The pain is searing hot as the teeth catch in his shoulder, enough that the spray of hot energon -- his blood -- against his cheek feels distant. First Aid doesn't scream; instead he makes a choked sound, catching in his vocalizer as his visor brightens so much it was almost white.

Nausea hits him like a battering ram in his tank, almost purging as he feels his warm wobble in the socket, then drop with a hard clang to the ground. He sees it through swimming vision, lying next to him with its fingers still curled around the gun.

Thank god. He's alive.

He backs away, still fighting the urge to purge, his optics on Pharma. First Aid almost trips over his own arm, venting raggedly.

"P-Pharma..."