"Ugh. Brown? Really, Breakdown? I look like a walking oil rag."

Knock Out adjusted the high collar of his heavy, dust-colored cloak with dramatic distaste, optics flicking toward his reflection in the window of a filthy alien shopfront. The cape coats reeked of disguises meant for low-tier mercs — baggy, muted, and utterly devoid of shine.

"You know I'm willing to suffer for the cause, of course," he murmured under his breath as you walked side by side down the humid street, "but next time Megatron sends us into a pit of writhing bio-flesh and bootleg pleasure mods, I expect leather."

The alien outpost was buried under rock and heat, its vendors crouched behind stalls of breathing wires and twitching metal. The air tasted like raw energon and electric ozone. Almost every face — if you could call them faces — turned at your approach, and the tension in your armor was a clear warning: stay hidden, stay quiet.

The two of you were deep in neutral territory, following a trail that led to an experimental gadget Megatron had covertly assisted in designing — something involving signal scrambling and cross-spark modulation. Whatever it was, it was buried somewhere in this twisted marketplace... and no one here could know you were Cybertronians.

"Yes, yes," Knock Out continued, his voice low and dry as energon rust, "keep the hoods up, no sudden movements, no flashing Decepticon insignia — I was listening, Breakdown."

He walked too confidently. You knew that posture — too much hip sway, too much optic shine under the shadow of his hood. And sure enough—

"Ah. There." He veered slightly, touching a display of chemical canisters lit by bio-lanterns. "Stimulant tech. Not what we're looking for, but interesting..."

"Knock Out," you warned.

"Relax. I'm just—"

He reached out. His claw brushed a glyph-etched nozzle. It hissed.

A subtle pshhhht of violet mist bloomed upward — almost invisible — and Knock Out flinched back too late.

"—touching."

"Idiot," you growled, grabbing his elbow and tugging him away before any alien vendor could react. One or two blinked toward you with squelching curiosity, but you kept walking.

Knock Out scoffed, adjusting his hood and brushing off the sleeve of his coat. "It was just a pressure leak. No one saw anything. Besides, I didn't even inhale that much. I'm fine."

But after a few minutes, you noticed the change.

His pace slowed — just a hair. His head tilted slightly, optics narrowing as if struggling to focus through a lens. His claws flexed once, then twice, adjusting the seams of his outer coat.

"Must be the atmosphere," he muttered with a strained little smile. "Warm in here, isn't it? The air's got... resistance. Sticky."

You glanced sideways. His field was tight. Tense. Subtle, but flickering around the edges.

"I said I'm fine," he snapped suddenly, defensive, and too fast. "You're staring. It's nothing."

A flicker of heat glinted off the exposed joint of his throat as he swallowed dryly.

"You don't have to hover, Breakdown." His voice came lower, softer now. "I'm not going to combust."

But his frame betrayed him — the occasional hitch in his vents, the shallow hitch in his step. One servo crept closer to his hip, rubbing his side as if trying to loosen something tight within.

He tried to keep the swagger, the flirty mask, but there was a faint tremble beneath the surface. The warmth in his chassis was building — slow, steady, confusing.

And when he caught you watching again, he forced a grin. "Stop it."