Fizzle's hand, one of the few limbs still attached to his body, reached out for the control panel. If he could just send out a signal, the Elite Guard could send out a task force, and maybe, if if he was lucky, he'd be able to go into a stasis lock and survive long enough to make a report and, with hope, catch the Decepticon reponsible for his friend's deaths.

With this thought on his mind, he strained his servos to breaking point to reach the transmitter. Even as he attempted this, his on board computer reported gear failures in his elbow and wrist joints and his arm locked. He glared at the control panel, so close, yet so far away. He felt useless and impotent, unable to call the Elite Guard, unable to avenge his friends, stuck on this barren rock, until a nameless clerk on Cybertron realised something was wrong and filed a report on some little research outpost at the fringe of Autobot space, in the vain hope that it might get through the red tape and bureaucracy and a team would be sent to investigate. By which point he's be dead.

As he lay on the cold, metallic floor, he looked upon the ravaged bodies of his fellow scientists. They actually believed they were onto something this time. They'd sent a report to Autobot Headquaters, but, as usual, a Decepticon replied first.

As for the Decepticon, Fizzle could only recall one image; a domed head and a single, red eye, always watching, the rest was just a blur...