok promised. With a heavy sigh he shifted Fulcrums weight so that he was slung over his shoulder like a sack of coals. Fulcrum gagged as his helm was pointed downwards. Another pitiful dribble of vomit dripped onto the floor. Krok sighed again as he made his way to the closest thing the weak anthropic principle had to a med bay.

Spinster whirled around as the door to the room opened, gun in hand.

"Spinster! Put that down, it's just me." Krok admonished.