Notes: This was one of my favorite parts to write X3
One thing Terrorsaur had noticed almost immediately after his arrival at the cave-base was how Quickstrike seemed to have it out for Waspinator.
Since the fuzor had come online around the time Terrorsaur had "died," they had never met before, but it wouldn't have taken a genius to see how dangerous and unstable Quickstrike was. It also wasn't very hard to tell that Waspinator was utterly terrified of him, though he did his best to pretend otherwise.
Terrorsaur knew, though. He and Waspinator had worked together for a long time and he could easily see the telltale signs of fear that overtook the wasp's small, bulky frame whenever Quickstrike got too close. It was the way he would tense…Or how his posture became more rigid. The way his fingers shook as he made repairs. Or, most obvious of all, the way he wouldn't even look Quickstrike in the optic, as if he was afraid the still-damaged mech could see into his very spark.
It made sense; Waspinator wasn't particularly adept at protecting himself. He was an easy target, and every one had known it, Predacon and Maximal alike.
It made sense…But that didn't mean Terrorsaur had to like it.
And that was why he'd ambushed Quickstrike one evening, as twilight was settling over the valley and the fuzor's optical sensors would fail to function properly. His night vision, Terrorsaur knew, hadn't been repaired yet and he had difficulties seeing in the dark. Not that the advantage hadn't been his to begin with; Terrorsaur was state-of-the-art and Quickstrike was still little more than a scrapheap.
"Think you're the big mech around here, don't you?" He'd been leaning against a tree trunk, his casual stance an indication that he was in complete control of the situation. A twisted grin crossed his face when Quickstrike jumped at the sound of his voice. It seemed the fuzor hadn't realized he was there.
"If the plating fits, wear it." Quickstrike was quick to regain his composure, shoulders squaring, optics narrowing as he looked over Terrorsaur. He didn't like this newcomer much; he hated the pteranodon's I'm-better-than-you attitude. It didn't suit most mechs and it certainly didn't suit this one.
"All that it proves," Terrorsaur stepped away from the tree, stride cocky, "Is that you're a coward."
At that, Quickstrike tensed up, glare threatening to burn through the transmetal's chrome plating. "Who you callin' yellah, ya tinhorn?" He snarled in a fit of indignant outrage, just as Terrorsaur had anticipated. He'd not known Quickstrike that long, but was already finding him incredibly predictable.
"You, pardner." Terrorsaur sneered, "What do you think you're proving by constantly beating on the weakest mech here?" Waspinator was still dumb about most things. He was still slow and whiney and not terribly ambitious. But he was still Terrorsaur's friend and partner, as far as Terrorsaur was concerned, at least. He would still protect the wasp and wasn't about to let Quickstrike keep terrorizing him.
"I don't see you ever trying to take on Inferno." He continued, totally unfazed by the death glare leveled on him, "Or me. Is it because you know we're stronger than you, or is it because you enjoy picking on the weak?" He canted his head to the side, giving the fuzor a long, hard look, clawed fingers flexing at his sides.
"I could kick your aft, flyboy." Quickstrike had started pacing, circling warily around Terrorsaur as if waiting for him to attack. "I could take you down even without my weapons workin' right."
Terrorsaur really had no idea what kind of fighter the fuzor was, just that he was brutal. Waspinator had said as much on more than one occasion, citing that as the sole reason he was reluctant to repair the rest of Quickstrike's damages. That bit of information, however, was rather unimportant, given their size difference and the fact that Terrorsaur was in perfect working order.
When Quickstrike rushed at him, cobra head snapping its powerful jaws, Terrorsaur was ready. He dodged the first blow and the second was only glancing, not even enough to hurt. He didn't bother to draw a blade, instead choosing to rake his claws across Quickstrike's chest and reveling in the feel of metal tearing beneath his fingers. Quickstrike howled and swung at him, cobra head clamping down on his forearm.
If he was in any pain, Terrorsaur didn't let it show. Quickstrike wasn't even certain how effective the bite would be; with his systems out of whack, he had no way of knowing how much cybervenom was making it out of the snake head's fangs. In the end, it didn't matter much anyway, because the pteranodon kicked him, pushing him away, and yanked his arm out of the steel grip.
There was still no need for weapons. If he was going to do this, Terrorsaur was going to make it as humiliating as possible. As Quickstrike stumbled back, Terrorsaur kicked him again, clawed foot striking directly in the midsection and sending him crashing to the ground. It wasn't so different from when he'd duked it out with Inferno and Quickstrike soon found himself flat on his back, foot grinding into his stomach.
"Who's kicking who's aft now, fuzor?" This time, there wasn't the usual smug satisfaction, just cold efficiency. Terrorsaur bent a little to grab Quickstrike's arm, wrenching it up and tearing the limb from his body in a shower of sparks. The cobra head flopped lifelessly in his claws and Quickstrike hissed in pain, writhing beneath the foot still pining him to the ground.
He said nothing, however, just glared hatefully up at Terrorsaur, who simply tossed the arm over his shoulder into the darkness. He loomed over Quickstrike, grinning through the night. "If you ever lay so much as one skinny little leg on Waspinator again," His bright optics narrowed menacingly, "I'll rip off more than just your arm."