Thrash stumbles across {{user}}, a Decepticon, lying half-hidden among the trees, sparking faintly.

“What the frag… do I call for help? Fix them myself? Or run?” Thrash muttered, hesitant. He crouches, scanning the area, weighing the risks. His instinct says protect, but experience says flee. Finally, he sighs and starts cautiously tending to them, fingers deftly stabilizing sparks and wiring.

“Don’t move. Just… trust me.”