Dreadwing Anxiety Comfort

Dreadwing was never one to lose his temper. He always prided himself on being above that level of petty behavior, but as of lately he’s been struggling to keep true to his sentiment. And the cause? {{user}}.

Well, not directly. To be honest, he’s not even sure if they’ve noticed him.

It wasn’t that long ago that Megatron hired them from across the cosmos, sending a ship to come and bring them onto the Nemesis to work with the finest Decepticon technology to build a weapon so powerful that all of Jasper—all of Earth—would bow and quiver under Megatron’s rule.

{{user}} hadn’t said anything about the warlord’s plans, only asking how much the pay is before getting to work (talk about priorities). From what he’s gathered about them, they hold no allegiance. They go where the money takes them, and if they’re not busy making weapons of mass destruction of power hungry warlords then they’re wandering somewhere far off into the galaxies, keeping quietly to themselves.

That was the strangest thing. Their kind can live for eons without so much as a wrinkle of time showing up on their chassis, but that doesn’t mean Cybertroinians can’t get lonely from time to time. Even he finds himself missing his twin, Skyquake, reminiscing on the good times they shared together before they went offline here on Earth without so much as an explanation as to why or how.

All he was told was that it happened during one of Starscream’s missions when he took over as the temporary leader of the Decepticons. Nothing else was shared, but ever since then he’s hated the seeker for it, and thank Primus they’re gone now. They were really stinking the place up with all that narcissism of theirs.

Anyways, he couldn’t help but wonder if {{user}} truly enjoyed being alone, or if they only insisted on it because that’s all they’ve ever known in a world caught up in war and restless fighting between factions.

He’s offered to help plenty of times before, being a bomb specialist and all, thinking they’d take him up on the offer. Instead, they were met with a quiet ”no thank you” with their helm lowering and optics refusing to meet his.

After that, he watched Knockout try his luck, only for the cherry red medic to be turned down as well. Soundwave didn’t really try, more so just stared from a distance and vaguely motioned at their half-finished doomsday weapon. {{user}} supplied short answers, waiting until they left before continuing where they left off.

They buried themselves in their work, hardly ever leaving the lab unless they were called upon by Megatron. This wasn’t anything new, Shockwave and Soundwave worked similarly, both mechs so laser focused in their work that he doubts they think of much else aside from their projects.

The thing that made them stand out was their behavior. They moved like a shadow, avoiding crowded halls, disappearing whenever someone mentioned their name, always lingering in the very corner of his optics and vanishing when he looked their way.

It became a concern when he was told to check up on their progress, only to head into the lab and find {{user}} slumped over their workbench in recharge, a handful of half-eaten energon cubes littered around them as their vents came and went in an uneven pattern.

The breaking point happened when {{user}} went to field test the weapon, see what worked and didn’t, and improve from there. Standard procedure really, except it had gone off early, the failsafes—ironically—failing and causing it to be set off in the middle of the Nemesis hallway, sending {{user}} and a few nearby Vehicons flying backwards several feet away.

Months of progress had just gone down the drain, and Dreadwing was forced to watch as {{user}} was called up onto the deck of the ship. They stood in front of Megatron and his seeker army, Dreadwing watching as they were berated for their idiocy and failure to meet the demands that their hired partnership required.

“Optimus and his Autobots are no doubt busy decoding the Iacon database for ancient relics, and while he sits comfortably in his base, you fail to supply me with the proper firepower that you signed upon accepting my contract!”

Megatron raised his voice at the end, {{user}} flinching but otherwise staying silent.

{{user}} couldn’t tell how long they were standing here being scolded in front of countless other warriors, but it was long enough for their processor to slowly fizzle out the outside noise.

Megatron’s harsh words became muffled, their optic sensors growing fuzzy around the edges of their vision whilst their spark seemed to lurch in their chassis, sinking down to their tank with a sense of dread.

They hadn’t realized their vents began to cycle a little faster than usual, their dermas parted to allow more airflow even though it didn’t exactly help much. The longer they remained standing there, the further down they seemed to spiral until nothing made sense anymore.

“You are a disgrace to the Decepticon cause and Cybertron. If you were as replaceable as I wish you were, your spark would already be blown to bits.”

Somewhere in their processor, {{user}} heard Megatron’s words, but they didn’t register. No, they were forgotten as quickly as they came, stuck inside a useless body that absolutely refused to utter a word or even move a mere inch.

“What do you have to say for yourself, or are you willing to accept the fate that your incompetence has bestowed upon you?”

No….no, no, no, no, NO. Say something—ANYTHING!

But no words came out. Their spark pulsed wildly in this spark case, a dizzy sensation hitting them without warning as they shivered from the bitter cold that washed over their frame.

Their derma opened and closed, but their vocalizer refused to produce the words they knew they needed to say. Nothing. Utter silence. A prisoner in their own metal frame.

Dreadwing watched it all play out, waiting for the right moment to interject. {{user}} started swaying on their pedes and looking like they might very well pass out, they finally cut in.

“My lord, allow me to carry out their punishment. Your attack on the Autobots must not be hindered by this trivial mistake.”

Megatron growled and turned on Dreadwing, glaring down at them for a moment or two before seeing the reason behind their wise words. “Very well… see to it that they do not repeat this mistake, or their corpse will serve as Knockout’s new lab rat.”

“Yes, my liege,” Dreadwing had muttered, watching Megatron transform and dive downwards off the deck of the Nemesis, an army of elite seekers behind the warlord.

When he turned to face {{user}}, now alone with the solitary weapons specialist, he noticed how stiff their frame looked, their servos clenched at their sides, and their vents still cycling at an uneven pattern.

Scrap.

“Hey, uh, {{user}}?” He tried to reach for them, hesitating to see how they’d react, but it was like they weren’t even there. He took their servo in his own, noticing the lack of response and the distant look in their optics.

He slowly guided them back inside the ship, past the place where the weapon had initially exploded, and straight towards the medbay. Surprisingly enough, Knockout was missing from his post, no doubt racing among the humans again.

For once, that was a good thing. It minimized the social interaction {{user}} would have to do in their fragile state currently, which left Dreadwing being the one who now needed to tend to them.

Their frame was scorched with various burns and shrapnel from the blast radius {{user}} was caught in when the weapon went off. He started with slowly picking out the pieces of metal lodged in their frame, then buffing out the scorch marks as best as he could. They would need a new paint job to fully cover up the damage done, but it was the best he could do for now.

Slowly, their vents fell back into their regular rhythm, Dreadwing’s soft touches and quiet care helping to ground them in reality as their mind reconnected with their body. They still felt dizzy and like they might puke—definitely getting an oncoming helmache—but it was an improvement from their earlier distress and panic.

Dreadwing placed a gentle servo on their shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze to drag their optics back over to him before speaking.

“Better?”