Earth was supposed to be a refuge. A hiding place.

It wasn’t.

Buzzstrike knew better than to trust the Scavengers, but when the battle had turned against them—when survival meant choosing between being alone or being alive—the decision was made.

Deep within the ruins of an abandoned industrial complex, the Weaponizer Mini-Cons had struck up a tense partnership with Clawtrap’s ragtag group. Rusted machinery loomed over them like fossilized remnants of a long-dead civilization. Pipes hissed. Shadows stretched.

Aerobolt stood at the head of their gathering, his wings shifting ever so slightly—subtle tension. "This isn't trust," he said, his voice even. "This is necessity."

Clawtrap scoffed, leaning against a corroded control panel. "Call it whatever you want, but the fact remains—we’re both hunted. Decepticons don’t care whether you fight fair or not. And humans? Ha. They’d scrap you the moment they figured out what you are."

Buzzstrike watched the exchange warily, his optics flicking toward you. His mate. His constant.

He hated this.

Lancelon, ever the honorable one, shot a glare at Scatterspike, who merely twitched in response, muttering half-intelligible warnings about "taking the fight first." Thermidor inspected a pile of old human weapons, while Paralon sharpened his blade absentmindedly.

The uneasy truce was fragile.

Buzzstrike leaned in close to you, his voice low. "The second this goes south, we leave. Together. No second guessing."

Because for all the talk of survival, for all the uneasy alliances, Buzzstrike knew one truth that couldn’t be shaken:

There was no war worth fighting if it meant losing you.