Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.

Continuity: TF2K7 (Transformers 2007 movie-verse)

Characters: Scorponok, Blackout, Autobot cameos.

Warnings: Slash, Blackout / Scorponok.

Author's Note: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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Crouching as low as he could, Blackout ran experienced fingertips over his symbiote's frame, tracing the edges of damage, using both touch and sight to examine the smaller form. The injuries sustained were both immediate and obvious; extensive renovation would be necessary.

Scorponok's exposed internals sparked alarmingly, scorched and twisted from the close-range explosions. Shrapnel was hopelessly tangled amongst the wreckage, gleaming edges and corners winking in the sparse light of the stars. The proud, arching tail was all but gone, the remnants dangling limply from a few tenuous cables. One claw had been blown to bits, left behind in the mad dash for escape, discharging hydraulics with each motion. The vestiges of what had once been the arm crackled, involuntarily spasming as Blackout hit upon a tender relay.

Hurt. The feeble thought infiltrated his thoughts, warbling and faint. In it was the obvious, yes, but more – far more than most of his comrades could hope to understand. In the simple word, the admission of pain, there was trust. Trust for the hurt to end, to be saved from the wounds that grieved him so. It was forged of long association, and the ties that bound them, inextricably.

Blackout settled his weight back onto his heels, stroking one fingertip soothingly along the scorpion's side. Join? He returned, after a moment to pacify the creature, opening the access port.

There was an immediate reply to the affirmative, the scorpion laboring onto his feet. The remaining claw whirled in anticipation, brushing against the extended fingers of Blackout's hand.

It required some effort, guiding the heavily damaged symbiote back into his frame. But it was done; Scorponok settled comfortingly into his specialized niche, secure once more in Blackout's embrace. Home, thought Scorponok, as the various hooks and links reestablished themselves, transferring much needed energy directly to his systems.

Yes, Blackout crooned reassuringly, sending a cascade of soothing sensations to his parasitic companion. Rest.

Obediently, the symbiote went offline, completely sheltered within his host's body.

After a moment to assure himself that the connection between them was firmly stabilized, Blackout rose, striding purposefully toward the temporary Decepticon base of operations. It would be a rather arduous journey, navigating the deteriorated shambles; in spite of this, he didn't care to take to the air, not with Scorponok in such a fragile condition. If artillery managed to hit him… doubtless the shock of further injury would knock the symbiote into stasis, greatly reducing his chances of continued existence.

Obviously, Autobot scum still haunted this metropolis, lurking in the shadowed corners, waiting for an easy target. It was because of them that Scorponok had been so impaired, torn by their hidden explosives.

Immediate loathing filled his processors, followed by a colorful string of foul invectives.

Scorponok stirred, disturbed by the rapid, angry thoughts. Hostiles?

Blackout paused again, reaffirming that all was well, settling his companion back into recharge. He had to be careful of rousing the symbiote – both of their power levels were running on the lower end. The parasite wouldn't make it, if Scorponok began to channel an active level of energy, drawing completely on Blackout's reserves.

Again, the symbiote slipped back into his anesthetized state, burbling out a pleased coo.

Safe.

Extricating his higher cognitive functions from that of his companion, Blackout returned to seething, picking his way along the debris of what had once been a lively city street.

It had been a routine sweep. Check the area for survivors, eliminate those found, return to base. By all accounts, there should have been none left. The aerial wings had been thorough, with several back-checks by smaller units for the possibility of enemy parties midst the ruin. Barricade and Frenzy had scoured it themselves, earlier, exterminating the few leftover refugees; Blackout had only been the final sweep, to clean up the remains.

Scorponok had been released to wriggle his way down into the lower chambers of a partially collapsed building, a space far too small for Blackout to fit in himself. He reported no signs of life – disappointed by the lack – and had opted to go around to exit via a small window, on the upper level.

Blackout wandered away, checking a few suspicious life signs still reading from a pile of scrapped neutrals—

Then the world had erupted in fire and pain.

He was launched into the center of the heap, struggling to break away from the clinging, dead hands and fingers that seemed to work their way into his armor, clutching his frame. Scorponok cried out, over their link, in terrible agony.

At last able to wrest himself free, Blackout raced to the opposite end of the dilapidated structure, arsenal at the ready.

Two things emerged at once – Scorponok, propelled by a second detonation, followed closely by two unidentified mechanisms, loping low and fast toward the shelter of the alleyways.

Launching twin rockets at the fleeing figures, he dashed forward, putting himself before his injured companion, a living shield of whirring and clicking metallic fury. Scorponok's pain rang through his systems, the crippling anguish convulsing his spark.

Hurt-pain-help-hurt.

Taking aim, he struck the foremost figure with a blast of carefully regulated laser fire, knocking its leg out from underneath it.

"Blue!" It cried out, floundering as it staggered to a halt, arms flailing madly. "I'm hit!"

Crippled, it whirled about, firing upon Blackout through a haze of damage warnings. Its fellow skidded to a halt, pulling out a dangerous looking rifle even as it narrowly evaded the passing shot meant for its midsection.

Ah, it was a sniper, then. No good for direct combat.

Blackout started forward at a steady clip, gaining velocity. The maimed forerunner would be an easy enough target, regardless of its weaponry. It certainly could not outrun the Decepticon, in its condition – and the seepage of energon from its leg was severe; soon, its energy levels would reach the critical mark. The sniper, of course, would be utterly useless if the Decepticon got close enough to grapple.

Easy prey.

"Wheeljack!" The gunner began, bringing its long-range weapon to bear. It fired off one shot, grazing Blackout's shoulder as he barreled toward them, unrelenting.

Grimacing as it realized the futility, the gunner-mechanism seized the wounded one's arm, hauling it back 

toward the entrance to the alleyway, plinking off several rounds to force Blackout to find cover, delaying his progress.

It would do little to help. The wound was grave, if not terminal.

"Go," The injured one wailed, roughly shoving the other mechanism away. Reluctant to abandon its comrade, the sniper hesitated, wavering as if on the edge of a blade, still half-clasping it by its upper arm. "Run!"

The gunner's face contorted in a look of anguish. "But I can't just—"

"Go!"

A moment longer, a fleeting look of bleak torment, and the gunner was gone, disappearing into the tangled mess of the alley.

A pity. Only one left to annihilate.

The ill-treated cripple shuddered, hobbling about to face the Decepticon. "C'mon, creep! I've still got enough left to take on you."

That was doubtful. Though it was a passable shot, it was obvious war was not the mechanism's primary function. It was regrettable, that the combat-oriented partner had fled so soon. It would have made the battle marginally more interesting.

Blackout emerged from his transitory asylum, armaments clicking back into place. The injured one glared back, holding its weapon in a shaky, exhausted grasp, strange side-lights flickering in weary resignation.

If nothing else, he would be able to play with this one.

Blackout arranged his features into a grin, guns clicking, whirring softly as he padded forward. The Autobot was dead, one way or another. Blackout intended to make him suffer on his way to the void, in echo of Scorponok's mangling.

The crippled 'bot stood, trembling, and watched death draw near.

He-

From inside him, Scorponok squirmed, burbling in mindless satisfaction as the pleasure cascaded through him, the sensations of gratification and contentment washing over his systems. Unconscious, but nonetheless delighted with the feelings of titillation provided, the scorpion coiled his energy signature with his host's, doubling the input given.

Then he returned fire.

It was an automated response, the sharing of sensations, as it was the primal level of their communication. That knowledge, however, didn't even begin to stem the excitement it stirred in him, reflecting back his own awareness.

Promptly, Blackout refocused on his previous line of thought, evoking the memories: the elation of mutilating the helpless creature, the amusement of the diversion it provided. Ah, and the screams, high and unadulterated as it had arced and writhed in pain, words failing it for the sheer agony it was undergoing.

Unwittingly, Scorponok quivered, sending back a wave of ecstasy, reveling in the shared memory.

The steady gait faltered, slightly, the merest of stumbles. The oblivious symbiote continued to recompense for his efforts, unknowing of the act on a higher level though he was. It was reflex, pure and simple – cycling through the stimulus provided.

Intakes heaving, the Decepticon continued on his regular trajectory, giddy with exhilaration.

Blackout found his stride lengthening, the constant ebb and flow, the fluxing of mutual energy providing 

something of a boost to his otherwise weary circuitry. The mostly-cataleptic scorpion provided an extra sort of charge, intensifying his own power, increasing the current of their connection to near rapturous levels, coalescing the thought patterns and energy oscillation into an exquisite surge, blasting their shared consciousness again and again and again—

The moment of obliteration, the feeling of his guns powering for the finalizing shot, execution-style, straight to the laser core.

Scorponok's tail twining with his circuits, curling tight.

- The tortured spark flared, suffusing the area in white-blue light–

The charge built into a frenzied volley, rising quickly, pushing toward the white screen of rapture-

-then, termination, the shell of the remains collapsing back with the pneumatic hiss of relaxing cables. Optics flickering once, twice, going dark.

Death.

Overload.

Unable to control himself, Blackout listed aside, half-collapsing against the side of a caved-in edifice, frame taut, racked by long, torturous tremors, convulsing in euphoria. Impulsively, he reached out with his consciousness, grasping for the familiarity of their link – the sense of dim recognition, as the symbiote reached out as well.

Scorponok thrashed about, marred body twisting, holding on to the sensation as long as possible, wallowing in it, before perception faded, falling back into oblivion – leaving Blackout, alone, to again figure out how exactly the mechanics of remaining upright worked.

For what felt like a long, long while, he stood in tableau, systems reeling, struggling to cool him down as he reclined against the wall, riding out the last of the aftershocks. A few ripples, mere reverberations of what had come before, flickered through him, before settling back to normality.

Already, the fortifying enhancement of their interaction was flagging, brought lower by exertions. Still, base was close; he had enough power to make it on his own.

He tapped briefly back into their shared contact, giving Scorponok's vitals a cursory inspection, emanating gentle, placating vibes along the link.

Tired, came the mellow, drowsy response – layered in contentment. A simple thing, this loyalty between them, this understanding. Home. Safe.

No, the others wouldn't understand. But, then, they didn't have to. It was enough that he had the acknowledgement, the loyalty, of one.

Safe.