Rung

The corridors of the ship had fallen into that quiet lull that came between shifts, when most of the crew had retreated to recharge or disappear into maintenance bays and personal quarters. Only the steady vibration of the engines filled the silence, a low, constant hum that seemed to echo faintly through the metal framework of the vessel.

Within that stillness, the modest office belonging to Rung remained dimly lit, datapads arranged in their usual tidy stacks across the desk, each one waiting for attention that would not come for some time. Normally the room carried an atmosphere of quiet composure, reflecting the calm and deliberate nature of its occupant.

That calm, however, did not extend to Rung himself.

He had noticed the discomfort earlier in the cycle but had dismissed it as a minor irregularity. Cybertronian systems were resilient things, and occasional fluctuations were hardly worth interrupting one’s duties over. Yet the sensation had only grown more insistent with time. Deep within his frame, his gestation tanks churned in a slow, unpleasant rhythm that seemed wholly out of character for their usual steady operation.

The disturbance sent waves of nausea spiraling through his processor, forcing him to pause more than once in the middle of reviewing patient records. Eventually the sensation grew sharp enough that he abandoned the datapad clutched in his servo altogether, rising from his chair with a faint wince as he braced one hand against the edge of the desk. His vision flickered momentarily, stabilising again as he attempted to gather himself.

“That’s… unfortunate,” he murmured under his breath, though there was no one nearby to hear the strained note in his voice.

The next convulsion came without warning. The tanks inside his abdomen twisted violently, sending a sudden surge through his systems that forced him to turn abruptly away from the desk. He barely managed to pivot before the reaction overtook him entirely. Energon he had refuelled on earlier was forced back up through his intake in a harsh, involuntary purge, splashing across the floor plating in a bright, wet spill that reflected the dim light of the room.

His frame trembled in the aftermath of the convulsion, vents cycling unevenly as he remained bent forward, gripping the edge of the desk while his systems attempted to settle again. For a few long moments he simply stayed there, motionless except for the faint shudder that ran through his frame as another weaker wave of nausea passed.

Eventually he straightened slightly, wiping at the edge of his intake with the back of his servo. Embarrassment flickered faintly across his expression despite the fact that the office was empty. The sight of the energon across the floor made him grimace in mild dismay.

“Well,” he said quietly to himself, voice rougher than usual, “that was inelegant.”

Unfortunately the disturbance did not subside. His gestation tanks continued to churn with unpleasant insistence, the sensation radiating through his systems in slow, queasy pulses that left his limbs feeling heavier than they should. Remaining upright began to feel like unnecessary effort, and after another minute Rung reluctantly sank back into his chair. One hand rested over the plating of his abdomen as though he could somehow calm the unsettled mechanisms beneath, his posture slightly hunched as he focused on regulating his ventilation.

His plan had been simple enough: wait it out, recover his composure, and clean the floor before anyone happened to stop by.

The door slid open before he could accomplish any of those things.

You stepped into the office with the casual familiarity of someone who had visited many times before, the faint motion of the door catching Rung’s attention immediately. At first your posture was relaxed, gaze drifting toward the desk as though expecting to find him in his usual state of quiet concentration.

That expectation lasted only a moment before your optics shifted downward and caught sight of the streak of purged energon across the floor plating. The stillness that followed spoke volumes. Your posture stiffened almost immediately, the relaxed ease draining from your stance as your gaze slowly lifted toward Rung himself.

He attempted to straighten in his chair, though the effort was far from convincing. The faint tremor in his servos was difficult to hide, and the unusual pallor of his plating made the state of his systems painfully obvious even from across the room. Your expression shifted quickly from confusion to concern.

Without saying anything at first, you stepped further inside, optics catching on to the strained set of his shoulders and the subtle way he kept one servo pressed against his abdomen.

Rung attempted a faint smile that did little to disguise his discomfort. “Ah,” he said weakly. “Hello.”

Your response was immediate, though mostly unspoken. You moved closer with measured steps, crouching slightly near the desk so that you could study him more closely. Up close the signs were even clearer: the sluggish delay in his movements, the uneven rhythm of his vents, the occasional involuntary twitch in the plating along his midsection as another wave of discomfort passed through his tanks. Your optic ridges furrowed as you took in the state he was in, the concern in your expression deepening as you straightened again.

Rung attempted a dismissive gesture, though it came out weaker than intended. “I wouldn’t characterise it quite so dramatically,” he said, voice attempting its usual calm cadence despite the strain beneath it. “My internal systems simply appear to be experiencing… temporary disagreement.”

Almost as if determined to contradict him, another churn twisted sharply through his tanks. The motion drew a quiet inhale from him, his hand pressing more firmly against the plating of his abdomen while his posture folded forward slightly.

The reaction was small but unmistakable, and you watched it with growing disapproval, your arms crossing briefly as though resisting the urge to immediately intervene.

After a moment you stepped closer, your expression settling into a quiet determination that left little room for argument. Your gaze flicked once more toward the energon on the floor before returning to him, clearly piecing together what had happened. The look you gave him then carried a mixture of concern and gentle reprimand—one that made it obvious you had already decided he was in no condition to be sitting here working.

Rung opened his intake as though to protest, but the words faltered as another faint tremor moved through his frame. He exhaled slowly, optics dimming slightly in reluctant acknowledgment that he had been caught in a rather undignified state.

You extended a servo toward him then, not aggressively but with quiet insistence, the gesture clear enough that it required no explanation. Your stance shifted subtly closer, ready to steady him if needed, the intention written plainly in the careful attention you gave his movements.

For a moment Rung hesitated. Being on the receiving end of such care was not a role he occupied often. His optics lingered on your outstretched servo, and though a faint note of embarrassment lingered in his expression, there was also something softer there—gratitude, perhaps, or simple relief that he did not have to pretend to be composed any longer.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly at last.

When he rose from the seat the motion lacked its usual grace. His balance faltered just enough that your servo closed gently around his arm to steady him, your grip firm but careful as you guided him away from the desk. He leaned slightly into the support despite himself, his systems clearly too sluggish to maintain their usual independence.