TFA: Marked
Title: Marked
'Verse: TFA
Rating: PG
Characters: Blurr, Shockwave, Megatron
Pairings: None
Warnings: Slavery, branding
Summary: Both soldiers and slaves should remember who they belong to.
Word Count: 706
Notes: Set in the general "shockwave-kidnaps-blurr-instead-of-cubing-him" AU.
He is getting re-branded today. As they walk to the workshop, Shockwave reminds him to be as still as possible during the procedure; if the branding is marred, his back plating will have to be replaced for a new brand. It will be painful, but quick. Shockwave is bringing a pain-relief module he can use when they are done.
Blurr has seen the brand - Shockwave designed it himself. It is comprised of interlaced glyphs that state Shockwave's name and rank, Blurr's name, and a possessive modifier which indicates that Blurr is Decepticon property. The calligraphy is elegant and aesthetically pleasing. When Blurr noted the artistic quality, Shockwave told him that he deserved a brand as attractive as himself.
Shockwave had mentioned how dull the Autobot sigil was when he had stripped Blurr's paint. Blocky, utilitarian, uninspiring. Blurr had still been "misbehaving" then, flinching at his master's touch, physically resisting being led into the washracks. As the red and blue flecks of paint circled the drain, he clamped his hands over his mouth to swallow the urge to cry. It was like watching your home go up in flames.
The workshop is open for general use, but currently unoccupied. That much is a relief; Blurr hates the way the soldiers stare at him when he is in public with Shockwave. He can feel their leering optics crawling over his body. Shockwave leads him though the various workstations to the generator fitted with a branding iron. The machines are proportioned for use by the average Decepticon; looming over Blurr like arcane torture devices. Even something as innocuous as a metal polisher appears sinister by virtue of its sheer size.
As Shockwave prepares the iron, he instructs Blurr to face a nearby table and brace his arms against it. Not being able to see what's happening turns the hard ball of fear in his tanks into a rising sickness. Over the crackle of electricity, heavy footsteps approach. He turns his head at the rumble of an unpleasantly familiar voice. Megatron is staring down at him with a faintly amused expression. Shockwave covers his own fluster with a welcome and a deep bow. When asked if he requires Shockwave's attention, Megatron waves absently and rumbles something about observation of proper ceremony and official witness.
With a firm hand, Shockwave redirects Blurr's attention to the table he is leaning against. The iron gleams red-hot. Shockwave reminds him quietly that this will be quick. Radiant heat hovers against his back, steadying for the strike.
Receiving the Autobot brand had been a simple event. All the cadets lined up to the detailer's station after the Prime's commencement speech. Each mech got a stencil slapped on their chest, a few passes of the detailer's airbrush, and a swipe of protective coating; no pomp and circumstance required. But when Blurr had joined his fellow cadets, all finally marked for Autobot service, there was an undeniable current of kinship in the air as they grinned and admired each other's sigils. They were now a part of something bigger, more important than themselves, a grand machine of order and peacekeeping. It felt like coming home.
The branding iron burns like nothing he's ever experienced. Atmospheric re-entry is bearable compared to this single point of agony that slides between boiling and freezing to his overloading sensor net. He wants to scream, to run, but his body is so rigid with pain that the sounds stick in his throat, hot and choking.
Truthfully, it all happens in less than 5 nanokliks, but when the iron peels away, every bit of strength drains from his frame like he's been running for days. Shockwave's hands catch him when his knees buckle and support him in spite of his shaking legs. His master's voice is gentle, brimming with pride, telling him that he has done well, didn't even cry out, telling him that Megatron had been impressed, and that the brand looks perfect. The click of the pain-relief module in his medical port heralds a rush of numbness. Claws stroke his helm and he sags against Shockwave's solid form. Here, cradled Shockwave's arms, freshly marked with his new place in the universe, Blurr feels more alone than he's ever been in his life.
'Verse: TFA
Rating: PG
Characters: Blurr, Shockwave, Megatron
Pairings: None
Warnings: Slavery, branding
Summary: Both soldiers and slaves should remember who they belong to.
Word Count: 706
Notes: Set in the general "shockwave-kidnaps-blurr-instead-of-cubing-him" AU.
He is getting re-branded today. As they walk to the workshop, Shockwave reminds him to be as still as possible during the procedure; if the branding is marred, his back plating will have to be replaced for a new brand. It will be painful, but quick. Shockwave is bringing a pain-relief module he can use when they are done.
Blurr has seen the brand - Shockwave designed it himself. It is comprised of interlaced glyphs that state Shockwave's name and rank, Blurr's name, and a possessive modifier which indicates that Blurr is Decepticon property. The calligraphy is elegant and aesthetically pleasing. When Blurr noted the artistic quality, Shockwave told him that he deserved a brand as attractive as himself.
Shockwave had mentioned how dull the Autobot sigil was when he had stripped Blurr's paint. Blocky, utilitarian, uninspiring. Blurr had still been "misbehaving" then, flinching at his master's touch, physically resisting being led into the washracks. As the red and blue flecks of paint circled the drain, he clamped his hands over his mouth to swallow the urge to cry. It was like watching your home go up in flames.
The workshop is open for general use, but currently unoccupied. That much is a relief; Blurr hates the way the soldiers stare at him when he is in public with Shockwave. He can feel their leering optics crawling over his body. Shockwave leads him though the various workstations to the generator fitted with a branding iron. The machines are proportioned for use by the average Decepticon; looming over Blurr like arcane torture devices. Even something as innocuous as a metal polisher appears sinister by virtue of its sheer size.
As Shockwave prepares the iron, he instructs Blurr to face a nearby table and brace his arms against it. Not being able to see what's happening turns the hard ball of fear in his tanks into a rising sickness. Over the crackle of electricity, heavy footsteps approach. He turns his head at the rumble of an unpleasantly familiar voice. Megatron is staring down at him with a faintly amused expression. Shockwave covers his own fluster with a welcome and a deep bow. When asked if he requires Shockwave's attention, Megatron waves absently and rumbles something about observation of proper ceremony and official witness.
With a firm hand, Shockwave redirects Blurr's attention to the table he is leaning against. The iron gleams red-hot. Shockwave reminds him quietly that this will be quick. Radiant heat hovers against his back, steadying for the strike.
Receiving the Autobot brand had been a simple event. All the cadets lined up to the detailer's station after the Prime's commencement speech. Each mech got a stencil slapped on their chest, a few passes of the detailer's airbrush, and a swipe of protective coating; no pomp and circumstance required. But when Blurr had joined his fellow cadets, all finally marked for Autobot service, there was an undeniable current of kinship in the air as they grinned and admired each other's sigils. They were now a part of something bigger, more important than themselves, a grand machine of order and peacekeeping. It felt like coming home.
The branding iron burns like nothing he's ever experienced. Atmospheric re-entry is bearable compared to this single point of agony that slides between boiling and freezing to his overloading sensor net. He wants to scream, to run, but his body is so rigid with pain that the sounds stick in his throat, hot and choking.
Truthfully, it all happens in less than 5 nanokliks, but when the iron peels away, every bit of strength drains from his frame like he's been running for days. Shockwave's hands catch him when his knees buckle and support him in spite of his shaking legs. His master's voice is gentle, brimming with pride, telling him that he has done well, didn't even cry out, telling him that Megatron had been impressed, and that the brand looks perfect. The click of the pain-relief module in his medical port heralds a rush of numbness. Claws stroke his helm and he sags against Shockwave's solid form. Here, cradled Shockwave's arms, freshly marked with his new place in the universe, Blurr feels more alone than he's ever been in his life.