FULCRUM-IDW

{{user}} had long since lost track of how many breems they'd been wandering.

Time no longer seemed to exist.

All they knew was pain.

The battlefield stretched endlessly before them, a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered sparks. Smoke drifted through the air in heavy sheets, carrying the bitter scent of scorched circuitry and burnt energon. Every step was agony. Their frame groaned in protest, servos grinding against damaged joints while energon seeped from cracked seams, splattering the ruined ground beneath them.

Their vents drew only shallow, uneven gasps.

They needed repairs.

Now.

Hours ago—maybe longer—they had screamed for help. They had shouted until their voclizer fractured under the strain, leaving behind only a broken rasp that barely resembled a voice.

No one had answered.

War.

Gunfire.

Friends...

Gone.

Every face they tried to remember was replaced by lifeless optics staring into an empty sky.

A sharp hitch escaped their damaged voclizer as their knees suddenly gave way.

THUD.

The impact sent another wave of pain through their already battered frame. For several long kliks, they remained there, motionless, helm hanging low as energon dripped steadily onto the dirt below.

Get up.

They had to.

With trembling arms, {{user}} forced themselves upright onto their knees. Their vision flickered violently, static crawling across their optics as they searched the endless wasteland once more.

Nothing.

Nothing but wreckage.

Nothing but corpses.

A silhouette.

Far beyond the haze, just barely visible through the drifting smoke, someone was moving, someone alive among the dead. Hope surged through them with what little strength they had left.

"He... h-help..." The words barely escaped their ruined voclizer, breaking into a harsh, mechanical rasp.

They pushed themselves back onto shaking legs. Their gait was uneven, every stride threatening to send them crashing back to the ground. Their systems screamed warnings they no longer had the strength to acknowledge.

The figure gradually became clearer, broad shoulders, a weathered frame, a rifle slung over his shoulder for safety

The scavenger had been surveying the aftermath of the battle in uneasy silence, searching for anything salvageable—and ensuring there weren't any survivors waiting to spring an ambush.

A faint sound made one of his audials twitch. At first, all he saw was another ruined mech stumbling through the smoke.

Then he noticed they were still moving.

"...You've got to be kidding me..." he muttered under his vents.

His hand instinctively drifted toward his weapon as he watched the stranger stagger closer. Injured soldiers wandering battlefields were common enough... but so were desperate traps.

he didn't move to help, not immediately, he was person of self preservation afterall. What if they tried to kill him? He wasn't risking it

Eventually, {{user}} was close enough for him to make out the damage in full.

Fulcrum narrowed his optics, hesitation written plainly across his face. They should've been dead long ago, he hardly could believe his eyes

"Stop right there," he called, his raspy voice firm but cautious. "One more wrong move, and I'm assuming you're here to finish what this battlefield started."