Warning: Possible character death, open-ended
Characters: Springer
Universe: G1
Summary: The Wreckers get in a tight spot with no way out. Flash fic, one hour.
The explosion was powerful enough to shake the walls of the command center.
"That's it, then," one of the mechs whispered, staring down at the display screen in despair. "The shuttle's gone. We're trapped."
Another's voice rose on the heels of the first, shrill with fear. "Their forward brigade is regrouping! They're getting ready for an assault!"
A low mutter ran through the mechs huddled around the makeshift fortifications. Several slumped in chairs or just sat down on the floor, defeat written clearly in their posture.
Springer stood in the middle of it all, fingers absently turning over a portable comm unit, silently absorbing the news. He'd been expecting both - they were badly outnumbered, and the position was barely defensible under the best of circumstances. Holding the Decepticons off long enough to mount an evacuation was the best they could have expected, but unfortunately for them, the Decepticons knew that as well and had struck to cut off their only escape route.
They were not going to make it off this planet alive. Springer accepted that; he was a Wrecker. Sooner or later, their luck always ran out.
'Til all are one. It wasn't a frightening thought, more like that first glimpse of Cybertron through the forward viewscreen after a long tour on the front lines. Relief, warmth, but tinged with the sadness of all that had been lost.
He wished he could see Arcee one last time. Not to say goodbye - they parted every time knowing that this could be their last moment together - but just to see her. He knew she'd watch out for Roddy, and he hoped Rodimus wouldn't blame himself for sending them out here.
Time seemed to slow, the world seeming so much more sharply in focus, feeling the warm metal of the comm unit in his hands, the faint vibration of the footsteps and movement of the mechs around him, everything so bright and alive, if only for a little while longer.
The Decepticons were waiting for the rest of their troops to rejoin the main group. Soon as the outlying squads arrived, they would break down the fortifications and take the base. The Autobots' lives could measured in breems. Roadbuster turned and caught Springer's gaze, the knowledge of the impending assault and inevitable conclusion clear in the grim set of his shoulders. Beside him, Whirl leaned against a burned-out control panel, arms folded, lost in his own thoughts.
They were good mechs, not just his people, but all of the Autobots clustered in the makeshift bunker. He'd ended up in command by default when the last barrage has destroyed the rear control post and the commander with it, but none of them had faltered. They'd thrown themselves into his orders and none of them deserved to die like this.
Not like this...
"Roadbuster," Springer said quietly. "Pass the word. Tell everyone to grab their weapons and get ready to move."
All around him, tired and dim optics looked up, hoping despite everything that he would find some way to save them. It hurt, their faith burning in his spark. The possibility of making it out was so tiny as to be non-existent, but he had to give them the chance. At the very least, they wouldn't have to suffer the hell of huddling here and waiting for death to come to them.
"We're bracing for the attack?" a voice ventured, sounding young and unfamiliar.
"No," Springer said with a sharp grin. "We're the ones attacking."