It's easy enough for him to endure the repairs. Deadlock's had worse, and the physical discomfort is easier to deal with than the awkward, surreal nature of this situation. The sting of the welds going into place provides a strange clarity in a mental sense, and in a physical sense it helps to clear away some of the error messages staining his HUD with red and yellow. His optic is still cracked and cockpit glass shattered, back kibbled mangled in a way that will make transforming painful if he has to do it, but he feels more stable than he has in hours.

Not that he can transform, with the restraining bolt still clamped to his arm. Thanks but no thanks,Turmoil.

He'd tuned out the ping of the low fuel notification - something he has far too much practice at - but the moment the cube of fuel is pressed into his hand reminds him how ravenously hunger he is. It's gone in a matter of seconds, in part due to that hunger and in part because Deadlock always consumes it fast, as if savoring it and taking your time just begged for someone or something to take it from you. When he's finished, he contemplates asking for a second, staring down into the glass.

"...thanks." He says quietly, as if the words are innately awkward.