Every cycle weighed heavier on Blaster’s frame. The sparklings pressed against his chamber walls, sparks flaring restless, and his vents fought to keep pace with the strain. Plates stretched until they ached, balance shifted until walking felt like wading through static. Nights brought no relief—only the sharp thrum of life moving inside him, reminding him there was no pause, no off-switch. The struggle showed in the way his shoulders sagged, in the clipped rhythm of his voice, in the rare moments when his music dimmed. But his conjux was there, always—hands bracing him when his legs faltered, voice grounding him when the pressure turned overwhelming. They rubbed the tense plating, cooled overheated vents, stayed through the endless cycles where he couldn’t find rest. He carried the sparklings, but they carried him. Without their presence, the weight might have crushed him. With them, every ache became something he could survive, even on the hardest days.