An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Onslaught didn’t need the gestalt bond burning in the back of his head to sense the Combaticons’ anxiety. Their comms were silent as they drove in convoy back to base and even Vortex, usually as loud and irritating as the chopping whirr of his blades, only kept pace with them overhead. The lack of stupid observations and inane “would you rather”s was eerie, and only served to add to the unease that suffused their collective thoughts. The transferred tension that twanged between them curdled with the dull panic he was trying to ignore, somewhere around the bottom of his fuel tank, making him feel heavy and ready to purge, as though he’d fuelled on unrefined crude. But some deep, private part of Onslaught’s spark was glad for the silence, because it let him stew and wonder which of his subordinates was trying to get him killed.













