Short chapter is short. Flatline's a cobbled together amalgamation of Movie and IDW, and would kindly like Sixshot to just kill the last Terrorcon already. Every other Decepticon would.

Flatline practically squealed when Sixshot's heavy hand fell on his shoulder, field bleating a frantic, if short lived staccato of fear-panic in sharp-sound.

"How is he?" The six-changer asked, voice betraying his amusement, and Flatline shoved survival protocol and coding and everything else he had remotely related to the fore and then tripled it, internally wincing when it slammed into his processor as if a building had been toppled on him. Again. The things he did for the Decepticons. He smiled pleasantly, as if having a six-changer notorious for mass murder and all sorts of Other Nice Things from the Senix Clan looming over him was an everyday occurrence.

Same as the last three megacycles you've asked, slagger. He bit back the retort. He liked his spark attached, thank you very much. "Stable. I finished the damage repairs and replaced his fans."

"With no alterations, of course."

If that wasn't a warning squeeze, Flatline didn't know what it was. He knew well what Sixshot was capable of if the mood struck him. Petty violence would be the least of the scientist and experimental surgeon's worries. "Naturally, sir. Shall I rouse him?"

"Do so."

Flatline nodded, the hand finally left him. With an exvent, Flatline set about rebooting his so-called patient while Sixshot stood over the restrained and trapped Terrorcon. Sinnertwin was scrap if you asked Flatline. Scrap and junk and reusable parts. The mechanoid's processor was gone, fragmented and beyond even the saving graces of a hardline jacked into a de-fragging system designed for Megatron. Sixshot was a fool, but who was he to argue with a fragging Phase-Sixer? He'd sooner argue with Krok or Soundwave and come out intact.

(Come to think of it, he'd seen that happen and swore he'd seen them smirking. They both had fragged up humour out the afterburner, and both were part of Megatron's Command-Cohort.)

He watched dispassionately as Sinnertwin's remaining optic booted up with sickly, sickly lurid yellow colours. A speckle of red flickered across it before vanishing. It was disturbing, and he counted himself thankful for the order – threat – against repairing the other optic. The best he'd done was stick a patch over it. Self-repair would take over, or not. He reset his vocaliser and stepped back with another pleasant smile and salute. "He's online."

Sixshot grunted, but didn't dismiss the 'medic'. He kept a sensor bead on him though, in case Flatline attempted to make an escape like last time.

Flatline wisely busied himself with another of his projects, thanking everything he could that his assigned Cadets and probationers weren't around. He knew for a fact Crosshairs would have sooner shot Sinnertwin than treat him. Perhaps he should look into assigning the Cadet sniper-classes. It might be useful…

He literally jumped out of his frame at Sinnertwin's growl, knocking half his desk onto the floor. Oh, Joy. He would have to stay through another round of this…?

A look at Sixshot told him the answer was a clear Yes.

Yay, joy. His life. He hated it. Nonetheless, he cleaned up his mess, trying, and failing, to keep from watching the shipwreck he was stuck with.

"I've heard what losing a Gestalt-mate will do to the team, but not when only one is left. What happened was unfortunate," Sixshot said, regret spiking his voice, and Flatline had not known the Phase-Sixer could feel anything like that. "But I will not allow you to die."

Sinnertwin let out a pitiful whine at the words, shaking his head in stringent denial. "Not gone. Not gone. Hungrr come."

Sixshot cuffed the Terrorcon's helm – Flatline hoped that didn't leave too much of a dent to be worked out- and continued talking. Still calm, still never raising his voice. "He will not come. You have to accept that and move on."

"You lie! Hungrr come! Cutthroat-" Sinnertwin's normally low growl of a Kaon accent broke, hitching in distress as he struggled and thrashed against the bindings. Not for the first time did Flatline shrink back towards the wall. If the Terrorcon got free –

No. He would not allow his processor to go down that route, thank you very much; he had a project to continue with.

Sinnertwin attempted to bite, and Sixshot punched him outright for it. "What would I gain from lying to you? Your almost Endura's dead."

The hysterical, broken laugh was enough to make Flatline jump, scrambling backwards into a wall in fear. He rarely felt that emotion, but every part of him was screaming to leave, get as far away as possible, and his tripled-amped survival protocols where telling him no. He'd end up slagged this time. Yet Sixshot was seemingly immune, thick claws digging into Sinnertwin's chassis, gouging deep wounds across his chestplates. "You are all that is left of them. I will not lie to you."

Flatline shuddered at the tone. Rarest of Warbuild types, yes. Possessing the full range of emotional reactions his skidplate. Sixshot was an emotionless beast, and what the Terrorcons had seen in him, he didn't know.

Sinnertwin's moan of denial was pathetic, yet he didn't seem to fight against the hand splayed over his sparkplates. The very hand that had hurt him. Even from where he was, Flatline could see it rested deceptively light against overheated, overclocked plating. He didn't have to be a genius to know Sixshot was hiding his EM-field, and that Sinnertwin's was… flickering with confusion and fear and pain and need.

What the pit –

Sixshot exvented slowly, rubbing his hand softly over the sparkplates. "I will not leave you, Sinnertwin. You belong with me now. My Unit."

Sinnertwin's optic flickered red for a klick or two before reverting to the sickly yellow as a terrifying growl rippled its way from Sinnertwin's vocal-unit. It outstripped even the late Dirge's Sigma talent for fear-generation. The part of Flatline that was not purging was already considering designing something like this. Put to use against the Autobots, it'd be invaluable, and if they could get 'X' - no. Scratch that. Giving it to 'X' would hand him the keys to their destruction.

Then, Sinnertwin spoke, and Flatline felt his armour clamp down tighter than it'd ever been, his EM-field practically retracting into his very spark. "You are not Hungrr."

Something in Sixshot's demeanour changed, aggression rippling off him, and Flatline realised he would have a front-row seat to bestial instincts driving the hierarchy and power struggle. He -

He didn't think he wanted the seat he'd been given. Maybe if he slowly edged towards the door - That sure was a bullet hole a centimetre from his helm.

He did want that seat after all.