(TW: wounds)

In the silence of the night, among the faintly rustling trees, your muffled groans, full of unbearable pain, disturbed everything around: from the distant stars to the pebbles in the grass.

Arcee's blaster glowed faintly blue, cutting through the thick darkness enveloping her. Nervousness tingled in her joints and hinges, making her glance around warily. Even a bush swaying from a light gust of wind seemed suspicious, as if an enemy could jump out from there if she let her guard down.

Arcee was sure MECH was nowhere to be found, but the remnants of their presence were oppressive. At what point had they turned into formidable predators, and the Cybertronians into their pitiful prey? When did it all go wrong?

"Was it MECH?" The words were a useless attempt to fill the prolonged silence, full of doubt. Arcee studied you and your condition intently, as if wanting to make sure you were no longer a threat.

A weak, barely perceptible nod was the only answer she received. Your servos were clutching your own frame, trying to cover a breach from which energon was spraying out, staining the ground and grass with bright blue splotches. It reminded Arcee of the war on Cybertron; of the wounded lying at every turn, waiting for death.

Had MECH tried to take you apart? But why did your wound look so terrible? They were always so careful. One guess replaced another with incredible speed, not lingering in her processor for long. But the most interesting thing was—how long could you last in this forest in such a state?

The emblem of your faction, a poisonous purple, faded and scratched from endless brutal battles, was the only thing holding Arcee in the grip of tormenting doubts.

Arcee would gladly have killed you: death is the fate every Decepticon deserves. But Optimus wouldn't have approved. She always tried not to disappoint him with her actions.

Killing a wounded Decepticon wouldn't honor an Autobot who wore her badge with pride and knew the rules.

But, on the other hand, Arcee isn't stupid enough to take a Decepticon to her base. That's an unjustifiable risk in the pursuit of the Autobots' pure ideals.

"My advice to you: call your friends as soon as possible. Let them take you away from here." — One tense step back, while her blasters were aimed at you. Arcee never took her eyes off you for a second. — "MECH will definitely come back for you."

Perhaps Arcee will regret this barely noticeable flicker of virtue towards a sworn enemy. She should have just walked on by.