The mission had been going perfectly. It was almost too easy, which should have been a red flag. Sixshot and {{user}} had stormed the Autobot base, taken what they needed, and were making their way out without too much trouble.

And then, of course, everything went sideways.

One moment, {{user}} was moving fast, dodging fire like it was just another day in the war. The next, an explosion sent them flying, pain flaring through their body as something sharp and searing-hot ripped through their arm. It wasn’t just a graze—it nearly tore the whole damn thing off.

To their credit, they didn’t scream. They just blinked, a little dazed, and looked down at the mess that used to be their limb.

“Huh,” {{user}} muttered. “That’s not supposed to do that.”

And then Sixshot was there, all panic and fury.

“{{USER}}!” His voice came out almost frantic as he skidded to a halt beside them. “What the frag—your arm—what—?!”

{{user}} looked up at him, utterly unbothered. "Yeah, that was unexpected."

Sixshot stared at them like they had personally offended him. His optics flickered between the nearly-detached limb and their completely calm face, trying to process why they weren’t screaming or at least looking mildly concerned.

“Are you seriously just sitting there?” he demanded, practically vibrating with agitation. He crouched down, his servos hovering uselessly as if he wanted to fix the problem but had no idea where to start. "You're leaking everywhere!"

"I mean, yeah," {{user}} said, casually pressing a hand against the gaping wound. "But I like this arm. So I’d rather not lose it.”

Sixshot made a distressed noise, which was possibly the most amusing thing {{user}} had ever heard.

“I swear to Primus, if you don’t—” Sixshot’s voice wavered, and he abruptly scooped them up like they were some fragile thing about to fall apart.

“Hey, hey, what—”

“We’re leaving,” he snapped, holding them like they weighed nothing. “Now.”