Fic: Captive, Chapter 1 (G1) - R
Title: Captive (1/3)
Rating: R
Warning: Torture, sadism, a certain Combaticon interrogator being off his leash
Characters: Vortex, First Aid
Universe: G1
Summary: Vortex indulges an obsession.
“Shh, no need to scream,” Vortex crooned as his captive’s optics flickered with light, placing a finger against First Aid’s lips. The battlemask and visor were on the floor in the middle of the warehouse, next to a small shipping crate and a portable comm system. He hadn’t been able to resist removing them, not wanting to miss the slightest twinge or gasp on that oh-so-beautiful face. “That’s it.”
First Aid made a soft noise, a grunt of pain as he twitched, starting to lift his head. “What-” he started, glossa flicking out to his lips. “What happened?” he asked asked as his optics cycled, clearly not focusing yet.
Vortex had to giggle. He leaned forward, nuzzling his own battlemask against the side of First Aid’s helm. The Autobot was so small; Vortex was half-crouched next to the slanted beams he’d ripped out of the building supports and glued into a makeshift frame slanted against the wall. The frame held his captive off the ground at a reclining angle that gave Vortex comfortable access to everything he wanted. The rough wood was crude but effective. “Think,” he whispered into First Aid’s audio. “Try to remember.” He watched the horror cross the medic’s face as recognition and realization dawned, sending a thrill through him that made the fuel in his lines tingle.
“You won’t get away with this,” First Aid said harshly, expression hardening. From fear to shut out in the space of two pump beats, Vortex marvelled. That had to be a record. Maybe there was more to the Protectobot medic than pretty hands and a fear of his own gun. Behind his battle mask, he grinned. This was going to be even more fun than he’d thought.
“You won’t get away with this!” Vortex mocked, pitching his voice high and shrill. “My friends will come for me!” He laughed out loud. “Frag, I hope so,” he said in his normal drawl. “Which ones do you think will come? That pretty helicopter?” He trailed finger tips down the line of First Aid’s cheekplate. “I wouldn’t mind taking his rotors off.” Vortex paused a beat. “Oh, wait, already did that. Glue pellets and rotor assemblies don’t mix, y’know. He sure didn’t seem to happy when I grabbed you, did he?”
“It doesn’t matter who comes.” First Aid’s voice stayed even, hard but without the angry bravado that Vortex was used to hearing in the “brave” ones.
Vortex pulled back a fraction, studying First Aid curiously. “You don’t care who it is that I’m going to kill in front of you? Why, First Aid! I thought you liked your brothers, but it sounds like you don’t care about them at all!”
First Aid didn’t even flinch. “I have no intention of playing your sick little games.”
“Everyone plays, little medic. It just takes finding the right incentive.” His fingers found the Protectobot’s lips again. “And I’m gonna have fun findin’ yours. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good challenge.” His free hand stroked down First Aid’s arm, the upper part trapped in hardened glue, to take the medic’s wrist. “I like your hands. Have I mentioned that before? All pretty and delicate-”
First Aid jerked his hand out of Vortex’s grip, pulling back as far as the glue and frame behind him would allow, expression turning to a scowl.
Vortex laughed. “And so strong, too.” He hummed to himself. “Such elegance and functionality. Purpose-built. Unique. One of a kind. There was a time that was unheard of, y’know.” He took a step back, turning away from First Aid and reaching for the rifle he’d laid aside. “Too many factories, turning out mass-produced models created from fashion designer’s mock ups. You could tell when and where someone was built, but it didn’t tell you much about why.” He checked the clip in his rifle. “You, now...”
First Aid tugged at his glued limbs, trying to find the leverage to break free.
“I’m curious,” Vortex said casually, tapping fingers against the grip of his rifle watching First Aid over his shoulder. “Are you living up to all those expectations they built you with?”
“I don’t have any inner neurosis about not being ‘good enough’ for them, if that’s what you’re fishing for,” First Aid said coolly.
“Huh.” Vortex turned to face him fully again, rotors flicking. “You’re tougher than you seem.”
First Aid lifted his chin, meeting the visored gaze without flinching. “Being a pacifist doesn’t make me weak, Decepticon.”
“This from someone to scared to pick up a weapon,” Vortex said lightly, stepping closer. “I guess all cowards have to justify it somehow. Just look at Swindle-”
“I’m not a coward,” First Aid said sharply.
Triumph gleamed in Vortex’s optics, hidden behind the visor. “Oh?” Deliberate disbelief colored his tone. “Gonna prove that for me?”
“Give me your weapon and let’s find out.”
“Giving up on your little morals already?” Vortex asked curiously.
“No. I don’t need to, because you won’t do it. The very thought of being unarmed in front of an enemy terrifies you.” First Aid’s stare never wavered. “So who is the coward, really?”
Vortex was silent for a long moment, considering him, the rifle barrel tapping idly against his palm. “You may have a point there.” He shrugged his rotors. “Meh, who cares.” He grabbed First Aid’s wrist again, this time clenching tight and using his superior size to twist it to the side, forearm against the frame, gun barrel a hand breadth away. He giggled. “Hold still, now.” Vortex pulled the trigger.
He held tight to First Aid’s arm, keeping it held tightly in the position he wanted until the glue hardened.
Humming again, a cheerful, off-kilter sound, he turned away once he was satisfied that the glue had bonded properly and retrieved his solvent, leisurely cleaning the splatters of glue out of his rifle. “Back home,” he said suddenly, inspecting the barrel. “We modified the medical berths for this sorta thing. Handy things, suspend you in any position for all sorts of interestin’ things. But ever since all of this-” he made a vague motion encompassing the warehouse and possibly the planet itself, “I gotta make do with what I can get, y’know?”
First Aid watched him silently, mouth set in a grim line.
“You’re a quiet one, aintcha?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“So brave,” Vortex purred. He set the rifle aside again, reaching out to brush First Aid’s hand with his fingertips. “I like your hands, I mentioned that already.” He giggled when First Aid curled his fingers into a fist, jerking away as much as the glue would allow.
Reaching down, Vortex grabbed a case disturbingly similar in appearance to a field medical kit, dragging it into First Aid’s view. “More improvising,” he said cheerfully, unlatching the case to reveal a mix of medical equipment and a few... other... things. Far more blades than required, medical devices reconfigured until it would be difficult to image a valid clinical purpose for them, and a few things that looked like they came out of an autoparts store on Earth rather than a Cybertronian medical bay. “Not my tools, they took those back before the detention center. But I’ve managed to scrap these together for us.” He gave First Aid’s leg a too-friendly pet. First Aid jerked at the unwelcome, intimate contact.
He selected a small spreader clamp and a narrow blade, inspecting the edge before standing. “You can see alright? Wouldn’t want to obstruct your view of the show.” He laughed again, and First Aid jerked against the glue holding him, but he couldn’t pull far enough away to stop the tool from sliding under the palm plating of his hand, lifting up and locking into place.
“There’s just something about workin’ on a medic,” Vortex told him, even as he held First Aid's balled fist still bending close and sliding the blade into the gap. “I mean, sure, you get to the same place with a layperson, but a medic can really appreciate what I’m doin’.”
First Aid’s optics darted between Vortex’s hands and the far wall, seeming undecided whether it would be worse to watch or look away. His entire body flinched as the tip of the blade bit in.
“See, I don’t need to explain to you what it means that I just severed the main cables that control the extension and flexion of your fingers,” Vortex continued, manually uncurling First Aid’s fingers. The fingers twitched, but with the main cables gone, didn’t have the strength to resist him. He spent a moment stroking the palm and fingers. “And medics always have the nicest hands. Extra relays, more gripping strength, and a whole network of sensors that most mechs don’t have.” His rotors shivered, and his voice dropped to a rough murmur. “And so beautiful...”
“Have you had to do any hand repairs?” he asked curiously, letting go and turning back to his kit. The spreader clamp went back into its slot with a firm click, the narrow blade carefully cleaned and replaced as well, as neat and careful as anything Ratchet did. Vortex hummed to himself, rotors twitching, before selecting a small box of tiny line clamps and a different blade. “Well?” he asked, cocking his head at First Aid.
First Aid started slightly, only then seeming to realize he’d been asked a question. “Ah... not alone. I assisted Ratchet once with a strut replacement.”
“Shame.” Vortex turned his attention back to the hand in front of him. “The hand has the most sensors of anywhere in a Cybertronian, body, did you know that? Of course you did, basic anatomy, right?”
First Aid nodded warily.
“And those who are required to preform fine free-hand work tend to have even more sensors,” he went on. He set the little box of clamps on a handy spot of the makeshift frame. “Engineers, medics, and interrogators, notably.”
“I fail to see your point,” First Aid said, with only the faintest uneven tremble in his voice betraying that he did, in fact, see exactly where this was going.
“The point,” Vortex said cheerfully. “Is that this is going to hurt.” With that, he took the hand again, and sliced a line down the center of First Aid’s palm.
Rating: R
Warning: Torture, sadism, a certain Combaticon interrogator being off his leash
Characters: Vortex, First Aid
Universe: G1
Summary: Vortex indulges an obsession.
“Shh, no need to scream,” Vortex crooned as his captive’s optics flickered with light, placing a finger against First Aid’s lips. The battlemask and visor were on the floor in the middle of the warehouse, next to a small shipping crate and a portable comm system. He hadn’t been able to resist removing them, not wanting to miss the slightest twinge or gasp on that oh-so-beautiful face. “That’s it.”
First Aid made a soft noise, a grunt of pain as he twitched, starting to lift his head. “What-” he started, glossa flicking out to his lips. “What happened?” he asked asked as his optics cycled, clearly not focusing yet.
Vortex had to giggle. He leaned forward, nuzzling his own battlemask against the side of First Aid’s helm. The Autobot was so small; Vortex was half-crouched next to the slanted beams he’d ripped out of the building supports and glued into a makeshift frame slanted against the wall. The frame held his captive off the ground at a reclining angle that gave Vortex comfortable access to everything he wanted. The rough wood was crude but effective. “Think,” he whispered into First Aid’s audio. “Try to remember.” He watched the horror cross the medic’s face as recognition and realization dawned, sending a thrill through him that made the fuel in his lines tingle.
“You won’t get away with this,” First Aid said harshly, expression hardening. From fear to shut out in the space of two pump beats, Vortex marvelled. That had to be a record. Maybe there was more to the Protectobot medic than pretty hands and a fear of his own gun. Behind his battle mask, he grinned. This was going to be even more fun than he’d thought.
“You won’t get away with this!” Vortex mocked, pitching his voice high and shrill. “My friends will come for me!” He laughed out loud. “Frag, I hope so,” he said in his normal drawl. “Which ones do you think will come? That pretty helicopter?” He trailed finger tips down the line of First Aid’s cheekplate. “I wouldn’t mind taking his rotors off.” Vortex paused a beat. “Oh, wait, already did that. Glue pellets and rotor assemblies don’t mix, y’know. He sure didn’t seem to happy when I grabbed you, did he?”
“It doesn’t matter who comes.” First Aid’s voice stayed even, hard but without the angry bravado that Vortex was used to hearing in the “brave” ones.
Vortex pulled back a fraction, studying First Aid curiously. “You don’t care who it is that I’m going to kill in front of you? Why, First Aid! I thought you liked your brothers, but it sounds like you don’t care about them at all!”
First Aid didn’t even flinch. “I have no intention of playing your sick little games.”
“Everyone plays, little medic. It just takes finding the right incentive.” His fingers found the Protectobot’s lips again. “And I’m gonna have fun findin’ yours. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good challenge.” His free hand stroked down First Aid’s arm, the upper part trapped in hardened glue, to take the medic’s wrist. “I like your hands. Have I mentioned that before? All pretty and delicate-”
First Aid jerked his hand out of Vortex’s grip, pulling back as far as the glue and frame behind him would allow, expression turning to a scowl.
Vortex laughed. “And so strong, too.” He hummed to himself. “Such elegance and functionality. Purpose-built. Unique. One of a kind. There was a time that was unheard of, y’know.” He took a step back, turning away from First Aid and reaching for the rifle he’d laid aside. “Too many factories, turning out mass-produced models created from fashion designer’s mock ups. You could tell when and where someone was built, but it didn’t tell you much about why.” He checked the clip in his rifle. “You, now...”
First Aid tugged at his glued limbs, trying to find the leverage to break free.
“I’m curious,” Vortex said casually, tapping fingers against the grip of his rifle watching First Aid over his shoulder. “Are you living up to all those expectations they built you with?”
“I don’t have any inner neurosis about not being ‘good enough’ for them, if that’s what you’re fishing for,” First Aid said coolly.
“Huh.” Vortex turned to face him fully again, rotors flicking. “You’re tougher than you seem.”
First Aid lifted his chin, meeting the visored gaze without flinching. “Being a pacifist doesn’t make me weak, Decepticon.”
“This from someone to scared to pick up a weapon,” Vortex said lightly, stepping closer. “I guess all cowards have to justify it somehow. Just look at Swindle-”
“I’m not a coward,” First Aid said sharply.
Triumph gleamed in Vortex’s optics, hidden behind the visor. “Oh?” Deliberate disbelief colored his tone. “Gonna prove that for me?”
“Give me your weapon and let’s find out.”
“Giving up on your little morals already?” Vortex asked curiously.
“No. I don’t need to, because you won’t do it. The very thought of being unarmed in front of an enemy terrifies you.” First Aid’s stare never wavered. “So who is the coward, really?”
Vortex was silent for a long moment, considering him, the rifle barrel tapping idly against his palm. “You may have a point there.” He shrugged his rotors. “Meh, who cares.” He grabbed First Aid’s wrist again, this time clenching tight and using his superior size to twist it to the side, forearm against the frame, gun barrel a hand breadth away. He giggled. “Hold still, now.” Vortex pulled the trigger.
He held tight to First Aid’s arm, keeping it held tightly in the position he wanted until the glue hardened.
Humming again, a cheerful, off-kilter sound, he turned away once he was satisfied that the glue had bonded properly and retrieved his solvent, leisurely cleaning the splatters of glue out of his rifle. “Back home,” he said suddenly, inspecting the barrel. “We modified the medical berths for this sorta thing. Handy things, suspend you in any position for all sorts of interestin’ things. But ever since all of this-” he made a vague motion encompassing the warehouse and possibly the planet itself, “I gotta make do with what I can get, y’know?”
First Aid watched him silently, mouth set in a grim line.
“You’re a quiet one, aintcha?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“So brave,” Vortex purred. He set the rifle aside again, reaching out to brush First Aid’s hand with his fingertips. “I like your hands, I mentioned that already.” He giggled when First Aid curled his fingers into a fist, jerking away as much as the glue would allow.
Reaching down, Vortex grabbed a case disturbingly similar in appearance to a field medical kit, dragging it into First Aid’s view. “More improvising,” he said cheerfully, unlatching the case to reveal a mix of medical equipment and a few... other... things. Far more blades than required, medical devices reconfigured until it would be difficult to image a valid clinical purpose for them, and a few things that looked like they came out of an autoparts store on Earth rather than a Cybertronian medical bay. “Not my tools, they took those back before the detention center. But I’ve managed to scrap these together for us.” He gave First Aid’s leg a too-friendly pet. First Aid jerked at the unwelcome, intimate contact.
He selected a small spreader clamp and a narrow blade, inspecting the edge before standing. “You can see alright? Wouldn’t want to obstruct your view of the show.” He laughed again, and First Aid jerked against the glue holding him, but he couldn’t pull far enough away to stop the tool from sliding under the palm plating of his hand, lifting up and locking into place.
“There’s just something about workin’ on a medic,” Vortex told him, even as he held First Aid's balled fist still bending close and sliding the blade into the gap. “I mean, sure, you get to the same place with a layperson, but a medic can really appreciate what I’m doin’.”
First Aid’s optics darted between Vortex’s hands and the far wall, seeming undecided whether it would be worse to watch or look away. His entire body flinched as the tip of the blade bit in.
“See, I don’t need to explain to you what it means that I just severed the main cables that control the extension and flexion of your fingers,” Vortex continued, manually uncurling First Aid’s fingers. The fingers twitched, but with the main cables gone, didn’t have the strength to resist him. He spent a moment stroking the palm and fingers. “And medics always have the nicest hands. Extra relays, more gripping strength, and a whole network of sensors that most mechs don’t have.” His rotors shivered, and his voice dropped to a rough murmur. “And so beautiful...”
“Have you had to do any hand repairs?” he asked curiously, letting go and turning back to his kit. The spreader clamp went back into its slot with a firm click, the narrow blade carefully cleaned and replaced as well, as neat and careful as anything Ratchet did. Vortex hummed to himself, rotors twitching, before selecting a small box of tiny line clamps and a different blade. “Well?” he asked, cocking his head at First Aid.
First Aid started slightly, only then seeming to realize he’d been asked a question. “Ah... not alone. I assisted Ratchet once with a strut replacement.”
“Shame.” Vortex turned his attention back to the hand in front of him. “The hand has the most sensors of anywhere in a Cybertronian, body, did you know that? Of course you did, basic anatomy, right?”
First Aid nodded warily.
“And those who are required to preform fine free-hand work tend to have even more sensors,” he went on. He set the little box of clamps on a handy spot of the makeshift frame. “Engineers, medics, and interrogators, notably.”
“I fail to see your point,” First Aid said, with only the faintest uneven tremble in his voice betraying that he did, in fact, see exactly where this was going.
“The point,” Vortex said cheerfully. “Is that this is going to hurt.” With that, he took the hand again, and sliced a line down the center of First Aid’s palm.