The Delphi medical facility had been abandoned for some time.
Only Pharma remained, left alone.
In the snow on Messatine.
The one peculiar room in which he stood, had exploded into a sea of rust. Ambulon and First Aid didn't look out of place, slouched against the redden crusty walls – their shells carved and void.
First Aid liked to believe he was a good shot, a potential recruit for the Wrecker's club.
But Pharma had put down that dream quite frankly, when the artillery-shells from First Aid's gatling gun had ricocheted off his thick sparkeater-skull, and a bullet pierced Pharma's hind leg instead.
After that, First Aid hadn't lived long.
The doctor, misplaced, walked with a noticeable limp around the facility. Still, in the empty, dusty nothing – Pharma had energy to spare, kicking around First Aid's corpse; despite his injury.
That brought him to Ambulon.
Pharma squatted in front of Ambulon, who'd long gone grey, devoid of nanites – the metal was surprisingly healthy, bendy, despite being surrounded by rust.
Pharma didn't care about that – the contagion, the sickness, which had taken everyone.
The disease was his own invention.
To spread ill-intentions was the compulsion of every sparkeater everywhere, each tucked away within their private recesses across the galaxy.
Pharma had fulfilled his interests at Delphi, as such a creature.
It was time to move on.
But first, Ambulon.
Stable and firm.
Despite Ambulon's spine being severed, sliced neatly by a chainsaw.
Pharma liked to think he killed like someone "civilized," not like the typical feral creature.
Not like a sparkeater.
And yet…
Pharma laughed.
"Lengthwise." His own private joke, whom he muttered to no one, in particular.
He – Himself was the only company he had, for quite a while.
He was lonely, but sparkeaters were a solitary species. He'd manage.
"I'll get over it, I think." He cradled Ambulon's head with both his hands. He stroked a claw down that deceased, shunkin faceplate – imagining there was another sparkeater, in front of him.
It was easy to do, with the face so paintless, eroded, warped, and scaley – Ambulon even smelled like one too – fat with decay. Pharma rubbed his cheek against Ambulon's, regretting for but a second in never having the opportunity to do so when Ambulon was alive.
Pharma hadn't hated Ambulon – compared to First Aid, he'd been a breath of fresh air – the only mech who'd sought out to talk to Pharma, on Delphi.
All of that was gone now.
His feelings towards the former Decepticon had always been ambivalent. Pharma had neither disliked nor cared about his co-worker – as long as work around the hospital got done, Pharma was a happy mech.
Not anymore.
There was nothing left for him.
His hands…
His claws had grown too long.
He typically kept them filed down of course, and he'd gnawed off the ever-growing tips, during the times he'd been alone . But now in an empty clinic, he had a moment to examine the magnum opus that were his hands.
A sparkeater's palm lacked dexterity. It was long and elongated like an animal's paw, with claws so sharp and spindly, that it was hard to pick anything up.
His hands weren't meant for mending and arts of creation, but for the rendering and destruction of the flesh.
It was a feature of Pharma's anatomy, which constantly clashed with his purpose.
He was a medic, a doctor, and he took pride in his reputation. It had taken him centuries upon centuries of cunning and adaptation – to become a sparkeater with a knack for surgery.
No one had ever gotten wise to his crimes, nor would anyone ever, with Delphi destroyed.
Done with his ruminations, he collected what he'd come for.
Ssssssiiiinnnn-kkkiiiiisssshhhh.
Ambulon's hands cleanly cut away – First Aid's too.
Without ceremony, he subspaced the hands, not worried if anyone found them on his person. It was common practice, almost a courtesy, to salvage the precious hands of a medic.
And Pharma needed salvaged fingers, on the regular.
Later, Pharma would pick and tweeze out the parts of each of those hands – which he used to maintain his manicured facade.
He'd replace the fingers attached to his sparkeater's paws – as often as needed, to appear normal, and to work his surgeries.
Sometimes, Pharma's sparkeater CNA would go crazy, overtaking the delicate internals found within each finger – and from the tips, claws would painfully erupt – and given enough time, his hands would warp and twist into useless piles of scrap.
With prizes in tow, he approached a peculiar door, one devoid of rust and containmention. It was the only place in the medbay large enough to accommodate Delphi's last and most troublesome patient – Fortress Maximus.
Not bothering with proper decontamination techniques, Pharma waltzed right into the room, intent on tying up Delphi's loose ends.
It was a shame really, how Fortress Maximus never recovered, locked forever within a comatose state. Frankly, Pharma was doing him a favor – ripping out his spark.
He could finally die, and restart over.
Without hesitation, Pharma connected a fingertip into a medical port attached to Fortress Maximus, activating a protocol to coax his spark-chamber open.
It was a spark Pharma had seen many times before, but familiarity didn't make the meal any less appetizing. The vintage pulse of energy was quickly seductive to Pharma, and he crawled onto Maximus's chest.
Passively, his talons tore and peeled into protoform flesh, each claw thin and pointed enough to slip past plating and their respective seam-welds.
Maximus was larger than a shuttle-class mech, and Pharma seamlessly slipped into the spark-chamber, as if it were a pool of water.
There he gorged himself. He dug down, like a rat, into the bowels of a corpse, and Maximus was painted in a wash of blood as Pharma wiggled deeper.
An impossibly white maggot.
Alabaster jaws split apart, cleaving into a double-pair of serrated mandibles – hooking onto the spark's core with ease. The core was wrestled outwards with an audible-pop, and the sound was a dinner chime to Pharma.
His saber-fangs held the spark-core in place, as he suckled the internal nectar dry like an egg yolk. Then, the remaining laser-core metal was swallowed whole in one giant gulp.
Strangely, it was an unsatisfying meal to Pharma.
Fortress Maximus's spark had been chock full of energy – but it had been as tasteless as a clay paste, devoid of much substance. The spark had looked large and inviting, but it was nothing more than a rotten fruit with a thick watery skin.
'That mech hardly had any life-energy left.' Pharma mused. 'Sad. I really did do him a favor.' Pharma toyed with the idea of eating the protoform-flesh of Maximus's arms and legs – each energon-rich and typically good.
But when Pharma bit down, the taste was bitter and rancid. Congealed-lines of a mech's atrophied muscles weren't a good delicacy to eat – the texture was slimy and green.
The mesh-metal meat was meant to be fresh purple-blue, crisp and shiny, like an apple skin – but it had become a rancid oily mush – sticky, and orange with heated rot.
Within his belly, Fortress Maximus's spark sat burning like a smokey pile of wet greenwood. The energy snapped painfully, unraveling at odd intervals, melting unevenly into a sickening, hard-to-process goo within his tanks.
His mouth became smokey with white puffs of exhaust, as a nasty chemical reaction churned within his guts. He felt like he could breathe fire…
'It's not fair.' While the spark had been large and tantalizing, Fortress Maximus had made him sick. 'So unfair.'
Pharma stewed in his burgeoning self-pity.
'I didn't anticipate becoming sick.' Though, Pharma supposed, that was the attitude of the majority of mechs who'd ever stepped foot into a hospital.
"Disssgusssthing." Pharma hissed, instinctively wanting to purge – to vomit away every single particle of ill-gotten energy – but even as disgusting as the meal had been – Pharma wasn't the type to waste a life.
Every mech was created with a purpose – especially his food.
And the unsatisfactory nature of Maximus's spark left Pharma craving more. 'When was the last time I've eaten property?' he asked himself.
That's when Tarn…sent him a message…
It must've been divine-intervention by Primus's hand. Pharma's optics bulged, as he realized…
He would be eating well tonight – very well – if he played his cards right.
There was a reason he'd never seriously considered eating Tarn until that very moment, however.
Despite being a sparkeater, Pharma was lithe and sharply sleek – his body was geared towards the swift pursuit and decapitation of prey.
Theoretically, he could grow larger and more armored than Tarn, if given enough time and energy – but like with most things in life, such luxury did not come freely to Pharma.
His tenure at Delphi's medical-facility had left him skinny, starved, and stressed. Though he was a sparkeater, he would be hard pressed to prove himself as one, in combat.
And if he was being honest with himself, Pharma liked having an excuse – Tarn's T-cog deal had given him the courage and motivation to eat more than the odd spark on occasion.
And with the recent disaster that was the "Red Rust Outbreak," the past week had allowed Pharma to feast – to gorge himself to stupid levels.
Finally, after decades of wanting – his fuel tanks were full.
And Tarn was coming, for his expected T-cog surgery.
And it would be his last.
…
…
…
Pharma was giddy with excitement, and he ran around in circles as he considered what to do.
'What's the plan of action?' he asked himself.
On impulse he reapproached Fortress Maximus. The mech looked the same as he had been earlier, comatose and motionless, albeit with a lot more blood…everywhere.
Admittedly, he was a messy killer, having splattered energon up to the ceiling. But Pharma liked to think he was more "creative and civilized," than the average sparkeater.
Having done the same procedure a thousand times before, Pharma sunk his claws into the bottom right-side of the mech, just above the hip. In a moment, in a glorious splatter of viscera and broken wires – with both hands, he wrestled free his newest prize – a T-cog – but much larger than what Tarn, nor any mech, could hope to use.
The T-cog was a beautiful bronze ball, pocketed with ancient cybertronian-runes not even Pharma was familiar with.
He held the last remaining T-cog tightly between his claw tips, the golden gyrating globe…which had been his salvation…for so long… from Tarn and his lackeys…
Understandably, he wasn't keen to let it go.
The organ clicked and whirled as Pharma toyed with the delicate mechanisms. The greasy metal almost teased apart into several different pieces.
Pharma's claws itched against the buttery-smooth surface.
It felt so good to hold, so familiar, like a spark.
Tarn would be there soon, expecting a crate full of no-less and no-more, of twenty-five T-cogs.
The number was enough to make Pharma stifle a bout of laughter; instead he coughed, splattering a mouthful of energon across a nearby wall.
His jaws yawned open in contemplation – and his saber-fangs eagerly stabbed into the T-cog to carry it easier. His mandibles stretched over it, giving him the appearance of fat, puffy cheeks – like a squir-whirl hoarding nuts and bolts.
'Oh Tarn, it was fun while it lasted.' Pharma sighed, as he rolled the T-cog against his tongue – it tasted like a delectable caramel sweet.
Pharma saw it as the perfect parting gift – for Tarn.
'Finally, I can eat Tarn, that mewling Decepti-tyrant.'
The dumb, confident, and egotistical side of Pharma glistened onto his person – his dangerous expression morphed towards an elated feeling of triumph and hunger.
Teeth – countless cutting wedges of misery – clacked against the gums of Pharma's own snapping maw.
It was time to leave Delphi.
He slouched down onto all-fours, slightly too excited to meet Tarn again.
His back bristled with spines and a layer of scales, which melted seamlessly into his person – it's how Pharma had always looked, but only in that very moment, did Pharma feel like a sparkeater.
He'd been a medic, a doctor, a civilized person – for far longer, than he'd ever been a feral creature.
Or so Pharma liked to think. But the beast inside him slipped easily into his voided, empty spark-housing, carving a perch for itself within Pharma's chest.
Pharma snarled as he leaped forward, the noise muffled by the T-cog clenched within his teeth. The smooth bronze and pocketed sphere sizzled deceptively like a spark against his tongue.
As he ran, he'd drooled droplets of brown ick and green sludge onto the ground.
…
…
…
He spat onto the ground. The T-cog clanged into tile-alloy flooring, almost rolling away, until Pharma caught it with his foot.
…
…
…
Pharma vomited onto the ground, just a little. It was a crawling dark green liquid, almost black. He swore he saw his reflection, his face, in the goop; but, did sparkeaters have those?
Of course they did.
They must've.
But Pharma didn't remember seeing his own face.
Not recently, no.
He wondered what he looked like as he rose onto two feet again, becoming more of his old self, a doctor, and not some feral creature.
Not someone.
Who was actually excited to see Tarn.
'At least I won't have to mop these floors, ever again.' Pharma tried to laugh off his embarrassing reality-check. He stumbled around his mess with shaky uncoordinated steps. He lacked his typical grace as he weaved down the hallways on strange new legs.
Something had happened.
His legs felt longer, more grasshoppery with a kick and a flourish.
The talons of his feet-peds had grown sharper, and the claws felt misshapen, somehow. He moved and lifted a leg. Pharma saw that each toe had grown serrated hooks.
Pharma remembered then, the dangerous purpose of his talons. The serrated bottom-cleats were meant to peel away armor-plating from a mech's flesh.
'Looks like Tarn is going to offer a remedial course on how to be a sparkeater again.' Pharma guffawed, as he stretched out his new legs, becoming twice his typical height.
'Maybe I'm taller than Tarn now?' Though there was much doubt if Pharma would have the muscles to match Tarn's ire.
Instinctively, he knew such dangerous prey could break him in two, like a toothpick.
If he made one wrong move…
His feet-talons flexed, now as dexterous as a hand. Experimentally, he picked up the T-cog sphere with his new elongated talons.
The sphere was the size of his head, but he lifted his leg upwards and side to side without issue. He threw it into the air, only to catch it midair again.
He repeated the action, until bored.
Clllooonnnkkk.
Then he kicked the T-cog down into the ground, humming in satisfaction as it pulverized the clinic's tile-alloy flooring. Pharma whistled as he kicked the T-cog down the halls, toying with it like a ball.
Eventually, he came to the door he typically met Tarn at, nearby the basement-level.
Near the morgue.
A place with a berth, prepped for surgery.
With both hands he picked up the T-cog, holding it above his head as if it were a revered artifact.
…
…
…
He stared at the door, hesitating to open it.
Pharma had questions…considerations…about Tarn.
'Is he desperate for a surgery, this time?' Pharma hoped so, if only to see Tarn's perceived authority crumble away, in front of him.
He recalled how he'd specifically designed the red rust virus to botch Tarn's transformation abilities.
And he giggled like a mad hyena at the idea of Tarn crusting away into a red puff of wind – if he so much as twitched a transformation-component.
It was contagious, and there was no cure.
Pharma had no need to make one.
A sparkeater rusted naturally.
'I wonder, what does Tarn's spark taste like? His spark sings notes so cryptic and brutal.' Pharma licked his lips. Every mech had a unique flavor. 'Maybe it's wine, the finest pre-war vintage.'
Pharma was eager to get started.
:"Oh Tarn? You don't typically have me wait so long. What's going on?": He dared to commlink Tarn, relishing in the feeling that their whole little "T-cog Exchange," was null and void, as of that very moment.
Feeling uncharacteristically plucky, Pharma danced around on the balls of his feet.
Technically, "Tarn's deal," had been null and void from the very beginning.
But Pharma liked a good challenge – no, needed a challenge.
All sparkeaters did.
Such antics kept him young, sharp, and in check.
A sparkeater without a distraction was a very dangerous creature.
…
…
…
After some time, Tarn never commlinked Pharma back.
…
…
…
'Surely, Tarn saw all the red rust contamination on the outside walls.' Pharma's earlier gusto withered away, and he held the T-cog away from his person, as if it had offended him somehow.
'Tarn wouldn't be dumb enough to step foot inside Delphi, now would he?' Pharma tisked.
His mouth frothed with sarcasm, when he commlinked again. :"Aren't the rusty walls just so so inviting, Tarn?":
He struggled not to laugh. :"Come inside, out of the cold. I'll fix you right up, promise.":
Laying the sarcasm on so thick no doubt got Tarn's attention. This time, Tarn replied. :"I doubt you have my best interests today, doctor.":
There was a noticeable pause. :"I expected you to be dead. Good to know you're not. Have my T-cogs ready.":
Pharma cackled with a fresh madness.
'Good ol' Tarn. His audacity I won't soon be forgetting.'
:"Come inside. I'm right by the door.": Pharma looked from the door to an empty space besides him. :"The T-cogs are all here. Twenty-five, correct? Come, pick the crate up.":
…
…
…
:"Doctor, it's your job to make the delivery. Keep me waiting and you'll regret it.":
Pharma snorted, rolling his sparkeater-white optics, as he read the message. Automatically, he sent a reply, wanting to draw out the conversation longer…
He wasn't lonely…
:"Do I look strong enough for the job?" This crate is heavy!": Pharma whined, on the very slim chance it would coax Tarn inside.
…
…
…
Pharma got no reply, and he took personal offense to the silence.
…
…
…
Furious that he was ignored, he ripped open the door.
He half expected Tarn to be standing on the other side. But when Pharma stepped into the snow…no one was there…
"Tarn?" he crooned, clutching Maximus's T-cog close, as if it were secretly a weapon. "Tarn!" he yelled again, louder to carry across the windy snow.
He stood there for sometime, feeling like a fool.
He subspaced his T-cog, suddenly not wanting to bother with the useless trinket.
He watched as snowflakes draped around him like a cloak.
"Why doctor, your colors are all gone!" Tarn called back, his tone surprised. Pharma had scarcely a second to recognize Tarn a few meters above him, lounging atop Delphi's rooftop.
The purple mech stood out obnoxiously against the backdrop of a blizzard. Tarn was dressed in a gaudy and bright yellow hazmat, and it was such a jarring difference in appearance – that Pharma had trouble processing Tarn's words, distracted as he was.
Instinctively, Pharma crouched lower, into the snow.
"I didn't see you, buried as you are." Tarn couldn't make his annoyance anymore clear. "Why the change, doctor? You're pure white now – even your eyes. "
Tarn chuckled bitterly, a sing-song mocking tone.
"Pharma, don't tell me – are you trying to hide?" He pointed towards Pharma with one of his arm-cannon attachments – the gun-lights flickered with the barest hints of an electrical charge.
Pharma seethed, at Tarn's uncalled for gesture.
Both of them had been perfectly polite, up until that point!
What was Tarn's deal!?
"Put that away! Before you make a miss-sstake, Tarn!" Pharma screeched, a very bestial noise, and his wings shimmered like swinging, undulating knives.
But before the fight could be stopped, it began.
A blast of purple-pink energy eviscerated the ground Pharma had been standing upon – sending him careening into the air.
He'd been flung up high, through no power of his own – until his ped-thrusters automatically activated, boosting him well-above the cloud layer.
Pharma's pure white body was marginally more visible against Messatine's foggy grey storm clouds.
And Tarn appeared well aware of such a fact – Tarn activated a gatling gun, sending a hailstorm of bullets Pharma's way.
Prepared to be a peppered hull of scrap metal, Pharma screamed, an animalistic sound of fear, and death.
But Pharma surprised himself again – his sparkeater-coding sprung to life and he became not quite himself.
His eyes clouded over, his fans hitched and whirled – he hovered midair.
And dropped.
The bullets buckled against his body. Denting armor, but most didn't go deep enough to injure.
He felt chewed apart as a beam of purple-pink energy exploded into the clouds.
The dangerous color hid Pharma's brand-new black energon stains – a side of his was gushing apart.
Momentarily, he was blinded.
And in freefall.
Pharma was too scared to panic – too lucid as snowflakes battered his face.
Tinktinktinktinktink-ticktickticktickclick!
More bullets, and they nicked cruelly against Pharma's neck and belly.
Tarn's aim was true – and seeing how the gatling gun appeared ineffective, he switched to two other armaments secluded atop his shoulder-plates.
Heavy artillery-shells careened across the sky, towards Pharma's position.
Involuntary, Pharma's wings sprung to life behind him. The solid metal wingtips splintered and transformed within a nanoclick.
The metal warped and pulled – becoming not feathers – but a hellish growth of bladed needles. The wings melded seamlessly into Pharma's backside and spines – and he resembled a porcupine, called from the depths of hell.
He felt something more elongate behind him – it wasn't a bird-tail – though it felt like one as countless daggers exploded outwards from his flesh.
Fresh black energon splattered everywhere from Pharma's transformation – painting the snow below him with a grizzly color. He screeched in blinding-white agony, and he continued falling from the sky.
His wings flapped behind him, but were seemingly useless for flying. The countless sharp needles slid off the wind currents, like slippery, wet feathers.
The artillery-shells grazed his position – the metal impossibly hot as the bullets sizzled by like meteor-comets.
Throooooommm. The ground erupted again, but Pharma was still in the air, dodging the scorching shrapnel of stone and ice.
Twwwiii-nnngg! An irritating ringing assaulted Pharma's audials, and finally he planted his feet firmly against the ground – his hind legs buckled to his knees, and he dropped onto all-fours.
He took a moment to breathe, to steady his circuits…
Pharma desired to stand, to look Tarn up into his optics – but a nagging pain in one of his hind legs reminded him of his earlier injury – the injury First Aid had given him.
Livid, and beyond anger – Pharma took his chance to retaliate.
He didn't give Tarn time to change position as he shot forward from the snow.
His sparkeater-coding guided him in a definitive pouce towards Tarn. His hands and legs burned as he met the hard rooftop of Delphi.
Tarn.
Blindly he slashed at the mech.
The rattling-spew of a gatling gun washed over Pharma again – but this time he was prepared.
Bratatata-bratatata!
The bullets did nothing.
Pharma's hellish needle-wings had clasped tightly together against his backside and wrapped protectively across his belly, like a swaddling cocoon.
Bratatata-bratatata!
If Tarn was the slightest put off by Pharma's transformation, it wasn't communicated. Another hailstorm of bullets peppered Pharma.
Rightfully furious, Pharma snarled, his saber-fangs shining with Tarn's yellow and Decepticon-purple reflection. Delphi and Messatine were both devoid of color as Pharma charged forward – towards yellow banana peel Tarn.
Bratatata-bratatata!
Pharma's hands hummed with a magnetic-field.
Sparkeater telekinesis blazed against his palms, and finally – finally – bullets were sent flying backwards, towards Tarn.
The mech got a taste of his own medicine, as his bullets were sent flying back into his faceplate.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The bullets ricocheted off Tarn like firecrackers.
Pharma wasted no time in spotting the softest looking part of Tarn.
Ssssshhhrrriiiiccccccckkkkk- snap!
Alabaster jaws clamped down hard – Tarn's thigh – gushed with blood.
To add insult to injury, Pharma had bit below a layer of ballistic-plating – which would normally protect the thigh and a mech of Tarn's caliber.
But Pharma was a doctor, a medic – he knew his anatomy.
And the odd places to take advantage of.
He knew all about the strangest types of injuries – which could fester in the most unexpected of places.
Leg rot.
Thigh decomposition.
All potentially, from the smallest bits of shrapnel.
Pharma flailed against Tarn's leg, his jaws pulled so tight in lockjaw, that he was unable to let go.
…
…
…
Pharma tried his best, to whittled away at Tarn's leg. He was unable to pry his own jaws apart – it was an embarrassing situation to be in; but, that didn't mean Pharma couldn't swallow down the flesh already inside of his mouth.
…
…
…
It was hell, borderline impossible – to wrestle the meat down his throat, without choking. The mandibles on the sides of his cheeks worked to nibble himself free – free from Tarn's leg.
…
…
…
Tarn responded predictably.
Tarn's claws tried to rip out Pharma's throat, but a mane of needles naturally grew from a sparkeater's neck, halting Tarn's attack with a broken, stinging cluster of needles against his palm. Pharma was coiled firmly around the meat of Tarn's leg – no doubt, unbalancing the mech.
Tarn did the next best thing.
His fist impacted Pharma's skull – over and over.
As Tarn expected, his punches began to cave in Pharma's skull, down to the processor.
Pharma was in agony, but he was unable to let go.
Not wanting to die, Pharma flew both his arms upwards – grappling Tarn's shoulders as best he could from his awkward position – glued to Tarn's leg.
Tarn's other hand intercepted Pharma's claws, when Pharma cheekily attempted to slash Tarn's neck apart.
Pharma panicked, using his other slashing hand to free his arm from Tarn's crushing grip.
Tarn twisted, trying to break Pharma's arm in two.
Trying.
Trying.
But the graceful metal wouldn't bend.
Click – click – zooo- oom!
Suddenly, Pharma's single turbine-engine sprung to life, nestled between Pharma's wings.
It was an odd piece of hardware, possibly unique only to Pharma, out of all the cybertronians alive.
That little factoid is possibly what made Pharma successful – as he turned himself into an unconventional missile against Tarn's leg.
His turbine screeched with a disorienting amount of noise and billowing flames.
Crrrkkk.
With the ease of gravity.
Snnniii-ccckkk!
Wet and sticky.
Tarn's leg gave way.
Tarn panicked, shooting off a round of artillery-shells from his shoulder-plates.
Pharma remembered, last minute, that he also had high-caliber guns tucked away within his shoulder-plates.
He would've smacked himself in embarrassement, if the stakes weren't so high.
Pharma shot his guns – the artillery wasn't anything fancy, just the bare minimum, which is why Pharma forgot about them in the first place – but the countering force was enough to meet Tarn's artillery head on.
Tarn and Pharma – exploded apart.
Tarn flew off the roof, careening into soft snow.
Down below, Tarn's leg was twisted, but remained attached to the meat of his body – given enough time and attention, it would heal properly.
Additionally, his chest had burst open with an audible puff of brown exhaust, but no energon flowed outward.
His armor had protected him.
By all accounts, Tarn was okay.
His yellow hazmat-suit was completely disintegrated, and seemingly casual about the situation, he brushed the soot off, desperate for some normalcy to cling onto.
…
…
…
In turn…
Pharma landed hard against the roof, accented by a fresh squelch of blood. Tarn's artillery-shells exploded against him and Pharma was sent careening through the rooftop.
Down.
Down.
Into Delphi.
Ssssssssss-hhhhh-hhhhissszzzzz…
Tile-alloy exploded against Pharma's backside, and he howled in a startling cold lucidity – his spinal-struts had twisted in multiple opposing directions…
He couldn't feel a thing.
Pharma couldn't think.
His reality was a single focal-point of pure unadulterated screaming.
Delphi's ceiling was conspicuously missing above him. Pharma blinked his eyes, pained by the sudden wash of sunlight which warmed his tormented skin.
He didn't remember…
Who he was…
…
…
…
Then an "angelic voice" broke through his haze of confusion. It was a hot rumbling turmoil – which reminded him that he was alive – that he was Pharma.
…
…
…
"That was an impressive fight, you know."
…
…
…
"I expected it to be quick and easy."
…
…
…
"That poor little cowardly Pharma would run away."
…
…
…
"I expected him to buckle and to break."
…
…
…
Pharma could scarcely comprehend who was standing over him, just that a silhouette was blocking out what scarce comforting light he already had the good fortune to receive.
…
…
…
The "angelic voice" was quiet now, as if expecting Pharma to respond.
"Why isn't my death-song working on you, Pharma?" Tarn asked. Pharma's optics widened. The "angelic voice," had been Tarn.
'Figures, the one good thing in my life, in a long time, just ended up belonging to another monster.'
"Tarn. Sing." Pharma couldn't muster up anything more, besides those two comprehensive words.
"Tarn. Sing."
Tarn appeared to get the message – he proceeded to sing again.
It was a death-song.
Rumored to suffocate a mech's spark.
But the eldritch-symphony spilled onto Pharma like a refreshing cup of water.
Tarn angelic voice lit up Pharma.
The sensation was a sobering fire.
Which ironically, made him feel alive.
Pharma's consciousness crawled into the corner of his optics – peering at Tarn above him – hoping to catch a glimpse of horrifying red eyes.
As Tarn tried to kill him – in perhaps the kindest way possible …
Pharma pondered the following questions and more.
'What is a spark to a sparkeater, besides dinner?'
'What is Tarn's song, besides a show?'
Pharma decided that he would quite like both – a dinner and a show.
As Tarn sang him back to life – Pharma had gotten his most devious idea yet.
He just needed Tarn to get closer.
"Tarn. Sing. Close-er." Pharma spoke. "Sing. Close."
His words felt like magic spells, amplified by Tarn's angelic voice.
"Close. No. Hear." Pharma spoke, again. "Sing. Close." His sparkeater-voice was accented with a hypnotic warble.
Eventually, his begging worked.
Pharma's fans swelled, when Tarn was kind enough to oblige his request.
He almost felt bad, for what he did next.
Tarn was singing a song of life.
To destroy it would be a crime.
Pharma activated the swell of tentacles locked up tight within his spark-chamber.
Using a tentacle, Pharma subtly threw what he'd wanted to give Tarn earlier…
His parting gift.
Clang!
Tarn bent down close…and…
A fresh T-cog clattered by his feet
It was larger than the average T-cog.
Unclean and broken in two.
'How curious.' Tarn thought.
Seconds ticked by, and Tarn didn't think anything of it – when he went to go pick up...the pieces...
Big mistake.
Pharma lunged. Within seconds, Tarn became engulfed in Pharma's embrace. His tentacles locked Tarn's arms together, and eventually, his legs.
Despite Tarn's size – his legacy – his strength.
He could do little as Pharma ripped out his spark.
Tarn had been too surprised to move away, fast enough.
…
…
…
After a time, Pharma closed his eyes, tucking his head within Tarn's glaringly empty spark-chamber.
He was being lulled to sleep, by Tarn's song, nestled deep within his guts.
Pharma didn't know how long the angelic voice would last.
'Good show, Tarn.' That was perhaps the only compliment Pharma had ever given the tyrant.
He would enjoy it.
He would remember it.
The fight – the song – everything.
At Delphi.
"Encore." He whispered, to no one in particular.
Sunlight washed over his body in a heavenly glow.
But.
There was no light within a sparkeater – just an aching hammering darkness.
Delphi's ceiling would be missing for the foreseeable future.
Pharma chewed Tarn apart.
With alabaster jaws.