Fic: Prisoner (G1) - R
Title: Prisoner
Rating: R
Warning: non-graphic mostly offscreen torture and death, psychological torture, sadism
Characters: Vortex, Springer, Kup, Onslaught
Universe: G1
Summary: Before becoming an unwilling part of Shockwave's triplechanger project, Springer was held at a former Autobot prison turned Decepticon POW camp.
A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know, I've written this basic concept twice before. But it's fun. And I've never been good at sticking to just one way of things going or just one characterization. I've had no net at home, so this is the product of three days of lunch hours and between projects.
x-x-x
Being dragged out of the holding cell and shackled didn't come as a surprise to Springer, nor was being herded down a cold grey hallway and into a room with a two-way mirror along the wall. What was surprising was being on the side of the mirror looking in. A chair sat back from the window, another right by the small control panel, and an unfamiliar mech perched on the edge of the panel, seeming to ignore Springer’s appearance in the doorway.
The guards undid his shackles and pushed him fully into the room, closing the door behind him, but the other mech still didn’t move. Springer took a cautious step to the side, risking a look through the mirror, and felt his fuel lines go cold. Backtrail, a young Autobot scout Springer’d met just before their capture on the border of Kaon, was shackled in the middle of the room, flanked by a pair of larger Decepticons. The two guards looked like they were making comments - crude ones, judging by Backtrail’s expression - but no sound came through the window.
Springer switched his gaze to the unfamiliar mech, forcing his hands to unclench and trying to hide how fast his fuel pump was racing. He wasn’t sure what exactly this mech had planned, but he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like it. He focused on the other mech’s rotors, watching the way they fanned slowly, shifting as far as the assembly would allow and back again. The rest of the mech was completely still, his face and optics obscured by battlemask and visor.
“Hello, Springer,” the mech said without looking over. His voice held the thick, harsh twang of a Kaon native. “Please, have a seat. I’ve gotta question or two for you.”
“I’m comfortable here, thanks,” Springer said warily.
The rotors lifted, shrugging. “Suit yourself,” the mech said, and Springer chalked that up as a tiny victory for him. “My name’s Vortex, by the way. I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I’ve got you in here,” he started.
“Not really,” Springer said.
Vortex straightened, walking over to the nearer chair and sitting, letting his rotor hub rest against the back and stretching out his legs. “My superiors expect certain information,” he said, not acknowledging Springer’s interruption. “And I’ve been given the task of gettin’ it. In order to do this, I’ve been granted some liberties over your treatment-”
“I won’t betray the Autobots,” Springer said, voice flat and hard.
Spreading his hands, Vortex shrugged again. “I ain’t askin’ you to. See, I don’t really wanna be in here, and you don’t wanna be in here, so if you’ll help me out, I’ll help you. I ain’t askin’ for Prime’s personal encryption, I’m just askin’ for a few little bits to keep my bosses off my aft, y’know?”
“No.” Springer wasn’t going to be drawn in by the fake friendly attitude.
“C’mon, this don’t need to be unpleasant. Who’s your commandin’ officer?”
Springer stared back at him, expression hard.
“We already know the answer,” Vortex continued. “I just need to hear you say it, alright?”
“No.”
Vortex vented a sigh, rotors falling against the chair back in an exaggerated motion of regret. “I didn’t wanna have to do this, but you ain’t leavin’ me much choice.” He reached over, pressing a button. “A leg, please.”
The two guards laughed, sounding tinny over the intercom, and one of them took aim with his rifle. A flash of plasma, then the intercom crackled with the sound of Backtrail screaming as he slumped to the floor, his knee a melted, twisted ruin.
Vortex pushed the button again, then turned his attention back to Springer, who was staring at him in shock and horror. The interrogator nodded towards the empty chair. “Sit,” he said quietly.
Springer sat.
“I really wish you wouldn’t make me do things like that,” he continued. “But if you’re not gonna work with me, I’m gonna have to take steps that neither of us will enjoy. So every time you refuse to answer, I gotta have him hurt, even though I don’t want to.” Vortex leaned forward earnestly. “Work with me here, Springer. Just answer. I don’t care who you served under or what their favorite color was. I just need somethin’ to write down in my report, alright?”
Springer looked over as the guards hauled Backtrail back to his feet, forcing him to stand on his mangled leg.
“Alright?” Vortex asked again. Springer managed a nod. “Your commandin’ officer is an Autobot called Centrifuge. I told you,” he said when Springer started in surprise. “We already knew that one. How long have you served under him?”
Hesitating, Springer looked from the helicopter to the Autobot on the other side of the window.
Vortex reached for the button.
“Six vorns,” Springer gritted out. “Give or take. Not including the time at the academy.”
Vortex settled back in his chair. “That’s better. Now, what’s the name of your unit’s weapons officer?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Springer said tightly.
“A hand, please,” Vortex said, pushing the intercom button. The guards dragged Backtrail forward, ignoring his cry of pain, and unshackled one of his wrists. One guard forced the scout’s arm up, splaying his hand out against the mirror. The other took aim and fired. Plasma flashed against the mirror, and Backtrail made a strangled scream. Springer jerked back in his chair, but he couldn’t look away. Backtrail’s hand was gone, leaving a scorched and mangled stump. The sound cut back out as Vortex tapped the controls.
“I didn’t want to do that,” Vortex said quietly. “Believe me. But you’re not leavin’ me many options.” He sighed heavily, venting exhaust that stirred a little dust on the floor plating. “Really, do you think that this information’s gonna be all that harmful to the Autobots? What someone’s name is? You think that’s worth this?” He jerked his head towards Backtrail, whimpering in the middle of the floor.
“Maybe not this question,” Springer said. “But the next one’s going to be a little more important, and the next, and the next, until you’re asking me to spill out every secret I know.” He watched Backtrail, and he prayed the little scout would forgive him. “And I won’t betray them. I won’t buy one mech’s life with hundreds of other lives.”
He didn’t look, but he heard the click of the intercomm. “Kill him,” Vortex said. Springer turned his optics off, but he couldn’t stop the sound of the rifle fire or the screaming. The guards didn’t seem inclined to make the death a quick one.
“Every day,” Vortex said, soft enough that Springer had to strain to hear him over the sounds from the next room. “Every day it’ll be someone different. Every time you refuse to answer, or lie to me, I’ll hurt them. Every day, someone will die if you refuse to cooperate. No one is comin’ to rescue you, Springer. How many of them will you let die before you can’t justify refusin’ to talk to me anymore?”
Springer didn’t have an answer to that.
x-x-x
Springer didn’t think he’d ever been this happy to see a jail cell. The guards shoved him roughly down the long row of cells, past a depressing number of Autobot prisoners crowded into cells that until recently had held criminals awaiting trial. He saw more than a few mechs wearing the shield of the security force that had run the prison before the Decepticons had taken it, and several more that had no faction symbol at all. Criss-crossing energy bars replaced the prison’s solid energy fields at the front and top of each holding cell, the Decepticons more concerned with being able to shoot into the cells in case of trouble than in preventing the prisoners from passing contraband. Heavily armed guards patrolled on the ground and on the catwalks above.
The guards stopped outside a cell, and Springer heard the whine of powering-up weaponry from above him as the guards moved to cover the prisoners in the cell. “Stand back, or you will be shot,” a guard said unnecessarily. The prisoners stayed huddled near the back or the cell. The bars flickered out, and Springer was shoved into the cell, the bars reactivating behind him.
“You’re lookin’ intact,” drawled an older mech near the front, a sharp question in his optics.
Springer slumped against a wall. “I wasn’t the one they were hurting,” he admitted quietly, optics on the floor in front of him.
“At least it’s over.” The old mech’s tone was carefully even.
“For now. They’ll be back.” Springer vented exhaust and tried to stop trembling. “They killed him,” he said, voice barely audible. He slid down the wall to sit, staring at his hands. “Slowly. Screaming. Because I wouldn’t-” His vocalizer hitched.
There was rustling, the scrape of a foot against the metal of the floor, then the old mech sat down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing,” he said gruffly.
“Yeah,” Springer said, but his voice lacked conviction.
The old mech was silent for a long moment, watching the patrolling guards sauntering past the cell. “What’s you’re name, kid?”
“Springer.”
“Kup,” the old mech offered, giving Springer’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t let them get to you, kid. Don’t blame yourself; ain’t no one to blame except those murderin’ slaggers.”
“Yeah,” Springer said, rubbing at his helm. “I know.”
“And don’t trust ‘em, no matter what.” Kup leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. “There was this one time, me and a couple o’ buddies were-”
Springer rested his elbows on his knees, and listened.
x-x-x
“So I yell at him to duck, and what does the crazy fragger do-”
“Warden’s coming!” came a hiss from the next cell, interrupting one of Kup’s seemingly endless supply of stories.
“Warden?” Springer repeated, concerned. “Who’s that?”
“He’s not really the warden,” Kup answered, standing and nudging someone to the side to see down the long corridor. “Cons don’t care enough about us to assign an official commander. But he’s in charge of the interrogators, and they’re in charge of the guards, so...” he shrugged. “Hear he’s a nasty piece of work, but I ain’t had the displeasure of meetin’ him.”
Springer pushed himself up and slid in beside Kup, close enough to the bars to feel the buzz of the energy field. A contingent of guards were making their way down the corridor, a familiar grey mech in the lead.
“Vortex,” Springer muttered. “That’s the guy who was questioning me yesterday,” he said when Kup glanced his way.
“Mornin’,” Vortex said cheerfully as he came to a stop in front of Springer’s cell. The guards fanned out to either side, rifles at the ready. “If y’all would be so kinda s to step back - except you, Springer. How’re you today?”
“Oh, just dandy,” Springer said with blatantly fake enthusiasm. “Wonderful accommodations here, really. I especially love what you’ve done with the windows. “
“Yes, they’re quite nice, aren’t they, for non-existent windows,” Vortex deadpanned back, motioning the guards to pull Springer out of the cell. “The drapes are my favorite touch.”
Vortex waited for the bars to reactivate, then waved a hand at the prisoners watching from the next cell. “Pick one.”
“Huh?” Springer cycled his audios, confused, then he understood. Vortex wanted him to pick who was going to die today. “What? No!”
Rotors lifting briefly in a shrug, Vortex pointed at the nearest guard. “Pick out two. Bring them both.”
“Wait!” Springer said, looking from the prisoners to the guard, then back to Vortex.
“I only ever ask once, Springer,” Vortex said calmly. “No do-overs. I really wish you’d listen the first time and not make me do things like this.”
“I’m not making you do anything,” Springer said harshly.
Vortex sighed theatrically. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Springer.” He turned on his heel and started back down the corridor. “Bring all three.”
Springer looked at the two Autobots herded out of the cells in front of him, terrified and flinching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as the guards pushed them after Vortex.
x-x-x
The observation room was becoming depressingly familiar, Springer reflected with a hint of gallows humor.
“Thought we’d try something different today,” Vortex said, settling into his usual seat.
“Musical chairs?” Springer offered.
“Cheeky.” Vortex bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the quip. “I like you. You’re funny.”
“I’m a regular comedian,” Springer said dryly. He didn’t look at the window, keeping his gaze focused deliberately on the interrogator. He already knew what was going to happen to them and he was going to be forced to listen; he didn’t need to watch, too.
“I thought we’d play a game,” Vortex said, stretching. “A bit of a change up from yesterday. I’m gonna ask you a question, and if you don’t want to answer it, you can tell me something I don’t know instead. Anything, don’t gotta be important. That way I get to fill out my reports, you get to pick your subjects, and I don’t gotta hurt anyone today.”
It was a trap. Another thin coating of friendship and helpfulness hiding yet another trap. Sure, the first few questions could be countered with favorite brands of energon, but Vortex was counting on him running out of inane answers and slowly working his way to more important topics, the kind that seemed harmless at first but told an intelligent interrogator far more than expected and lead into more and more dangerous territory.
“Sure,” Springer said, keeping his tone light and easy. What choice did he have?
“How many mechs are in your team?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Vortex cocked his head. “So tell me something else. Don’t make me hurt anyone today, Springer,” he said, rotors dipping, his voice heavy and sounding almost tired.
“Something you don’t know? Alright.” Springer leaned forward in his chair. “How about that I know that you’re enjoying this,” he jerked his head towards the window without taking his optics off Vortex. “You like it when they scream, you like making people beg, and you’re not my friend. You’re a sadist, no matter how much you try to hide it.”
Vortex’s rotors stilled, and he regarded Springer with renewed interest. “Good call,” he said finally. He crossed his ankles and leaned back, his body language shifting in an instant from soliciting and concerned to distant and cruelly amused. “It’s been a while since I had anyone quite as interesting as you, Springer.”
“Flattered, really,” Springer said flatly.
“You should be. Shall we continue our little game, then?”
“I’d rather not,” Springer answered honestly.
Vortex cocked his head at the window. “If you’d prefer, I can skip straight to the part where I have two innocent mechs torn apart for my amusement. Or you can play along, your choice.”
“No,” Springer said harshly. “It’s not my choice. You’re not offering a choice. You’re just phrasing things to make it seem like I have any control, when it’s you torturing and killing innocents. You’re trying to screw with my head, and it isn’t going to work.”
Vortex clapped his hands sarcastically. “Right on all points but one.” He leaned forward, radiating intensity where before he’d shown concern. “See, Springer, you’re a good mech. Loyal. Moral. You care about people, even ones like these,” again he motioned towards the window, and again Springer refused to look. “Who you don’t even know. And somewhere deep down, you’re always gonna wonder if you coulda saved just one, if keepin’ quiet was worth it in the end. And you know what? You coulda saved one of them, because I don’t care if they live or die. Lettin’ one of them live matters about as much to me as givin’ you an extra ration in exchange for helpin’ me out would.” He laughed, a harsh, off-beat sound that chilled Springer to the core. “Except you refusin’ a cube of energon isn’t nearly so fun for me as takin’ them apart slowly. I’ll let you think on that tonight and we’ll pick up again in the mornin’.”
Vortex reached out and thumbed the intercom button. “Kill ‘em both. And have fun with it.”
He left the intercom on.
x-x-x
Kup looked up when the guards brought Springer back, and frowned at the young Autobot’s lowered head. He touched Springer’s shoulder as the bars reactivated.
Springer didn’t look up, but he was shaking, armor trembling under Kup’s hand. Gently wrapping an arm around his shoulder, Kup guided him to a spot against the wall where they could sit down. A glance down the hallway told him that neither of the other mechs who’d been dragged out with Springer were coming back, and Kup had a good idea why.
“C’mon kid, sit down. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured.
“No,” Springer answered, his voice a hollow, hoarse whisper. “I don’t think I will. I don’t think anything will.”
“Maybe not,” Kup acknowledged, sighing. “But at least the worst has happened. They can’t do anything worse than they have, kid. And you survived it, and you’re gonna keep surviving it, even if it’s just to spite the bastards. And that’s an order, soldier.”
The faintest ghost of a smile flickered on Springer’s expression. “That right?”
“Fraggin’ right it is,” Kup said gruffly, giving Springer’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And don’t forget it, no matter what happens, got me?”
x-x-x
“Vortex,” rumbled a deep voice.
The helicopter half-turned to look. “Hey, boss. Whatcha need?”
Onslaught came to lean against the railing beside Vortex, looking down from the shielded catwalk to the cells below. “Any progress?”
Vortex cocked his head. “Of sorts. I sent you a report.” He watched the prisoners for a moment, noting the way they sat and stood, his attention going to a spot of green two-thirds the way down the corridor.
“Command requires results,” Onslaught reminded him. “This method is not effective enough for them.”
“It was the only one that’d work on him in the time constraints they insisted on,” Vortex countered mildly. “He ain’t gonna talk to us just because we whack him a few times.” He flicked his rotors negligently. “The critical period’s passed, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more time to get to him than they’re gonna give me.”
“Then cut him loose and try another,” Onslaught said. “I expressed my doubt about the choice of this one in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah. Still think he’s the most likely to know what we need.”
“And the challenge wasn’t a factor?” Onslaught asked, sounding more amused than annoyed.
“Hey, do I tell you how to do your job?”
“Yes,” Onslaught said simply.
Vortex laughed, the sound carrying faintly to the prisoners below, causing an uneasy stir.
“Shockwave has sent a request for another prisoner,” Onslaught said after a moment.
“I saw the memo,” Vortex interrupted him. “Makes you wonder what he’s doin’ with them that he goes through them so fast.” He chuckled. “He’s even started askin’ for non-scientific things. ‘Able to withstand extreme mental stress and pain’ under his want list instead of just the normal CPU specs.”
“I haven’t asked for details,” Onslaught said dryly.
“Mm. Too bad.” Vortex looked down on the cells again, focusing on green plating in a knot of prisoners. “Tell ‘em I got him a perfect candidate.”
Rating: R
Warning: non-graphic mostly offscreen torture and death, psychological torture, sadism
Characters: Vortex, Springer, Kup, Onslaught
Universe: G1
Summary: Before becoming an unwilling part of Shockwave's triplechanger project, Springer was held at a former Autobot prison turned Decepticon POW camp.
A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know, I've written this basic concept twice before. But it's fun. And I've never been good at sticking to just one way of things going or just one characterization. I've had no net at home, so this is the product of three days of lunch hours and between projects.
x-x-x
Being dragged out of the holding cell and shackled didn't come as a surprise to Springer, nor was being herded down a cold grey hallway and into a room with a two-way mirror along the wall. What was surprising was being on the side of the mirror looking in. A chair sat back from the window, another right by the small control panel, and an unfamiliar mech perched on the edge of the panel, seeming to ignore Springer’s appearance in the doorway.
The guards undid his shackles and pushed him fully into the room, closing the door behind him, but the other mech still didn’t move. Springer took a cautious step to the side, risking a look through the mirror, and felt his fuel lines go cold. Backtrail, a young Autobot scout Springer’d met just before their capture on the border of Kaon, was shackled in the middle of the room, flanked by a pair of larger Decepticons. The two guards looked like they were making comments - crude ones, judging by Backtrail’s expression - but no sound came through the window.
Springer switched his gaze to the unfamiliar mech, forcing his hands to unclench and trying to hide how fast his fuel pump was racing. He wasn’t sure what exactly this mech had planned, but he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like it. He focused on the other mech’s rotors, watching the way they fanned slowly, shifting as far as the assembly would allow and back again. The rest of the mech was completely still, his face and optics obscured by battlemask and visor.
“Hello, Springer,” the mech said without looking over. His voice held the thick, harsh twang of a Kaon native. “Please, have a seat. I’ve gotta question or two for you.”
“I’m comfortable here, thanks,” Springer said warily.
The rotors lifted, shrugging. “Suit yourself,” the mech said, and Springer chalked that up as a tiny victory for him. “My name’s Vortex, by the way. I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I’ve got you in here,” he started.
“Not really,” Springer said.
Vortex straightened, walking over to the nearer chair and sitting, letting his rotor hub rest against the back and stretching out his legs. “My superiors expect certain information,” he said, not acknowledging Springer’s interruption. “And I’ve been given the task of gettin’ it. In order to do this, I’ve been granted some liberties over your treatment-”
“I won’t betray the Autobots,” Springer said, voice flat and hard.
Spreading his hands, Vortex shrugged again. “I ain’t askin’ you to. See, I don’t really wanna be in here, and you don’t wanna be in here, so if you’ll help me out, I’ll help you. I ain’t askin’ for Prime’s personal encryption, I’m just askin’ for a few little bits to keep my bosses off my aft, y’know?”
“No.” Springer wasn’t going to be drawn in by the fake friendly attitude.
“C’mon, this don’t need to be unpleasant. Who’s your commandin’ officer?”
Springer stared back at him, expression hard.
“We already know the answer,” Vortex continued. “I just need to hear you say it, alright?”
“No.”
Vortex vented a sigh, rotors falling against the chair back in an exaggerated motion of regret. “I didn’t wanna have to do this, but you ain’t leavin’ me much choice.” He reached over, pressing a button. “A leg, please.”
The two guards laughed, sounding tinny over the intercom, and one of them took aim with his rifle. A flash of plasma, then the intercom crackled with the sound of Backtrail screaming as he slumped to the floor, his knee a melted, twisted ruin.
Vortex pushed the button again, then turned his attention back to Springer, who was staring at him in shock and horror. The interrogator nodded towards the empty chair. “Sit,” he said quietly.
Springer sat.
“I really wish you wouldn’t make me do things like that,” he continued. “But if you’re not gonna work with me, I’m gonna have to take steps that neither of us will enjoy. So every time you refuse to answer, I gotta have him hurt, even though I don’t want to.” Vortex leaned forward earnestly. “Work with me here, Springer. Just answer. I don’t care who you served under or what their favorite color was. I just need somethin’ to write down in my report, alright?”
Springer looked over as the guards hauled Backtrail back to his feet, forcing him to stand on his mangled leg.
“Alright?” Vortex asked again. Springer managed a nod. “Your commandin’ officer is an Autobot called Centrifuge. I told you,” he said when Springer started in surprise. “We already knew that one. How long have you served under him?”
Hesitating, Springer looked from the helicopter to the Autobot on the other side of the window.
Vortex reached for the button.
“Six vorns,” Springer gritted out. “Give or take. Not including the time at the academy.”
Vortex settled back in his chair. “That’s better. Now, what’s the name of your unit’s weapons officer?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Springer said tightly.
“A hand, please,” Vortex said, pushing the intercom button. The guards dragged Backtrail forward, ignoring his cry of pain, and unshackled one of his wrists. One guard forced the scout’s arm up, splaying his hand out against the mirror. The other took aim and fired. Plasma flashed against the mirror, and Backtrail made a strangled scream. Springer jerked back in his chair, but he couldn’t look away. Backtrail’s hand was gone, leaving a scorched and mangled stump. The sound cut back out as Vortex tapped the controls.
“I didn’t want to do that,” Vortex said quietly. “Believe me. But you’re not leavin’ me many options.” He sighed heavily, venting exhaust that stirred a little dust on the floor plating. “Really, do you think that this information’s gonna be all that harmful to the Autobots? What someone’s name is? You think that’s worth this?” He jerked his head towards Backtrail, whimpering in the middle of the floor.
“Maybe not this question,” Springer said. “But the next one’s going to be a little more important, and the next, and the next, until you’re asking me to spill out every secret I know.” He watched Backtrail, and he prayed the little scout would forgive him. “And I won’t betray them. I won’t buy one mech’s life with hundreds of other lives.”
He didn’t look, but he heard the click of the intercomm. “Kill him,” Vortex said. Springer turned his optics off, but he couldn’t stop the sound of the rifle fire or the screaming. The guards didn’t seem inclined to make the death a quick one.
“Every day,” Vortex said, soft enough that Springer had to strain to hear him over the sounds from the next room. “Every day it’ll be someone different. Every time you refuse to answer, or lie to me, I’ll hurt them. Every day, someone will die if you refuse to cooperate. No one is comin’ to rescue you, Springer. How many of them will you let die before you can’t justify refusin’ to talk to me anymore?”
Springer didn’t have an answer to that.
x-x-x
Springer didn’t think he’d ever been this happy to see a jail cell. The guards shoved him roughly down the long row of cells, past a depressing number of Autobot prisoners crowded into cells that until recently had held criminals awaiting trial. He saw more than a few mechs wearing the shield of the security force that had run the prison before the Decepticons had taken it, and several more that had no faction symbol at all. Criss-crossing energy bars replaced the prison’s solid energy fields at the front and top of each holding cell, the Decepticons more concerned with being able to shoot into the cells in case of trouble than in preventing the prisoners from passing contraband. Heavily armed guards patrolled on the ground and on the catwalks above.
The guards stopped outside a cell, and Springer heard the whine of powering-up weaponry from above him as the guards moved to cover the prisoners in the cell. “Stand back, or you will be shot,” a guard said unnecessarily. The prisoners stayed huddled near the back or the cell. The bars flickered out, and Springer was shoved into the cell, the bars reactivating behind him.
“You’re lookin’ intact,” drawled an older mech near the front, a sharp question in his optics.
Springer slumped against a wall. “I wasn’t the one they were hurting,” he admitted quietly, optics on the floor in front of him.
“At least it’s over.” The old mech’s tone was carefully even.
“For now. They’ll be back.” Springer vented exhaust and tried to stop trembling. “They killed him,” he said, voice barely audible. He slid down the wall to sit, staring at his hands. “Slowly. Screaming. Because I wouldn’t-” His vocalizer hitched.
There was rustling, the scrape of a foot against the metal of the floor, then the old mech sat down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing,” he said gruffly.
“Yeah,” Springer said, but his voice lacked conviction.
The old mech was silent for a long moment, watching the patrolling guards sauntering past the cell. “What’s you’re name, kid?”
“Springer.”
“Kup,” the old mech offered, giving Springer’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t let them get to you, kid. Don’t blame yourself; ain’t no one to blame except those murderin’ slaggers.”
“Yeah,” Springer said, rubbing at his helm. “I know.”
“And don’t trust ‘em, no matter what.” Kup leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. “There was this one time, me and a couple o’ buddies were-”
Springer rested his elbows on his knees, and listened.
x-x-x
“So I yell at him to duck, and what does the crazy fragger do-”
“Warden’s coming!” came a hiss from the next cell, interrupting one of Kup’s seemingly endless supply of stories.
“Warden?” Springer repeated, concerned. “Who’s that?”
“He’s not really the warden,” Kup answered, standing and nudging someone to the side to see down the long corridor. “Cons don’t care enough about us to assign an official commander. But he’s in charge of the interrogators, and they’re in charge of the guards, so...” he shrugged. “Hear he’s a nasty piece of work, but I ain’t had the displeasure of meetin’ him.”
Springer pushed himself up and slid in beside Kup, close enough to the bars to feel the buzz of the energy field. A contingent of guards were making their way down the corridor, a familiar grey mech in the lead.
“Vortex,” Springer muttered. “That’s the guy who was questioning me yesterday,” he said when Kup glanced his way.
“Mornin’,” Vortex said cheerfully as he came to a stop in front of Springer’s cell. The guards fanned out to either side, rifles at the ready. “If y’all would be so kinda s to step back - except you, Springer. How’re you today?”
“Oh, just dandy,” Springer said with blatantly fake enthusiasm. “Wonderful accommodations here, really. I especially love what you’ve done with the windows. “
“Yes, they’re quite nice, aren’t they, for non-existent windows,” Vortex deadpanned back, motioning the guards to pull Springer out of the cell. “The drapes are my favorite touch.”
Vortex waited for the bars to reactivate, then waved a hand at the prisoners watching from the next cell. “Pick one.”
“Huh?” Springer cycled his audios, confused, then he understood. Vortex wanted him to pick who was going to die today. “What? No!”
Rotors lifting briefly in a shrug, Vortex pointed at the nearest guard. “Pick out two. Bring them both.”
“Wait!” Springer said, looking from the prisoners to the guard, then back to Vortex.
“I only ever ask once, Springer,” Vortex said calmly. “No do-overs. I really wish you’d listen the first time and not make me do things like this.”
“I’m not making you do anything,” Springer said harshly.
Vortex sighed theatrically. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Springer.” He turned on his heel and started back down the corridor. “Bring all three.”
Springer looked at the two Autobots herded out of the cells in front of him, terrified and flinching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as the guards pushed them after Vortex.
x-x-x
The observation room was becoming depressingly familiar, Springer reflected with a hint of gallows humor.
“Thought we’d try something different today,” Vortex said, settling into his usual seat.
“Musical chairs?” Springer offered.
“Cheeky.” Vortex bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the quip. “I like you. You’re funny.”
“I’m a regular comedian,” Springer said dryly. He didn’t look at the window, keeping his gaze focused deliberately on the interrogator. He already knew what was going to happen to them and he was going to be forced to listen; he didn’t need to watch, too.
“I thought we’d play a game,” Vortex said, stretching. “A bit of a change up from yesterday. I’m gonna ask you a question, and if you don’t want to answer it, you can tell me something I don’t know instead. Anything, don’t gotta be important. That way I get to fill out my reports, you get to pick your subjects, and I don’t gotta hurt anyone today.”
It was a trap. Another thin coating of friendship and helpfulness hiding yet another trap. Sure, the first few questions could be countered with favorite brands of energon, but Vortex was counting on him running out of inane answers and slowly working his way to more important topics, the kind that seemed harmless at first but told an intelligent interrogator far more than expected and lead into more and more dangerous territory.
“Sure,” Springer said, keeping his tone light and easy. What choice did he have?
“How many mechs are in your team?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Vortex cocked his head. “So tell me something else. Don’t make me hurt anyone today, Springer,” he said, rotors dipping, his voice heavy and sounding almost tired.
“Something you don’t know? Alright.” Springer leaned forward in his chair. “How about that I know that you’re enjoying this,” he jerked his head towards the window without taking his optics off Vortex. “You like it when they scream, you like making people beg, and you’re not my friend. You’re a sadist, no matter how much you try to hide it.”
Vortex’s rotors stilled, and he regarded Springer with renewed interest. “Good call,” he said finally. He crossed his ankles and leaned back, his body language shifting in an instant from soliciting and concerned to distant and cruelly amused. “It’s been a while since I had anyone quite as interesting as you, Springer.”
“Flattered, really,” Springer said flatly.
“You should be. Shall we continue our little game, then?”
“I’d rather not,” Springer answered honestly.
Vortex cocked his head at the window. “If you’d prefer, I can skip straight to the part where I have two innocent mechs torn apart for my amusement. Or you can play along, your choice.”
“No,” Springer said harshly. “It’s not my choice. You’re not offering a choice. You’re just phrasing things to make it seem like I have any control, when it’s you torturing and killing innocents. You’re trying to screw with my head, and it isn’t going to work.”
Vortex clapped his hands sarcastically. “Right on all points but one.” He leaned forward, radiating intensity where before he’d shown concern. “See, Springer, you’re a good mech. Loyal. Moral. You care about people, even ones like these,” again he motioned towards the window, and again Springer refused to look. “Who you don’t even know. And somewhere deep down, you’re always gonna wonder if you coulda saved just one, if keepin’ quiet was worth it in the end. And you know what? You coulda saved one of them, because I don’t care if they live or die. Lettin’ one of them live matters about as much to me as givin’ you an extra ration in exchange for helpin’ me out would.” He laughed, a harsh, off-beat sound that chilled Springer to the core. “Except you refusin’ a cube of energon isn’t nearly so fun for me as takin’ them apart slowly. I’ll let you think on that tonight and we’ll pick up again in the mornin’.”
Vortex reached out and thumbed the intercom button. “Kill ‘em both. And have fun with it.”
He left the intercom on.
x-x-x
Kup looked up when the guards brought Springer back, and frowned at the young Autobot’s lowered head. He touched Springer’s shoulder as the bars reactivated.
Springer didn’t look up, but he was shaking, armor trembling under Kup’s hand. Gently wrapping an arm around his shoulder, Kup guided him to a spot against the wall where they could sit down. A glance down the hallway told him that neither of the other mechs who’d been dragged out with Springer were coming back, and Kup had a good idea why.
“C’mon kid, sit down. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured.
“No,” Springer answered, his voice a hollow, hoarse whisper. “I don’t think I will. I don’t think anything will.”
“Maybe not,” Kup acknowledged, sighing. “But at least the worst has happened. They can’t do anything worse than they have, kid. And you survived it, and you’re gonna keep surviving it, even if it’s just to spite the bastards. And that’s an order, soldier.”
The faintest ghost of a smile flickered on Springer’s expression. “That right?”
“Fraggin’ right it is,” Kup said gruffly, giving Springer’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And don’t forget it, no matter what happens, got me?”
x-x-x
“Vortex,” rumbled a deep voice.
The helicopter half-turned to look. “Hey, boss. Whatcha need?”
Onslaught came to lean against the railing beside Vortex, looking down from the shielded catwalk to the cells below. “Any progress?”
Vortex cocked his head. “Of sorts. I sent you a report.” He watched the prisoners for a moment, noting the way they sat and stood, his attention going to a spot of green two-thirds the way down the corridor.
“Command requires results,” Onslaught reminded him. “This method is not effective enough for them.”
“It was the only one that’d work on him in the time constraints they insisted on,” Vortex countered mildly. “He ain’t gonna talk to us just because we whack him a few times.” He flicked his rotors negligently. “The critical period’s passed, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more time to get to him than they’re gonna give me.”
“Then cut him loose and try another,” Onslaught said. “I expressed my doubt about the choice of this one in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah. Still think he’s the most likely to know what we need.”
“And the challenge wasn’t a factor?” Onslaught asked, sounding more amused than annoyed.
“Hey, do I tell you how to do your job?”
“Yes,” Onslaught said simply.
Vortex laughed, the sound carrying faintly to the prisoners below, causing an uneasy stir.
“Shockwave has sent a request for another prisoner,” Onslaught said after a moment.
“I saw the memo,” Vortex interrupted him. “Makes you wonder what he’s doin’ with them that he goes through them so fast.” He chuckled. “He’s even started askin’ for non-scientific things. ‘Able to withstand extreme mental stress and pain’ under his want list instead of just the normal CPU specs.”
“I haven’t asked for details,” Onslaught said dryly.
“Mm. Too bad.” Vortex looked down on the cells again, focusing on green plating in a knot of prisoners. “Tell ‘em I got him a perfect candidate.”