Tarn knows there was no escape, but at least here, at the very end,
he will take Megatron down with him.  His men are dead.  The
battlefield is deserted.  There is nothing else.

“Do it!” he snarls.  “At least I’ll die a Decepticon!”

Megatron rips the mask from Tarn’s face and seizes him by the
throat, lifting him off his feet.  That voice that he’s played over
and over again, that he’s heard in his dreams, whispers to him one
last time.

“Everything you did was for nothing.”

Just as Tarn’s
vision begins to black out, a hand thrusts through the forcefield,
gold and red in the spreading gloom, and a voice calls out for
Megatron to leave him.  Megatron grabs the hand in his.  Every ounce
of resignation boils off Tarn in a rage.  He screams his last,
helpless fury as Megatron escapes, leaving his creation to burn.

But only for an
instant.  Because, impossibly, another hand reaches in towards Tarn.

If he’d thought
about it a second longer, he might have refused it.  But there’s no
time.  He takes it, and is borne aloft in a rush of dragon wings.

***

For the second time
in his life, Tarn wakes up in a tank of liquid in medbay, feeling
like death and staring hazily through the glass at a Deceptibrand.

The system registers
him regaining consciousness, and the liquid slowly starts to drain,
revealing the expressionless face of Deathsaurus.  Tarn briefly
weighs just staying in the tank.

Deathsaurus’s
wings are scorched.  His plating, all up and down his right side, is
a mess of carbon scoring.  Tarn feels a stab of shame, and then
thinks, It’s all right; I can ask Vos to –

Oh.

And the shame swamps
him.  He coughs, and manages to croak out, “Megatron?”

Something ugly
passes over Deathsaurus’s face.  “Gone,” is all he says.  Then
he turns and stalks towards the door.  “I’ll leave you to the
medics.”

“Wait!”  Tarn
hits the release and the front of the tank lifts to let him out.
“You’re – you’re hurt.”

At least that stops
Deathsaurus from leaving.  “I’m far from the worst.  The medical
staff is tapped out; they’ll get to me when they get to me.”

The next thing Tarn
says comes out like a plea.  “Why save me?”

Deathsaurus still
isn’t looking at him.  “You’re my crew.”

My crew.  Tarn
things of all the troops Deathsaurus poured into that canyon, to
their deaths, on Tarn’s orders.  He thinks of Kaon’s face,
distraught and utterly trusting, and he thinks of Kaon’s blood
splattering hot over his arms and mask.

In a broken voice,
he says, “I don’t…” and then trails off.  Deathsaurus rounds
on him.

“It’s a
statement, not a fragging conjunx ritus.  We’ll still drop you off
at the next spaceport, don’t worry, and you can go chase Megatron
across the universe for your rematch.  Just – while you’re on
this ship, you’re my crew, that’s all.”

It’s an unimaginable mercy, and Tarn feels like he’s drowning.
He squeezes his optics shut, knowing the mask will hide it… and
then remembers that his mask is gone, all his scars bare to the
world.

“No, I mean I… I don’t deserve it.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“I was ready to die.”

“Get used to disappointment, then.”

“What I am trying to do…”  Tarn takes a huge, shuddering
breath.  “Is – thank you.”

One side of Deathsaurus’s mouth quirks upwards.  “You’re bad at
it.”

Tarn stares.  His breath leaves him in a rush that’s not quite a
laugh.  Deathsaurus’s gaze cuts away from his, all of a sudden, as
if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Tarn steps from the tank, and immediately stumbles, his knees giving
under him.

“Careful.”  Deathsaurus moves closer, but does not touch, until
Tarn’s blindly fumbling hand finds and clutches his shoulder.  Then
he shifts to put an arm around Tarn’s waist.  “You just survived
an explosion that would have killed most mechs; you need to recharge.
There’s empty crew quarters across the hall.”

That strikes Tarn as strange, and then he remembers the devastation
of the War World’s crew.  Most of the ship may well be empty now.
He keeps his gaze averted, and Deathsaurus steers him across the
empty corridor in a businesslike fashion, depositing him on a clean,
cold berth and turning to go.

The thought of Deathsaurus leaving the room is suddenly awful, and
Tarn blurts out, “What if I wanted to stay?”  At the venomous
look on Deathsaurus’s face, he hastily adds, “Not to pursue
Megatron!  Not that.”

“In that case, you’ll need to take it up with the captain.”

“… what?”

“I’m only second-in-command now.  Nickel’s in charge.”

“Nickel?”  Tarn’s torn between a joyful burst of of
course, she’s alive, one of my DJD is still alive! and a deep
confusion.  “But… wouldn’t that mean I’m in command?
I’m still the senior Justice Division –”

Deathsaurus’s voice is like ice.  “If you think for a moment that
Nickel is captain because she’s DJD, you’ve understood
nothing.”  In the dim light, his fangs flash.  “Nickel had
the presence of mind to call the retreat when I couldn’t.  She’s
earned her place.”  He looms closer to where Tarn sits motionless
on the berth.  “Do you know why it mattered to me so much to rescue
you?  Because it was the first thing I’d done that felt like me
since I watched you murder one of your own men in front of me, and I
said nothing.  I’ve been… weighing lives, deciding whose death is
acceptable for the Cause, and that’s everything I hate.  That’s
Megatron.  That’s you.”

Tarn quails under Deathsaurus’s glare.  He’s sure that it shows
in his face, too; Glitch’s ridiculous face, never any good at
hiding what he feels.  And for a moment, he’s in awe of
Deathsaurus.  How did an MTO, a beastformer, created only to be a
weapon, come to possess such a certain sense of where he begins and
ends, when a few words of Megatron’s were enough to dismantle Tarn
completely and leave nothing behind?

Deathsaurus’s expression softens fractionally, a hint of sadness
creeping in.  All he says is, “We’ll talk later, Tarn,” before
he heads out.

Not Tarn, not anymore, he
wants to call after Deathsaurus, but he doesn’t know what name to
put in its place.  Not yet.