Zepar was trying his best to retrace the group’s steps to return to the Salvation while carrying SideStep and guarding Gronius.
The medkit was within arm’s reach.
As Zepar and company traveled, the sounds of battle could be heard up ahead. The scratching of claws on metal, the screech of terrorocons, and the firing of a powerful rifle which echoed down the hall.
Song took it with one of her upper arms and made sure that the two were behind a barricade. She opened it and put it between the two quickly.
“Can you treat yourself? Do you need help?”
She said, quickly looking for the medicine that would help Greasemonkey.
Broadwing shrieked and took to the air, doing his best to avoid the shots. One blast however hits him solid in his lower body and he fell back to the ground. He transformed into robot mode, unsure what to do.
Torchwing limped up slowly behind Banzitron. With his attention entirely focused on Broadwing, he made one last attempt to do some damage. Using his long dragon neck to thrash down and bite down on his shouler.
Gronius continued forward, trusting his two partners to protect him.
Zepar decided to turn down a hallway with the hopes of going around the battle, wanting to avoid whatever was shooting that loud gun.
Torchwing succeeds in biting Banzaitron’s shoulder. The mercenary cries out in pain, before reversing his grip on his sword and thrusting it backward, hoping to stab Torchwing.
Greasemonkey begins to treat his injury: a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, which had left a burning hole in the metal and flesh at the impact site.
“I can take care of myself,” he says reassuringly.
Unbeknownst to Zepar, his decision may have saved him from a run-in with Lockdown, who was currently fighting a gaggle of terrorcons he had run into while exploring the derelict.
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She nodded quickly as she gave him all the needed medicine, before starting to threat herself.
The blade cut into Torchwing’s side like a hot knife through butter. The sword didn’t cut through anything vital… At least he hoped so. With a crippled foot and a bleeding chest wound, he was lefr with few options. He clenched down with his jaws even harder. Putting every ounce of his strength into his jaws.
Broadwing capitalised on Banzitron’s distraction and ran in for a solid tail jab.
It did not, but it was certainly no small papercut.
With a screech, Torchwing bites through the rigging connecting Banzaitron’s right shoulder cannon to his back, allowing the mercenary to free himself from the dragon’s grasp, though not without a great deal of pain. Having kept his eyes forward, he still had some time to react to Broadwing’s attack, quickly swinging his sword into the path of the tail.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was losing this fight, and retreat may be the best option to preserve both his life and perhaps retain some shred of dignity.
The materials in the medkit would slow the corrosion, which had begun to creep up her upper left arm. So far, the limb was still functional, if a little fragile and pained.
OOC: I actually got a plan for this…
IC: Torchwing shredded the remains of of the gun with his teeth, then fired a blast of fire at Banzitron.
Broadwing managed to duck under the blade swing and throw a punch into his gut.
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Both attacks connect, and Broadwing was in danger of being injured by Torchwing’s fireblast.
Burnt, somewhat mained, and missing about half his arsenal, an embarrassed and enraged Banzaitron decides that now was as good a time as any to throw in the proverbial towel. The transforms into his spacefighter alt-mode (which bore damages held over from his robot form, such as two missing ion blasters), and rockets out of the hangar.
Meanwhile, Thrift and the other workers in hangar thirty had defeated the other enemies in the area. The junkion merchant rests against a refueling platform, his right arm hanging out of its socket and attached only by a few cables. This… didn’t seem to bother him all that much, really.
“Phew, that was intense!” he comments. “Anybody wanna drink?”
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Torchwing tried to peruse Banzitron, but collapsed where he stood. Broadwing ran in to catch him. The large autobot commander was heavier than he looked. Especially in his beast mode.
“Somebody! Anybody! I need help here!”
Broadwing shouted. His voice echoed with panic, worry, and fear.
“Oh…” Thrift says, noticing the developing situation. He quickly retrieves some supplies from his ship and runs over.
“Hang on!” he shouts. “I’d normally charge ya for this, but here I’ll give ya my hundred-percent-off-life-or-death-scenario discount!”
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Broadwing gently laid his friend on the platform. His damages were extreme. His right food had been torn and shred to hell, both wings had significant damage, and the sword wound on his left side was sevear. Both his foot and side were leaking energon profusely. His chest rose and fell gradually with every pained breath. Broadwing stood over him, frying every circuit with worry.
Thrift works as best he can with only one arm and a surprising amount of medical knowledge- he was still no Ratchet or Forcep, though. Nonetheless, he seals the most grievous of Torchwings wounds to prevent the Autobot from bleeding out.
“Alright,” he says. “That oughta getcha by until you can get yourself to a real doctor.”
Torchwing groaned and coughed up a small bit of energon, still unable to stand.
“I’ll take him. Just tell me where the closet med station is.”
Broadwing said.
Actaeon mutters to himself about some vacation he wanted to go on, though his mission as an autobot came first.
Now he was needed and his only question was where.
Thrift nods.
“Forcep’s not far,” he says. “He’s treating folks defending hangar thirty-one.”
Motherboard continues to announce alerts over Salvation’s intercoms.
“Alert: terrorcons have breached containment on Deck 1; Deck 1, sublevels 1 and 2, Deck 3; and Deck 5. Alert: hostile Decepticon presence detected in Engineering, hangar thirty-one, and the science labs. Alert: hull integrity dropping to 94.6 percent. Port foldspace warhead batteries 2 through 12 inoperable.”
“She’s really not doing much for morale, you know!” an irritated Flyby growls, struggling to turn Salvation about. The derelict cruiser’s anchor cables still jabbed into her side, and the pilot was unable to acquire a target for the warp cannon.
“I could really use that thing right now!” he hisses angrily.
“I want squadrons deployed to keep the terrorcons from spreading further into the ship!” ■■■■■■■■■■■■ orders.
“Motherboard, target incoming boarding craft!” Topside commands. “I need gunners on those assault ships trying to flank us! Now!”
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Broadwing lifted Torchwing, granted with significant struggle.
“Just show me where to go!”
Broadwing snapped. His patience running a little thin.