[The transmission starts with silence, then a muffled humming and finally a male voice speaks. It's quite the attractive voice, but it sounds like he’s trying to control his annoyance and failing.]

There's a moment in your life when you say to yourself ‘things can't possibly get better’…[By his tone of voice, it’s clear that he's being sarcastic.] …and then the universe proves you wrong. A new Cybertron, uh hum… I’ve heard that before. Really charming.

[>Suddenly, video! Enjoy the view of a cherry red robot with no visible faction symbol on him, sneering at the camera.]

I want to know who thought it would be a good idea to mess with my chassis and give me that horrid tattoo, of all things. [Tattoo, glyph, practically the same thing. Knock out didn’t really pay much attention to the acolyte, he had other things to focus on than a new planet. Like his paintjob.]

We should have a talk. [There’s a clear promise of pain in that last sentence as he waves a hand with very large, very pointy, claws. ] 

[The message is short, the voice clipped, slightly laced with static. Though whether that's from fatigue, damage, or something else, it's hard to tell.]

... The Chieftain is dead.

[And he can't bring himself to move away just yet.]

I. I tried to fix it. I'm so sorry.

[And there the transmission ends.]

This is it. It's over.

Wing. Make sure she gets it. I put it back. You make sure.

As for me.

I'll start the countdown.

[It seems quite like this message was meant for specific people, but given the current state of the sender it's unsurprising that the delivery is more than a bit botched.]

[The video feed flickers on to a figure holding tight to the bartop's edge, every line of the body taut and quaking in obvious distress. It's Wing, keening behind clenched dentae as he's afflicted by some unseen form of suffering.]

J-Jetfire. We--we were ^right. I can _{feel it.} He's... so-omething's wrong!

Ratchet, Ambulon, F-Firs--[A hissing vent as he grits his dentae.] He's ^hurt. please...someone help him. I-I can't--

[The video feed shakes as if the hands holding it tremble violently. Ragged venting triggered by phantom heat and fire is punctured by another cry of pain and distress, only half of it for himself. Wing's optics shutter tightly against the pain, real enough despite being not his own, forcing it back, trying to keep control.]

Drift...wh-where are you!? What's ha^aaa--!

[That's all he gets out before it overtakes him. He can no longer block out the sensations assaulting him over the remnant of his bond to Drift's Great Sword, as the other mech is violently consumed by flames somewhere far out of Haven. Another cry, a scream of horrible measure, crackling with static as he topples. There's a convulsion that scatters the video feed for a moment, the sound of jet's frame crashing to the ground audible. When the camera becomes still again it's a view of the star-strewn skylight in the bar's ceiling accompanied only by silence.]


((OOC: Wing won't be able to respond at first, so at the beginning action spam will be required--feel free to find him and help wake him up. If you want to tag a little "later on" when he's awake then he'll respond via comm.))