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Breakdown could feel the cameras watching him. Tracking him.
Every time he moved in his cell, the cameras followed him. They had not been so blatant before. Before the Stunticons had taken the mission to Philadelphia. Before… Wildrider… yes, Wildrider… had done something mid-battle and angered the humans that—
Breakdown wasn't sure how to describe the humans. They were… strange.
They studied him and watched him, which he hated.
They provided energon and a safe abode, which he liked.
The humans allowed him to communicate with his brothers, as well as share close cells with the three of them.
(For some reason, he hadn't seen Wildrider since their last mission. Maybe he had been injured by Superion and needed repairs? Drag Strip had needed repairs when they'd first arrived at this human facility, and had been stationed away from Breakdown and Dead End until his repairs had been completed. Wildrider must be going through the same. The humans wanted the Stunticons healthy and safe, after all. They'd assured him of that).
But this was wrong, wasn't it?
Breakdown blinked, his helm tilting at the sluggish thought that appeared without bidding. Yes, he disliked cameras and did not like humans to any degree, but there wasn't anything the humans had done to him to make him feel off about them.
Confusion turned Breakdown's helm in the direction of Dead End's cell, to the left of Breakdown's own, before he called his older brother's name. Dead End responded with a tired grunt. Allowance for Breakdown to bother him from the Porsche's book reading.
(The humans could not be all bad, they had given each of the Stunticons creature comforts for them to wile away the time in their cells, after all. Right?)
"Why are we here again?" Breakdown asked.
The sound of Dead End placing the book down was the only response to the Lamborghini's question for a drawn out minute, until the sound of a deep vent preceded Dead End's answer. "Does it matter?"
Breakdown frowned.
Dead End's answer was expected.
So why did Breakdown feel as if his brother's response was inadequate?
Irritation — actual irritation — blossomed underneath Breakdown's plating. "I wasn't asking for your typical apathetic response, Dead End."
"Don't waste your time with it, Breakdown," Drag Strip's voice, from further down the block of cells on the opposite side of the room, broke through before Breakdown could gather a full helm of steam at Dead End. "We are here because Motormaster brought us to these humans. I don't know why. I'm simply following what Motormaster says."
Breakdown looked down at his servos as the sound of Drag Strip thumbing a digit across the wheels of the scale model of his old alt mode echoed from the yellow Stunticon's cell. Uncertainty gnawed at Breakdown.
"Breakdown, I can hear your thoughts from here. Practice your mediation, you're frankly getting on my nerves."
Dead End was annoyed with him.
Dead End was annoyed with him.
"Sorry." Breakdown knitted his digits together, the frenetic wringing of his servos slowly expelling the energy pent up inside him.
"Stop apologizing."
Heat warmed underneath Breakdown's plating at the barbed reprimand from Dead End. "Sorry…"
Anxiety chewed at Breakdown's processor as he wrung his servos together, glossa brushing across his mouth as he tried to meditate.
Heavy, slow treads pulled Breakdown from his mediation some time later. He leapt to his pedes, well familiar with the sound of Motormaster returning to his cell.
Every day Motormaster was taken from his cell by a few humans and led away, to return a few hours later and always much more tired than when he'd left. When Breakdown had asked what Motormaster was up to — he suspected training — Motormaster had simply ignored him. Usually he fell into recharge before the other Stunticons could get a word out of him, as it stood.
It made Breakdown miss Motormaster terribly.
Today seemed to be no different, as Motormaster came into view, two humans flanking him on either side. Scuff marks dirtied the semi's chassis, and there was a considerable slump to Motormaster's shoulder plates. Breakdown watched as the humans led Motormaster to his cell, across from Breakdown's and a few cells down, then left.
A vent heaved from Motormaster as the semi collapsed against his cell door. Concern threaded through Breakdown at the sight. The humans were running his eldest brother ragged.
"Boss?" Breakdown kept the stammer out of his voice with careful, precise pronunciation that drew Motormaster's helm in his direction. That term of affectionate deference always worked. "Are you okay? You look putrefied—"
Breakdown slammed his mouth shut. That wasn't the word he'd meant to say.
"What?" Motormaster's snarl held little venom, though his violet optics held more than enough anger to make Breakdown retreat.
"Nothing, sorry, sir," Breakdown whispered, his fans whirring loudly as he tried to cool his embarrassment.
This was wrong.
Something told Breakdown his brothers weren't right. A nagging that his brothers, as well as himself, needed to analyze their surroundings—
"Breakdown."
Motormaster's voice was akin to an ice pick spearing through Breakdown's spark.
His fans hitched loudly as Breakdown looked towards Motormaster's cell, a quiet, uncertain deference making him stammer out a "yes, sir?"
"Do as Dead End said. We have a training exercise later today. I don't want you distracted."
"Y-yes, sir," Breakdown whispered, before he curled himself into a ball inside his cell.
Breakdown loathed drawing his brothers' ire. He never wanted to be the main source of attention with his brothers, least of all when he embarrassed himself through some small action or misspoken word.
"Wildrider is injured, he will not be participating with us today," the human female said from her catwalk as she looked down at the Stunticons. "Your task today is to test out how your combined form will handle functioning without Wildrider. Dead End, you will take Wildrider's position as the left leg."
Dead End let out a confused sound at his assignment, a flash of exasperation wafting across Breakdown as Dead End moved to Breakdown's side, arms crossed over his chest plate. The human did not look pleased, though that did not seem to linger as she turned to Motormaster.
"Show me what you can do."
"Yes, ma'am." Motormaster inclined his helm, his deference to this human drawing a bewildered expression from Breakdown.
That was the same tone he used with Megatron.
Confusion left Breakdown staring at Motormaster as they all felt the command to combine twist their frames and silence their individual thoughts.
Or… it should have.
Breakdown could not see in his combined state, but he could feel everything Menasor felt as if the combiner's mind had failed to overcome that of his components. It was… odd.
Menasor stomped his left leg, an angry, confused keen escaping from his intake as he stared at the red leg component. A phantom pain ached where his left arm component should have been.
Frustration welled inside Menasor as he raised his left pede, his right arm lowering so that he could brush the wrong component with his digits. He gawked at the red finish, his optic ridges raised. Why was Dead End improperly placed?
His other components were properly positioned, but Dead End had taken Wildrider's position. Wildrider was his left leg component. Not Dead End.
::. Menasor, focus. .::
Motormaster's gravelly tone was sharp with anger. Anger directed at… Menasor? Why?
What had he done wrong to incite his torso component's wrath?
Menasor snarled before he released his left leg from his grasp and slammed the pede to the ground. Fury burned inside him as he snapped his helm to the human watching him. She matched his gaze with an unimpressed look, even when Menasor approached her and pointed to his left leg angrily.
"Wrong leg!" Menasor snapped. He leaned closer to the catwalk, his servo crushing the metal railing as he leaned all of himself into the human's space.
A heavy snarl rumbled from the combiner's engine, his denta bared as the human looked up at him in disgust.
"Are you acting out on purpose, Motormaster?" the human asked, her address to Menasor's torso component making Menasor hiss.
Anger consumed his frame.
He was not—
Breakdown blinked awake. He was laying on his backstrut, the ceiling high above him. Hadn't they just been combined? Judging from his sore frame, and the buzz of energy licking off his field, they had.
Then why…
"What was that?"
"I… believe he was confused." Motormaster's words were hesitant as he answered the human, an edge to his statement Breakdown couldn't place.
A huff from Dead End preceded a sarcastic, apathetic sneer. "I don't belong as a leg. Menasor is clear on that."
"I don't care," the human spat. "Until Wildrider is repaired, you will have to serve as a leg."
Dead End bristled. He opened his mouth to respond, only for Breakdown to stop him by grabbing the Porsche's servo with a shake of his helm.
"It's not that simple," Dead End bit out, his bristling energy field softening as Drag Strip brushed shoulder plates with the Porsche, his expression as tired and bored as Dead End's. "Every combiner is their own individual. Menasor hates change, for one. We cannot simply change positions and have him function as he normally would off the bat."
Breakdown watched as the human female pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers, a growl that reminded him of old Megatron's frustration whenever the Stunticons did anything on the Victory. She was displeased.
At them.
Anxiety rolled through Breakdown's tank at the thought.
The humans wouldn't tolerate them if the Stunticons couldn't function properly while one of them was downed. If the four uninjured Stunticons could not combine as the humans wanted them to while Wildrider was out of commission, they would be deactivated, tortured or worse. They had to make Menasor cooperate.
They—
A gentle servo on his shoulder plate silenced Breakdown's anxiety. He did not even need to look at Motormaster to know that it was the semi's heavy servo which rested on him. Nor could Breakdown mask the relief that expanded his field to engulf Motormaster's own at his brother's touch. The humans had kept them separate since they'd arrived. Breakdown longed for his brother's physical affection.
"Menasor simply needs time to adjust," Motormaster explained, or was he imploring the human? Breakdown could not tell. Their bond had not reacted the same since the humans had taken them in either. "Allow us the chance to test this incomplete combination again, Croft, but you need patience. Menasor needs patience."
Croft?
Was that the human female's name?
If it was, Breakdown could not help but find human names odd. Funny, perhaps. How did one know the personality or mindset of the human if their name did not convey it as Cybertronian names did? (Albeit, Breakdown's name sometimes led him to much jeering and insult amongst the Decepticons, his name still made sense).
"Very well," Croft sighed, her hand giving Motormaster a dismissive wave, "show me."
This time, Breakdown felt Motormaster's apprehension as they combined. Menasor was duly agitated for it.
Petulant grumbling escaped from Menasor as he glared at his left leg. The combiner was seated with his right arm looped over his right knee, the uncomfortable unfamiliarity of his left leg distracting Menasor from anything else. Urging from his torso component finally drew Menasor's gaze to the catwalk.
Croft was standing and watching him, her expression anything but impressed. Apprehension nudged at Menasor's irritation as his torso component's thoughts began encroaching onto the combiner's own. Motormaster was upset. Stressed.
Hurt.
Hurting.
Breakdown was himself again, with a suddenness that left the Lamborghini stunned. Energy flickered underneath his plating, igniting warnings in his systems he didn't understand. He'd never seen alerts from inside the gestalt bond.
From… Menasor?
Croft's raised voice met Motormaster's own, more even tempered rumble, drawing Breakdown away from the strange glyphs lancing off of Menasor. Drag Strip was doubled over with laughter, though a quick brush of his brother's field had Breakdown shrink away from the dark amusement rippling off Drag Strip's field.
Shame stoked off of Motormaster as Croft turned away from him, her attention purposely drawn to a human, holding a clipboard. "Bring Swindle."
Drag Strip's protest was the loudest at Croft's order. Motormaster let out a strangled rev of disgust from his engine, while Dead End rolled his optics and muttered under his breath. Breakdown did nothing but stare, bewildered.
Combining into unusual positions as a limb bot was not unheard of for a combiner, not from the lessons the Constructions had given him and his brothers after their creation. Combining with a member of a different combiner unit was laughable. At least, that's how Hook had reacted when Breakdown had, nervously, asked the Constructicon if he or his brothers could combine with Devastator. Breakdown never approached the thought in public again.
He'd theorized the idea with Wildrider, who was never usually the greatest help in an in-depth, scientific debate, but that was as far as Breakdown had gotten. Theories. Ideas.
Theories he did not desire testing but, judging from the sound of pedes approaching their location, the Stunticons would be forced to momentarily. Breakdown could not help but hide behind Motormaster as the familiar form of Swindle appeared through the training room doors.
Familiar, but for the dullness of his paint and the way Swindle avoided looking at Croft as he lined up alongside the Stunticons. Dead End let out a tired grumble as he moved away from Breakdown, finding his correct spot beside Swindle. Though… correct… was not the right term. Not with Swindle present and Wildrider absent.
Hesitation sparked off Motormaster as he peered down at the four smaller Cybertronians surrounding him, then released a vent. The order to combine was both verbal and through the Stunticons' bond, but there was nothing but uncertainty in Motormaster's command.
The semi didn't want to combine with Swindle.
None of them did.
Menasor awoke differently.
Glyphs appeared alongside his surging consciousness, written in a language Menasor did not speak or read. None of his components did. The… new component.
Curiosity tilted Menasor's helm as he peered down at his left leg, the foreign purple and yellow limb component familiar to him. But this component was Bruticus'. Why was he part of Menasor?
The combiner rolled his glossa in his mouth before he broached the strange, turbulent bond that originated from Bruticus' component. An ancient strength surged through the combiner as if a bolt of wild electricity. He stiffened, optics wide.
Memories, thoughts, ideas, ideals, emotions — all overpowered Menasor's four components. His true components were whispers, mumblings, gentle guidance. Swindle's knowledge, his own gestalt coding, a fork in the river that was Menasor's components.
In Menasor himself.
Breakdown felt his consciousness return, though he was still firmly rooted into his combined form. Menasor's voice boomed from above him, rumbling through his chassis — through his spark — with a shift to the gravelly rumble that Breakdown knew wasn't right.
He felt Menasor pause as he contemplated Croft, his optics narrowed as he watched her with guarded leeriness.
Breakdown gawked.
Menasor was calculating his next move.
Calculating?
An inner observation of Menasor's consciousness revealed to Breakdown a strange thoughtfulness within the Stunticon combiner. One which had never been there before. Instead of Menasor's vibrant, near frenetic energy that would wax and wane without warning dependent on what caught his optic, Menasor's energy was reserved. Watchful.
It was wrong.
As wrong as the way Menasor listened to Croft, his faceplate close to her and his processor running with thoughts Breakdown could not keep track of.
Swindle was affecting his — their — combiner.
Breakdown wasn't sure if he disliked that fact or not.
He did not have the chance to dwell, though. Not when his open consciousness was snared with a viciousness that would have made him squeak if he were able to speak in his combined state. Cold, slimy liquid state metal moved between Breakdown's gestalt walls, exposing him to a gestalt bond that was wholly foreign.
::. Good, you are aware. .::
Swindle.
Breakdown was inside Swindle's gestalt bond. Five distant energy pulses traveled through Swindle's bond, though Breakdown noted a drastic chasm between Swindle and what he knew were the other Combaticons and Bruticus.
::. What do you want with me? .:: Breakdown finally asked, aware of the way Swindle's gestalt bond had strangled Breakdown's own bond from the rest of the Stunticons and Menasor.
::. I need your help. .::
That gave Breakdown pause. He blinked, a careful nudging of his own bond allowing him the chance to inspect the veracity of Swindle's words. The Swindle he'd last known would have never stooped to working with the Stunticons, least of all to seek help from them. Every time they'd worked together, Swindle tricked Wildrider into spending his entire allowance on toy cars that turned out to be knock offs, or simply never gave Wildrider the product he had paid for. Swindle had only stopped when Motormaster caught him. Breakdown shuddered at the image that resurfaced in his processor of Swindle's battered, unrecognizable frame in the medical bay.
::. Thank you for the reminder, .:: Swindle coughed, a breeziness in his statement that did not feel genuine.
::. You're welcome— .:: Embarrassment flushed through Breakdown at his instinctive response. Shaking himself mentally, Breakdown warily stepped back from Swindle's bond.
He could not allow himself to drown in the otherness of Swindle's — of Bruticus' — bond. But Swindle had come to him. Not Dead End. Not Drag Strip. Not even Motormaster. The 'con who had never hesitated to sell out his own team for a pretty piece of shanix wanted Breakdown.
Minding the caution built on forty years of relying solely on himself and his brothers, Breakdown allowed his bond to open enough to speak to Swindle. ::. You said you need help. .::
Swindle hummed, pleased at Breakdown's query.
For a moment, Breakdown pondered if he should close his bond, for this was Swindle. Swindle, who had attacked Motormaster and nearly deactivated him were it not for the Stunticons—
::. I attacked him under Croft's orders. No better way to disguise the experiments she had conducted on him than by having Motormaster nearly die from an attack. .::
Swindle's directness surprised Breakdown, though he did not lower his guard completely. No one wise to Swindle's ways ever would lower their guard.
A guard that did not hide the anger Breakdown felt towards Swindle for hurting Motormaster. Orders or not, Swindle was no ally.
::. I may not be, but a truce is the only way your brothers can escape from here safely, .:: Swindle growled, his patience growing thin. ::. I couldn't get through to Wildrider— .::
Breakdown snarled, silencing Swindle. ::. You already tried to deactivate Motormaster— .::
::. Because Croft ordered me to— .::
::. — why should I trust you didn't attempt the same with Wildrider. I will force Menasor to sabotage his left leg if you harmed Wildrider— .::
::. I did not, .:: Swindle snapped. Affronted, cold frustration carried along Swindle's bond, bared so openly for Breakdown that he knew Swindle was being truthful. Truthful, for Swindle.
Breakdown stewed in his thoughts for a moment, before he gave Swindle a wary, ::. Explain. .::
::. I replaced Wildrider's neural patch. His delusions were amplified but so was his resistance to G.H.O.S.T's control virus. .::
::. You touched my brother's processor? Did you hurt him? .:: Breakdown stiffened as he bared his denta within the bond, though a siphon of fear shot through his fuel lines all the same.
The humans had used viruses on them?
Was that why his brothers, and himself, were so… docile… with these humans? With following their orders?
::. I had no intentions of such. I knew he was the best to pick to help us escape. Unfortunately, the humans reacted before I could utilize Wildrider to escape. .:: Swindle's words bit between them, a genuine anger directed towards the humans making Breakdown warily bristle.
If the humans had "reacted" to Wildrider what had they done to his brother?
::. Escape solely for yourself? .:: Breakdown asked as he tried to stifle his worry for Wildrider. He did not need Menasor to snap.
::. Well, yes, .:: Swindle vented, ::. Initially. I would use Menasor's destructive tendencies to escape, and you five would have come with me. .::
::. But the humans got to Wildrider before you could, .:: Breakdown surmised. Anger — Motormaster's anger that had carved out their relationship so early on — drawing the blue and white Stunticon's temper tight.
::. Yes. He is still alive, at this point. .:: Swindle hesitated, a sudden flash of fear-terror-hate-anxiety bridling off of the Combaticon. ::. If he cooperates, they will keep him alive. .::
Breakdown's spark froze.
He heard Menasor growl as the Stunticon's processor pounded with fear. Terrified at the idea of the humans discovering whatever it was that Swindle and Breakdown were doing — were they plotting? —, Breakdown stamped his feelings from Menasor, and dove into Swindle's bond instead.
In there, Breakdown could not describe what he felt.
Memories assaulted him, but of what he could not define but for an agonizing sense of physical pain. The sound of saws, drills, human voices, of Onslaught's voice, echoed inside Swindle's bond. It could not escape from Swindle, with that chasm between himself and the other Combaticons. It festered. Surged. Built up.
::. What have the humans done to you? .:: Breakdown whispered, the words coming before he could stop them, for he feared the answer. Swindle had already mentioned viruses, had implied the humans would kill Wildrider, what else were these humans capable of?
::. The very same that they are doing to Motormaster. Though he seems to be resisting more than I ever could. .:: Swindle sounded proud of Motormaster, a spark of pure, malicious spite aimed at Croft awakening at his statement.
::. What do you mean? .::
Breakdown suspected he already knew. How could he not? He felt it in Swindle's bond.
::. Torture. Plain and simple. I can't turn against them because of the coding they've put inside me. Croft wants to do the same to Motormaster. .::
::. They recoded you? .::
Swindle vented, his answer not needing to be verbalized. Breakdown shrunk inward, his anxiety heightening before he could help himself as he shuttered himself from his bond temporarily. Was that why the humans always escorted Motormaster from his cell?
To recode him?
::. Did these humans plant a virus in me as well? .::
::. Not one as strong as Motormaster's or mine. Dead End and Drag Strip needed stronger ones than what you or Wildrider have. That's what I told the humans. That he was crazy and would do what you four did, and you were too docile and meek to resist. .::
Breakdown shuddered, truly aware of the implications of Swindle's words.
They'd succeeded minutely, hadn't they?
Breakdown's chest plate pounded. Motormaster had punched Drag Strip when they'd first met Croft and her humans. G.H.O.S.T, Swindle called them. The Stunticons, as Menasor, had… attacked the Autobots. Had attacked innocent humans. Primus, what had Croft done to Motormaster.
Hatred seethed inside Breakdown.
Croft.
Menasor tilted his helm as his right leg hissed the human's name. He was the softest in the bond. The gentlest, behind his anxiety and paranoia. The mind that soothed Menasor and his components with unending care.
Croft.
Menasor stepped towards the catwalk subtly, his left servo clenching slowly—
Don't.
The new component. Bruticus' component.
A thread of soft, calming agreement originated from his right leg, stopping Menasor before Croft was aware of the shift in his focus. Narrowed optics watched the human, keeping track of her with wariness born from his right leg.
Breakdown gasped, his fans turning over rapidly as his consciousness slammed back into his own processor. He'd almost lost it. Swindle brushed bonds with Breakdown with a stiff order for Breakdown to focus, before he addressed Breakdown with a tired vent.
::. I was the one who turned G.H.O.S.T onto your trails. It protected my spark from being offlined, but I… realize my — our — deactivation is the end goal of these humans no matter what. I desire to live as much as you do. The least I can do for getting us into this mess is try to help you escape. .::
Breakdown listened, his helm tilted within the bond as he contemplated Swindle's admission. Swindle's behavior was so characteristically Swindle, part of Breakdown knew he couldn't be angry. But the other part, the part fueled by his emotions, wanted to lash out. It was Swindle's fault his brothers were trapped, and unaware. That Wildrider could be deactivated.
Could, if Breakdown didn't cooperate with Swindle.
::. What do you suggest I do, then? I cannot control Menasor, nor can I get into my brothers' bonds, even now. .::
::. Run away. To the Autobots. .::
Derision escaped Breakdown in a bemused scoff. ::. How? Do you expect me to ask Croft to let me leave? .::
::. No, .:: Breakdown could hear Swindle's optics roll, ::. You will volunteer for the mission Croft has. She will mention it soon. Volunteer and then flee to the Autobots. .::
Breakdown quieted, his derision leaving him in a gust of air expelled from his vents. What other option did he have? His brothers' safety and health came before all. ::. Alright. .::
Swindle vented, relieved.
Breakdown wasn't sure he could agree.
He had agreed to try and escape, but that did not guarantee he could. He'd do everything in his power to, though.
Breakdown closed himself off, allowing Menasor to take complete control.
Before the Lamborghini knew it, he was back on his own two pedes, Swindle standing to his side with the same tired, blank expression he'd had when he'd entered the training room. Drag Strip was standing, arms crossed as boredom lapped at Breakdown's field from the Pagani. Dead End was pointedly staring at the ceiling as Motormaster and Croft discussed their, to her opinion, improved combiner.
Offense at her implications was bitten back by Breakdown tapping his pede against the ground, his field and bond flooded with forced anxiety — as well as real, for the plotting Swindle had laid upon his shoulder plates — so that none of his brothers (who were loyal to Croft, he began to realize, thanks to that… virus) or Croft thought him acting unlike himself. He fell so firmly into his act that, if not for a kick to his pede from Swindle, Breakdown would have missed Croft addressing all of them.
"I need one of you to go on a mission with one of my agents—"
Drag Strip's servo was already raising, his mouth opening as his optics gleamed with excitement—
"I will."
Breakdown's brothers turned to stare at him, Motormaster with one raised optic ridge, Dead End with an expression that Breakdown well knew, even through the visor, was him congratulating Breakdown on his early death. Only Drag Strip looked annoyed, though he quickly deflated as Croft nodded, then gestured to a dark haired human who was staring up at them all from a spot nearest to Swindle.
Swindle greeted the new human — Schloder — with a roll of his optics before he turned and left where the human had entered. Drag Strip sneered down at Schloder as he approached the Stunticons, his expression what Breakdown could only describe as awed.
Strange.
Humans were so strange.
Schloder complimented them all, practically fawning over the Stunticons as Motormaster laid a servo on Breakdown's shoulder with a quiet "good luck" that made Breakdown double take. He met his brother's violet optics only long enough to see an empty fog in them that had Breakdown shrug Motormaster's servo off his shoulder with a nod.
Schloder was quick to get into Breakdown's driver seat, the human's hands weirdly clammy and wet when he touched Breakdown's steering wheel.
"Please, don't," Breakdown hissed through clenched denta before Schloder released his steering wheel.
A few moments passed where Schloder put in the coordinates for their mission (why Breakdown had agreed to a mission when he knew nothing of the details scared him, deep down), then asked, not ordered, Breakdown to drive. Breakdown vented before he rolled away, his mirrors tilted to watch as Croft and his brothers observed his vanishing alt mode.
Hours of driving with Schloder blabbing non-stop was driving Breakdown insane. He'd already answered every question Schloder could think up about the Stunticons, then had insisted on playing music over Breakdown's speakers at an audial breaking level. Schloder had only stopped when Breakdown had threatened to have Menasor electrify him with his sword. Multiple times.
Their route had taken them towards Palo Pinto, Texas, far from the G.H.O.S.T base of Witwicky, Pennsylvania, though they hadn't reached their destination yet. They kept stopping to let Schloder out every few miles for the human to "relieve himself" as Schloder had explained it. Breakdown had warned Schloder to cease making the Lamborghini stop at every fast food place for beverages, but Schloder seemed too excited to be riding inside a Cybertronian to think logically.
Breakdown could understand Dead End's apathy now, at least.
The prospect of deactivating to avoid Schloder was one he'd entertained, briefly, after Schloder had spent an entire hour singing to songs Breakdown knew Wildrider would have loved. Perhaps it was for the best Breakdown had volunteered, ploy though it was, for he couldn't imagine Drag Strip or Motormaster tolerating Schloder living inside their alt modes for long.
Getting rid of Schloder was essential, now that Breakdown had gained enough distance from the base.
"Hey, can you pull over?" Schloder suddenly interrupted Breakdown's musing. The human had learned to let Breakdown drive himself completely on his own quickly, and had remarkably kept that treaty the entire drive.
Breakdown pulled over, stopping at a small picnic area. Schloder thanked him as he got out, mentioning a need to stretch his legs. Breakdown sat, engine spooling up, and waited. Schloder turned his back on Breakdown, his strides carrying him towards a picnic bench. The man was approached by two humans, both of them gesturing towards Breakdown's alt mode. Breakdown froze, waiting as Schloder looked towards him, then back to the humans to begin blabbering away to them.
He was as distracted as he would get.
And Schloder was as stranded as he'd get.
With a furious rev of his engine, Breakdown shot away from his parking spot, narrowly grazing the car the two humans had driven up in, before he shot away. Wind roared over Breakdown as he raced away, his engine thrumming with the might of the speed Megatron had created him with.
The terrain was nothing to Breakdown as he roared over shrubland, highways, forests and mountain ranges. States flashed past him at three hundred miles per hour, his fear of being found by G.H.O.S.T forcing him to push himself beyond his sustainable limits. Rough ground slammed at his low suspension, rocks thrown up by his tires struck his undercarriage, and stress tore at his delicate engine.
Hours stormed by him as he fled. Schloder had to have long reported his odd behavior. Breakdown hoped Croft would not punish his brothers for his abandonment of her agent. His chassis could not handle the mental stress of knowing his brothers were hurt because of him, least of all as the physical stressors of his frantic flight across the states had already damaged him.
Breakdown's cylinder head gasket was leaking oil.
He could feel his engine splintering as he continued to push himself to his absolute limits.
Trees were nothing but a blur of color as he shot past them, weaving through traffic with expertise worthy of his team's name.
He just had to get within range to send out an encrypted emergency communication to the Ark.
The humans would know to look for him at the Ark, he suspected. If the Autobots allowed the humans near their home. Breakdown could not alert the humans to his presence until he was close enough to the Ark to escape whatever forces Croft had to have sent after him.
The sudden thought that she could have sent his brothers scared Breakdown, enough that he felt his engine tremor and burst. Smoke billowed from Breakdown as his tires locked up instinctually, his engine dying without his control.
Primus, he wasn't close enough.
The Ark was still an hour out, at his engine's limits. Multiple hours at much less speed.
Too far for a short range encrypted message.
He couldn't risk it.
In pain, Breakdown transformed out of his alt mode, and staggered to a copse of trees, where he slumped to the ground. A servo lay over his stomach plates with a grimace. He could tide out the worst of his engine's self repairs, but then he had to drive.
He had been resting, though he didn't dare actually rest for twenty minutes when Breakdown was jarred to his pedes by a pulsing in his gestalt bond.
From Menasor.
A threat.
He summoned his concussion rifle before ducking amongst the trees, a rash of anger coursing through him at his terrible lack of camouflage coloring. Where was Wildrider's gray when he needed him…
Menasor's pulsing wariness increased. Breakdown only ever felt this much when another combiner or its components was nearby. Or—
A sudden vortex of wind assailed the copse of trees Breakdown was hiding in, the heavy thud of rotors drawing Breakdown to look up.
Fear froze Breakdown, even as he felt his engine's concussive pounding growing ever more prominent as he recognized the tiltrotor that landed in front of him. The fusion cannon that lay so prominently on Megatron's right arm had Breakdown's processor collecting and spooling out the memories of when Megatron had nearly killed him with that very same fusion cannon.
"Lord M-M-Megatron," Breakdown stammered, his left servo snapping to his mouth as he bit down on three digits to prevent himself from saying another word. "I—"
Megatron was going to deactivate Breakdown. He and his brothers had murdered humans and injured Autobots. Megatron wasn't known for—
"Breakdown, easy," Megatron whispered as he kneeled down in front of Breakdown, his servo extended to him with an imploring, pleading look that darted away quickly. "You're alright, little one."
Breakdown's engine spluttered out, a wisp of smoke puffing from his fans as he gawked at Megatron. The huge Decepticon — former Decepticon? — looked soft. His optics were directed away from Breakdown purposefully, though a tiny glance from Megatron revealed layers of emotions Breakdown could not distinguish.
He blinked, bewildered.
This was Megatron? The same Megatron who had abused Motormaster and tried to kill Breakdown and his brothers?
Wary, Breakdown backpedaled from Megatron, his blaster drawn ever tighter to his chest plate. Logic told him that Megatron had defected, like the Stunticons had, but he could not forget what Megatron had done to his family.
A powerful jet engine roared behind Breakdown as he stared warily at Megatron, who hadn't moved from his kneeled position. Breakdown did not dare look behind him as he watched Megatron, until he heard Silverbolt's voice. Motormaster's best friend called to Breakdown before he saw the Concorde run to his side. Silverbolt's servos steadied Breakdown, his touch excessively gentle as Breakdown felt himself slump into Silverbolt's servos.
He was so sore.
Exhausted.
The Autobots had found him. He simply needed to tell them about his brothers and G.H.O.S.T.
"You need to return with us to the Ark." Silverbolt was already hefting Breakdown off his pedes as he spoke, the Aerialbot's alternate mode soon becoming Breakdown's makeshift transport.
Megatron followed behind them, his fusion cannon primed for threats. Megatron was… Protecting Breakdown. Protecting Silverbolt as well, as the Concorde zipped over the land at low altitudes that made Breakdown burrow his faceplate against the interior of the Concorde's cabin. He'd never taken a flight inside Silverbolt's alternate mode, and was not very keen on doing so again. He was a grounder, not a flier.
"Rest." Megatron's suggestion wasn't a command. Wasn't an order. But Breakdown heeded it nonetheless.
Breakdown awoke to a quiet, steady beeping and low, mumbled voices.
One voice was raised considerably higher than the other, a posh fury that had Breakdown snap his helm to look in the direction of the voices. Ratchet and Hook were standing near a monitor, while Hook was gesturing at Breakdown while his voice continued to raise.
"He had a virus this whole time? What if it infected Teletraan-1, or the medical equipment?" Hook's crane hook twitched, the wire spooling in and out with each word the Constructicon medic said.
Whatever fog that lingered in Breakdown's processor vanished at that.
He'd never been the personal source of Hook's rage within the Stunticons, but his brothers had multiple times. Motormaster had nearly crossed whatever line led to Hook unleashing his rage at least twice that Breakdown could recall, a fact that made Breakdown nervously shrink into his medical berth. He'd heard rumors of Hook's wrath, had never seen it fully played out, but all indications was that Breakdown himself was the cause of Hook's rage.
"We caught the virus in time thanks to Breakdown," Ratchet continued to speak, the familiar way he touched Hook's shoulder plate seeming to calm the Constructicon considerably. Hook's wire tightened while the medic's shoulder plates relaxed, his expression hard to read but for the scowl he sent in Breakdown's direction.
A scowl that turned darker as he interrupted Ratchet with a gesture towards Breakdown. "He's awake."
Ratchet hurried to Breakdown's side, a scanner in his servo that Breakdown looked away from instinctively. Hook hovered over Ratchet's shoulder, an unimpressed look on his faceplate.
"Sorry First Aid couldn't be here," Ratchet said, a grimace appearing across his faceplate for a second, "he and the rest of the Protectobots have been dealing with the aftermath of Philadelphia. I will conduct the exam as he would for you, tell me if you need to stop at any time."
A few questions from Ratchet finished the exam, before Ratchet leaned back with a tight expression that sparked with concern. Optimus Prime, Megatron and Silverbolt had joined mid-way through the examination, where Breakdown had explained everything he knew from his capture by G.H.O.S.T.
Silverbolt looked genuinely furious still, though the Concorde was amazingly skilled at not allowing his field to express that anger as he rested his servo on Breakdown's shoulder plate. Silverbolt was radiating comfort to Breakdown through his field in a way that felt so much like Motormaster, Breakdown's spark yearned for his eldest brother. For his family. (Especially with Megatron standing in the back of the medical bay, watching Breakdown with a worried expression).
Optimus Prime looked down at Breakdown, the Prime's intense stare (even though Breakdown knew Optimus meant genuine concern, he still found the Autobot leader intimidating whenever he looked at him) making Breakdown's fans turn on as heat raced through his chassis. "The Aerialbots told me what Wildrider had shown them through the gestalt bond before Megatron and Silverbolt located you. We did not receive the location where you five had been taken to from Wildrider, but the Autobots and myself have been looking for you since. I am relieved you, at least, have made it to the Ark safely."
Breakdown nodded, though he could not help but continue to shrink under Optimus' presence. Silverbolt's servo on his shoulder plate grounded Breakdown just enough when Optimus leaned closer, his large servo placed gently on Breakdown's opposite shoulder plate.
"This group, you said that Swindle called them G.H.O.S.T? What do you know about them?"
"N-n-not much," Breakdown whispered as he looked away from Optimus, only for his optics to land on Megatron, who had moved closer at Optimus' question. The crowding of the Autobots, Megatron and Hook froze Breakdown's glossa, the words he tried to summon becoming static that eventually had him duck his helm and lean into Silverbolt.
Silverbolt responded immediately with his free servo moving to rest on Breakdown's helm, his field soothing at the Lamborghini as he spoke to the gathered Cybertronians, "He's had enough. We can ask him for more later."
"I concur," Ratchet growled, "we can do our own research without giving more stress to Breakdown. Silverbolt, may you take Breakdown to the Aerialbots' quarters? I would prefer he have companionship."
"Of course." Silverbolt's field urged Breakdown to stand, a suggestion that Breakdown followed as if it was a command from Motormaster.
Silverbolt's servo lingered on Breakdown's shoulder plate as they walked towards the Aerialbots' quarters. Breakdown was thankful towards the Concorde for his unwavering support, especially when numerous Autobots popped out of the woodworks of the Ark to check on Breakdown. His anxiety spiked at each Autobot — especially when he spotted Sunstreaker, who Silverbolt promptly ordered to leave when Breakdown flinched and shuffled ever closer to the Concorde —, even when Red Alert and Inferno began to approach him. Silverbolt dissuaded them both away, though not before Breakdown noticed the deep concern in both of his friends' optics.
He tried to give both a reassuring smile, but all Breakdown could muster was a less severe set of his optic ridges. Red Alert got the hint and pulled Inferno away, leaving Breakdown to Silverbolt's side again.
"Thank you," Breakdown whispered. He stopped in front of the door to the Aerialbots' quarters, his gaze shifting to peer up at the tall flier. Silverbolt was one of the only Cybertronians that Breakdown knew who was taller than Motormaster. A height that did not, for once, intimidate Breakdown. He found comfort in the calm Aerialbot leader, even without Silverbolt's soothing field.
Silverbolt smiled, the servo on Breakdown's shoulder plate shifting to scratch at the top of his helm before he held the door open for Breakdown. Judging by the absence of all Aerialbots but for Skydive, who purposefully didn't look at Breakdown, the Lamborghini suspected that Silverbolt had warned his team through his gestalt bond to give them space.
Breakdown was soon settled on the couch that Skydive continued to occupy, with large blankets draped over his chassis. Breakdown nestled under the blankets, his optics shuttering as he settled into the quiet of the Aerialbots' quarters. A quiet that allowed him to dwell on his brothers, in a way that no amount of Silverbolt's soothing energy could calm.
"Breakdown?" Silverbolt questioned as he sat down beside Breakdown, his helm tilted in Breakdown's direction, though not so far as for his blue optics to be visible to Breakdown.
Skydive moved his servo to pat Breakdown's knee plating, a movement that made Breakdown startle at its unexpectedness. He looked between both Aerialbots, aware of the concern radiating off the team that used to be his enemy. Not that he wanted to ever have to be enemies with any of the Autobots again.
"My brothers are being held by those humans. I— I must save them."
"Not alone," Silverbolt growled, though Breakdown knew the growl was anything but angered. Protectiveness radiated from the Concorde's field, joined by Skydive's nod of agreement and a worried surge of a field.
"N-no," Breakdown agreed, "not alone."
Wiper fluid slipped from Breakdown's optics, which he rapidly attempted to wipe away, only for Silverbolt to pull him close with one arm and hug him. A squeak escaped from Breakdown as his processor froze at the sensation, though his spark had him curl up on the Concorde's side. A few moments later, Skydive shuffled closer, until Breakdown was nestled between both Aerialbots — two of his brothers closest friends and, thus, safe — with the rumble of jet engines soothing him to recharge.