He can’t ventilate.
His fingers are shaking. His knees are wobbling. There aren’t any errors on his HUD, but he’s quite sure something is wrong.
His spark flares and flickers. His helm aches. His vision’s on the fritz. There’s static in his audials. He doesn’t know what it is.
He needs to get away– go away. He needs– needs–
Hand on his arm.
He whirls, bats it away, draws his blaster, shouts “don’t touch me!” and snarls as his world spins and spins.
It’s Krok. Click-click. No. No click. Eerie silence.
Krok holds up his hands. Backs off. His optics gleam. He’s… worried?
Spinister can sense it in his field.
“Just… go away,” Spinister growls and ow, ow, ow, he didn’t really mean it. His helm hurts. He’s overheating. It’s too hot. It’s too–
“It’s just me here,” Krok says and Spinister blinks.
He’s right. The noise is gone. Crankcase isn’t complaining. Grimlock and Misfire aren’t playing their game. Fulcrum’s on watch where he should be. It’s… quieter.
Heat flushes to ice. He’s shivering. His plating is rattling. His fingers are still trembling and he’s… pointing his blaster at Krok? Slag. That’s not good.
“You want to sit down?” Krok asks.
And sitting. Yes. Sitting is good.
Spinister drops back down into his chair. His knees are grateful. He remembers to stow his blaster.
Krok finally lowers his hands. “I’ve got some midgrade in my subspace. You want it?”
“Don’t need fuel,” Spinister bites out. His vision is spotty. Audio sensors still glitching.
But it’s quiet.
Krok moves slowly, carefully. He sits next to Spinister, out of reach of all but his field. He doesn’t even stare, not directly.
Spinister cycles a rattling vent. “You could… talk?” He suggests. His fingers rap on the table – jerky, uncoordinated.
“Okay,” Krok says. “I’ll talk.”
He launches into a story. Something ridiculous and boring, but there’s a cadence, a rhythm. One Spinister can focus on, match his sparkbeats to.
And it’s good.
Spinister dims his optics.
Yeah, it’s good.