[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Nine
a/n: I'm going to say this at every chapter until it gets better. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. NSFW.
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Megatron/Ratchet, Scrapper, Prowl(in flashback), Jazz, Grimlock, Snarl, Slag, Wheeljack, Bumblebee, Rumble
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: shock collar, physical abuse, forced bondage, flashbacks, sacred artifact destruction?
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "Toy Soldiers," Martika
Oubliette
Chapter Nine
Optimus wasn't sure what to expect when they returned to Megatron's quarters. Another stint in front of the display monitor perhaps. Another night spent recharging while chained to the wall. Another spray down in the washracks. Another half-sparked spar where Megatron beat him down before taking him.
None of these occurred.
Megatron drew a cube of energon, drained it, disposed of it and then dragged Optimus back to his berth room. Optimus had yet to enter this room and a great sense of foreboding crashed over him.
Megatron had not offered him any energon. Did he mean for Optimus to beg for fuel again? Maybe Megatron's creativity had finally worn out.
“Are you lonely?” Optimus asked when the silence became too heavy for his comfort. “Did you decide you needed a berthmate to sleep at night?”
“Sleep,” Megatron repeated, his tone snide. He pulled Optimus into the berthroom, hitting a panel to dim the overhead lights to half-brightness.
Within was a berth large enough for both of them, a computer console currently shut down, and a set of shelves stocked with datapads, empty cubes, and a few power units. The room was startlingly utilitarian. Optimus half-expected the shelves to be filled with monuments to Megatron's greatness. Trophies even.
“We don't sleep, Prime,” Megatron continued.
All of the sudden, he turned toward Optimus, unclipping the lead from Optimus' collar and laying it on the back of the desk chair.
The weight had been negligible, but Optimus welcomed its absence. In so much as he dreaded whatever it meant for Megatron's intentions.
Optimus touched the collar, his optics narrowing. “What is this about?”
“Claiming my rightful property,” Megatron said and he backed Optimus toward the berth, his presence suddenly that much larger.
A part of Optimus relaxed. So it was to be another assault then. Nothing new. Perhaps if he gave in and let Megatron do as he wished, it would be over sooner and he could be given some peace.
“You can say whatever you want, that doesn't make your ownership true,” Optimus said.
His aft hit the berth and Megatron crowded him against it, his massive frame pinning Optimus in place. One knee nudged between Optimus' legs, Megatron's upper thigh rubbing against Optimus' valve panel.
Optimus turned his helm away as Megatron nuzzled against him, ex-venting heat.
“That's where you're wrong, Prime.” Megatron's hands landed on Optimus' hips with a squeeze. “And I'll prove it to you. Get on the berth.”
Optimus frowned, but he obeyed. It was a waste of his limited energy to do otherwise. Megatron joined him, crawling over Optimus and settling between Optimus' legs. His hands spread over Optimus' windshields. His smirk sent a chill down Optimus' backstrut.
“Hands over your helm,” Megatron said.
Optimus sighed and lifted his arms, feeling the wall above him. “I suppose you want me to whimper and beg for more?”
Megatron laughed. “That would be ideal but I know better. That'll come soon enough.” He rocked his hips against Optimus', their panels scraping together. But he made no move to release his spike or demand that Optimus reveal his valve.
Optimus offlined his optics and turned his helm away. “Just get it over with then.”
“I intend to.” Megatron's weight settled harder against him. Two blunt fingers dragged down Optimus' center seam. “Open.”
Optimus' optics snapped back online, his helm whipping toward Megatron. “What?”
“You heard me.” Megatron leaned forward, his optics burning brighter. “Open your chestplates, Prime.”
Ice formed in his lines. Optimus' arms snapped back down, over his chestplate, but Megatron grabbed them just as quickly, pinning them back over his helm.
Megatrin grinned, his denta gleaming. “Ah, now you have some fight.”
Optimus glared. “You have my frame. I won't let you have my spark.”
“That's not your choice to make,” Megatron said, and his fingers squeezed tight enough to stress the gears in Optimus' wrists. “So you can either open your chestplates for me, or I can rip them open. I'll enjoy it either way.”
Optimus' spark flared with fear. He'd endured everything else. He'd let Megatron take his frame, ruin his valve and his spike. He'd bent on hands and knees. He'd suborned himself to Megatron.
But not this. Never this.
Optimus' engine snarled. He tensed and threw himself to the side, using every bit of mass he had left. He jammed a knee toward Megatron, trying to kick the warlord off him.
Megatron twisted to avoid the blow, slamming his wrists down against the berth. Something cracked as pain lanced through his right arm. Optimus gritted his teeth, ignored it, and thrashed beneath Megatron. Ice sluiced through his lines and despair crawled into his spark.
“Release me!” Optimus shouted. He yanked on his arms, trying to free them from Megatron's grip.
But Megatron had the advantage of height and mass and leverage. He was fully fueled and fully repaired and armed. He rode Optimus' motions easily, his lust pouring into his field and lashing at Optimus.
It made him physically ill, his tanks lurching. Megatron vented heat, a small laugh of satisfaction audible over the sound of clashing metal.
“So now you fight,” he observed, fans whirring from exertion. “I'm impressed.”
Optimus growled and twisted his frame, freeing up a leg. He pulled back his knee and slammed his pede into Megatron's abdominal armor, hearing it buckle beneath him. Megatron hissed and drew back, releasing one of Optimus' hands long enough to backhand him.
Optimus gasped for a ventilation, vision spinning, but his hand was free and he lashed out at Megatron. The blow was knocked aside by Megatron's other hand but now both of his arms were free and Optimus threw himself forward, the urge to hurt the strongest he had ever felt.
And then there was pain, slicing through every circuit, every line. Optimus screamed as his frame seized, and his vision whited out. He felt himself slipping, falling, and then he hit the ground, limbs twitching as the agony burnt through him.
It seemed to last forever, the electrical discharge flaying every sensor and circuit and he swore he smelled burnt-out circuitry. The flashing electricity lit up the room, his visual feed swirling and swirling.
It ended as abruptly as it began.
Optimus collapsed with a gasp, a low, static moan slipping from his vocalizer. He'd forgotten about the collar. He hurt, by Primus, he hurt. Optimus forced his optics into a reboot, forced his frame to obey.
Every movement was agony. He flopped onto his side, tried to get his arms and legs beneath him, but his joints were as solid as gelatin.
He heard movement, the hiss-rush of hydraulics, the weight of Megatron's pedesteps. Megatron's voice came to him, as if over a distance.
“I knew you wouldn't cooperate. Thankfully, I came prepared.”
Optimus' vision swam. He saw blocks of color, hazy shapes, and the ground vibrated from Megatron's pedesteps. Megatron's field washed over his and then there were hands on him, hauling him up and dragging him back onto the berth.
Optimus groaned, limbs twitching. His wrists were taken in a firm grip, more rattling metal accompanying the motion until his arms were pulled above his helm and secured. His ankles were given the same treatment, though secured at the end of the berth, splaying his thighs.
Some clarity returned, the berth rattling as Megatron joined him on it, the warlord straddling Optimus' hips. His weight bore Optimus down, pinning him in place. His hands landed on Optimus' chestplate, thumbs sweeping the seam running between his windshields.
Optimus moaned and tugged at his restraints. They rattled but offered no leeway. He rebooted his sensory equipment again and the static cleared from his optics.
Megatron loomed over him, his expression intent, optics baleful. “With me yet, Prime?”
“You... are a monster,” Optimus managed, his vocalizer clicking intermittently. His frame ached to his core.
The pressure on his seam worsened. He felt metal buckle, heard the splinter of his windshields. Megatron dug into the seam with more than just his thumbs, forcing his way through.
“I am a victor,” Megatron corrected. “Claiming what is mine. And if you do not open for me, I will take it for myself.”
Optimus' hands formed fists. His spark beat faster. Surrender what you can bear to lose. This Optimus could not sanction. He would not make it easier.
“The law of the Decepticons,” Optimus spat, biting back a cry of pain as Megatron shoved his fingers into the seam of his chestplate and yanked. “To destroy everything in front of them. Because nothing is ever enough.”
Hinges screeched with the strain. His locks cracked. His chassis rose from the berth, pulled upward with every relentless tug.
“You know nothing about us, Autobot,” Megatron retorted.
His fingers curled around the first layer of Optimus' armor and Megatron yanked. Optimus' windshields shattered as his armor was ripped open.
The second layer was only meant to protect him from blaster attacks. It was nothing against the force Megatron applied. Megatron punched through it as easily as the first and then the pale light of Optimus' spark lit up the room, multi-faceted as it gleamed through the Matrix.
“Ahh,” Megatron said, tracing around the couplings that held the Matrix in place. “The Autobot Matrix. The very item which makes you a Prime.”
It stirred then, rousing from the resting state it had born since Optimus first woke on Earth all those years ago. He rarely heard counsel from the ancient Primes as it was, and not since the four million years spent in stasis. He'd begun to think that the Matrix truly was an empty vessel.
Until now.
Optimus strained at his bindings; his ventilations came in sharper gasps. “What do you intend to do?” he demanded.
“Take your throne,” Megatron said and his massive hand curved around the sphere of the Matrix, where glittering data crystals carried the knowledge of an entire civilization.
“You'll kill me!” Optimus forced out. He could see the frantic pulses of his spark reflecting on Megatron's face and knew that his fear was just as plain to see.
Pride had gone out the window.
“I won't,” Megatron said and Optimus felt the scrape of his talons as though the Matrix had been wired into his sensor-circuits as well. And perhaps it had. “Your medic assured me. Though that isn't to say this won't be very unpleasant.”
I'm so sorry, Optimus.
Oh, Ratchet. What had they done to you?
Optimus' intake worked. “You hold nothing sacred,” he managed, his plating rustling.
“Nothing of worth to the Autobots,” Megatron agreed with a fanged grin.
His grip on the Matrix was tangible, iron-clad. Megatron looked down at Optimus as he pulled ever so slowly and the connectors between Optimus' chassis and the Matrix strained. He felt them deform, stress fractures developing.
“I will take everything of worth to you,” Megatron said, his smile gone as his vocals dripped into a low hiss. “Everything you hold dear. And I'm going to start with this.”
“Megatron--”
He yanked.
Optimus' world went the orange-red of warnings, his torso chasing after the torn lines of the Matrix as though that would keep them connected. Pain flooded through him, damage alerts stripped his processing functions raw. Burnt lines scorched his sensors. Energon dripped down on him, his own energon, warm and fresh.
Vision returned, riddled with static.
Megatron laughed, a dark sound, one hand clutching the Matrix, stained with Optimus' fluids.
“Such a small thing,” he said, talons hooking into the tiny apertures.
He tilted his helm. He looked down at Optimus. Metal creaked; glass fractured. The Matrix had no voice but Optimus heard it screaming all the same. A world's worth of history. One of the data crystals shattered. Silvery dust sprinkled down onto Optimus.
His vents heaved. He wheezed. His vocalizer spat inarticulate static, something like a plea silent on his lips as a result.
“There will never be another Prime,” Megatron said.
He flexed his fingers. He squeezed. The Matrix shattered.
Optimus seized. The Matrix wasn't connected to him, but he felt it. Like a band around his spark, dragging him down into darkness. He heard something, dimly, like an echo. He thrashed on the berth.
His world went white.
“They're gone? What do you mean they're gone?” Ratchet demanded, sounding as perplexed as Optimus felt.
Jazz rolled his shoulder. “I mean they ain't there. Nobody. Nada. The Nemesis is a ghost ship. I didn't see not bolt nor gear of a 'Con.”
Prowl shook his helm. “That doesn't make any sense.” He reshuffled his datapads, helplessly scanning through them as though it would explain what Jazz had seen. “How can they be gone?”
“I wish I knew. But they moved out. Checked everywhere. Screamer's lab has been stripped, so has the medbay. All of their living quarters are empty, though a few look as though they left in a big hurry. There weren't even any alarms or anythin'. I walked right in.” Now Jazz was the one looking disturbed, his visor a flat shade as opposed to the perky gleam.
“Where would they go?” Prowl asked.
“Megatron's up to somethin'. Ain't no guesses about it,” Ironhide insisted. A dark rumble built in his internals, canons cycling restlessly in their hidden panels.
Optimus drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Jazz's information was spread out in front of him, though he was hard pressed to call it information. There was little there.
“They wiped all the drives?” Optimus asked.
“All of them.” Jazz braced his hands on the desk, his visor dim. “They're gone.”
He was being moved. His frame felt weightless for all that the pain remained. The taste of fire was on his glossa. He ached all over.
There were voices around him. Hands on his plating. Optimus flinched, but couldn't move. His limbs were weighted down by shackles.
“Prime,” someone said.
But without the Matrix, that title no longer belonged to him.
“I do not understand, Mr. President. What is it, exactly, that you wish us to do?”
Surrounded by a phalanx of armed guards, his secret service, the President of the United States looked up at Optimus without a trace of fear in his eyes. “We want you to leave. The people no longer wish to be caught in your war. With the Decepticons gone, we feel you don't need to be here either.”
“What if they return?” Prowl asked, his frown deepening with every word from the human's mouth. His doorwings flicked. “What will you do then?”
Left unsaid was the question, “who told them the Decepticons had gone?” The Autobots had only learned a week ago that the Nemesis was abandoned and they'd shared that information no further than the command staff.
“They won't have any reason to,” said the Secretary of Defense, her face pinched with displeasure. She showed no trace of fear either. “Not with you gone. And we're not defenseless. We'll take action.”
Frustration ate at Optimus, but he was careful to keep it from his expression. “If that is your true desire, then we will honor it, but I beg that you reconsider. Should something happen, our lack of resources will prevent us from returning to render aid.”
“Good,” someone muttered, too quietly for others to hear, but not too quietly for a Cybertronian audial.
“We will deal with that should the situation arise, but we don't anticipate it.” The President stood up straighter, his security bristling around him. “We, as a people, are done playing hosts to aliens.”
His optics onlined to the dull gray sheen of a medbay ceiling. He was growing to hate the sight of it. Optimus couldn't move, his systems registering as on standby per a medical officer's override.
Shadows shifted. His gaze slid to the side, the sight of familiar white and red armor causing a wave of relief. One that dulled as Ratchet's distress became abundantly clear. It rasped against his field.
Ratchet's mouth moved, but Optimus couldn't hear him. Were his audials malfunctioning?
A hand rested on his arm. Optimus saw it but couldn't feel it. He longed to reach out, to hold his Chief Medical Officer. He still couldn't move.
Ratchet's hand cupped his faceplate, warm and gentle, and Optimus wanted to weep because gentleness had become so foreign to him. Ratchet's expression darkened, a mix of anger and grief.
Optimus' vision dimmed. The white crept in around the edges. He panicked, field flaring, startling Ratchet.
Pain rose in his chassis. His spark ached. Ratchet faded from view.
“There's not enough room, no matter how much I rework it,” Prowl said, rubbing his forehelm. He slumped in his chair, doorwings flat against his back. “Someone is going to have to stay behind.”
“The humans won't like that,” Jazz muttered. He didn't look at any of them, his arms folded under his bumper as he stared at the wall. He leaned against the door, frame tight with suppressed anger.
Optimus sighed and braced his elbows on the desk. “What about negotiations?”
“Denied. Three times.” Prowl frowned and Optimus couldn't remember the last time his second had smiled. “They want us gone. I've no doubt they'll encourage the process if we don't comply.”
Optimus could not condone harming the humans. It was their right to request the Autobots leave. This was their planet. He simply couldn't understand the sudden demand. They had been working toward a permanent alliance. Ground had already been cleared for a permanent base!
“Still no word from the Decepticons?” Optimus asked.
“None,” Jazz bit out.
Optimus hid behind his clasped hands. “How many?”
Prowl pulled out a datapad and set it on the table. “Of all of us, the humans like Defensor the most. I recommend that the Protectobots stay behind. They are a fully functional team and are comfortable here.”
“Grimlock's not leavin',” Jazz added, shifting his weight from one pede to the other. “He thinks you're making a mistake.”
Optimus knew that much. Grimlock had expressed himself quite vehemently. He did not understand why Optimus would concede to the humans.
“I don't wish to leave anyone behind,” Optimus said.
“We have to face the realities, Prime,” Prowl replied. “They haven't given us any other choice.”
He onlined again, this time with sound and sensation, enough that he wondered if the last time had been a memory purge.
“You'll live.”
He turned his helm and found Ratchet sitting in a chair beside him, his hands clasped around one of Optimus'. Ratchet was looking at him, his optics dim.
“I know that's probably not good news anymore but...” Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “You flat-lined twice. I almost thought we'd lost you. I warned Megatron. The Matrix was as much a part of you as you were a part of it.”
Movement was a dull ache. Optimus' free hand groped at his chestplates, tracing the new and delicate welds - Ratchet's work. He felt strangely empty.
“Optimus--”
“I am no longer Prime,” he said, his vocalizer glitched with static but coherent enough. He shuttered his optics. “You owe me nothing, Ratchet.”
His medic's hands tightened around Optimus'. They were warm, but Optimus didn't miss the chill in Ratchet's field.
“You are still Prime,” Ratchet said, a stubborn set to his jaw. “The Matrix wasn't what mattered to us.”
The door opened, startling both of them. Ratchet dropped Optimus' hand and shot to his pedes, lowering his helm. Optimus turned his gaze toward it, Megatron and Scrapper striding inside. Megatron looked pleased with himself.
“Slave,” Scrapper said in a mild tone. “Bonecrusher has need of you.”
Ratchet flinched, but he nodded. “Yes, Master Scrapper.”
He cast Optimus a backward glance and then hurried for the door, only for Megatron to grab his arm as he passed. Ratchet froze, Optimus flinched, and even Scrapper went rigid. Megatron produced a thoughtful noise, his free hand tilting Ratchet's chin up, forcing the medic to look at him.
“You told me he would live, medic,” Megatron said. His tone was mild, but Optimus had no doubt there was warning behind it.
“I also said there was a chance he would offline,” Ratchet retorted. It was bluster. He was shaking and no one could have missed it. “But as you can see, he is still alive for you to torture. I thought you'd be happy.”
Megatron's lips pulled into a slow smile. “Oh, I am.” His fingers flexed, squeezing, and Ratchet flinched. “But I also feel I have forgotten how appealing you are.”
Scrapper started forward. “My Lord--”
A single glance from Megatron had Scrapper retreating into silence. “How long until my pet is ready for use?”
“You may take him with you, but he needs rest, not strenuous activity,” Scrapper replied and his visor slanted toward Ratchet with something that almost resembled concern.
Megatron made a contemplative noise. “Good. Then get him up from the berth.” His gaze shifted back to Ratchet, thumb sweeping over the medic's lips. “I'm going to borrow this one, too. Just in case.”
Ratchet's optics widened.
Optimus would have lurched off the medberth if could have. As it was, he required Scrapper's assistance, his processor swimming dizzily.
“Megatron,” Optimus forced out, using the berth to help keep himself upright. His chest keep settling and resettling around the emptiness in front of his spark chamber. “Leave him out of this. You have me. I won't... I won't even fight.”
Megatron smirked. “I know you won't. But a little incentive never hurt anyone.”
“Bonecrusher's going to whine about this for days,” Scrapper muttered from behind Optimus.
He tweaked something back there and suddenly, Optimus could stand up straight. He was still dizzy, but it was easier to stand. A pinched nerve line perhaps.
“Come along, pet,” Megatron said. He released Ratchet's face but kept a firm grip on the medic's arm. “I've been two days without any entertainment. I'm overdue. Scrapper, you can retrieve this one later.”
“Ah. Yes, my lord.” Hydraulics hissed as Scrapper bowed.
Optimus moved before he could think twice about it. He was not Prime, not anymore, but Ratchet was still his friend, still his to protect. He no more deserved Megatron's attention than anyone else.
They left the med center, Megatron's grip on Ratchet's arm firm. Optimus limped in their wake, vents wheezing. His energy levels read a marginal thirty percent, appalling for a mech whose systems were overheated with self-repair. Optimus wanted to speak but found himself gasping instead. Dizziness swamped his processor.
Fortunately, Ratchet was more than willing to fill the silence.
“Don't you have real work to do, great and glorious leader?” Ratchet asked. His words were meant to be insulting, but the underlying tremor betrayed his anxieties.
Megatron must have known it, too, because rather than respond with violence, he chuckled. “Always. But I am due a break now and again. Don't you agree?”
“You certainly over-exert yourself. All that rape and torture must be exhausting. I can't imagine,” Ratchet retorted.
“You would have to be a free mech to give it such a term,” Megatron replied, mildly bemused. “And your Master is within his rights to do with his belongings as he will.”
“Unless his Master comes along,” Ratchet muttered.
A rumbling laugh rose in Megatron's chassis. “You're learning.”
Optimus' tanks churned. To speak of another mech's rights so callously... He shouldn't be surprised. But it's though Megatron had gone beyond punishing them for being Autobots and was instead turning them into machinery or accessories. As though they were no longer mecha.
“Don't worry,” Megatron continued as they arrived at the Prime's Residence and stepped into the lift to ride it to the penthouse. “You'll be returned to him soon enough. I simply felt the need for a little variety this evening.” He flashed a smile of sharpened denta.
“Consider me relieved,” Ratchet said, and he glanced past the warlord, catching optics with Optimus. There was wariness in his gaze, and apology, too.
They didn't dare speak. Not with Megatron standing there, likely concocting some terrible and humiliating course of action.
The lift chimed and deposited them on the top floor. Optimus followed Megatron and Ratchet off, but stumbled on nothing, his spark giving an abbreviated pulse. There was a brief, dizzying moment before Megatron grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.
“What's wrong with him?” Megatron demanded.
“That's generally what happens after trauma,” Ratchet snapped, though Optimus felt the prickle of a scan wash over his frame. “Maybe you shouldn't have torn the Matrix from his spark.”
Megatron stiffened, his field coiling with offense. Optimus forced his frame into motion. He staggered against Megatron, purposefully sliding his overheated frame against the warlord's.
The distraction worked, Megatron slanting a look down at him. “That eager, are we?” Megatron purred.
“If it means access to a berth, yes.” Static laced his words, but it was gradually clearing.
Megatron grinned and his free hand stroked down Optimus' backplate. “Then let us hurry.”
Crisis averted. For now. Optimus swallowed down the nausea and let himself become obedient to Megatron's ministrations. If it meant he would leave Ratchet alone, perhaps even ignore him, all the better.
Back in Megatron's hab-suite, he led them directly to the main room where he sat down on a chair and stared up at both Autobots. He crooked a finger at Ratchet.
“Come here, medic,” he said. “You're first.”
Optimus made a low noise of protest, starting forward, but a single look from Megatron froze him in place.
“You'll get your turn,” Megatron said and he pulled Ratchet into his lap. He shamelessly groped the medic's panel, Ratchet's optics shuttering in response. “I might even manage to be gentle. So until then, you can watch. But on your knees.”
Optimus worked his intake.
Ratchet was sprawled over Megatron's lap, his back pressed to Megatron's front. One arm curled around his waist, taloned fingers tapping over his interface panel. The other hand had a firm grip around Ratchet's intake, one sharp thumb pressed to the delicate dermal plate and the main energon line beneath.
Megatron had no need to voice his threat.
Optimus lowered himself to his knees. “Don't hurt him.” The words were better a plea.
“Do as I say and I won't have to.” Megatron grinned and nuzzled his helm against Ratchet's, glossa teasing at Ratchet's audial. “Will I, medic?”
Ratchet cringed. His optics shuttered. “No, Master.” His tone was practiced, as was the relaxing of his frame.
Optimus ached to see it.
“Good,” Megatron purred and his optics met Optimus'. “Now let's have some fun, shall we?”
-INTERLUDE-
He was climbing upward from the bowels of Cybertron when he got within receiving range of the planet-wide signals and his receiver pinged an update. Jazz found a stable ledge to rest upon as his vents cycled the stale, dusty air. He activated his broadcasting unit, all audio beaming straight to his processor to keep down on ambient noise.
The holographic screen sprang to life from his left forearm. Jazz braced himself, prepared for any manner of broadcast. Megatron's depravity knew no bounds after all.
The sight of Optimus Prime, set upon by no less than four Decepticons while a crowd cheered, was not something he could have anticipated. He would have thought Megatron to be far more possessive than that.
Jazz worked his jaw. Nausea crawled up his intake. He'd seen a lot during the course of the war, a lot of terrible things. Logically, the sight of this was only a drop in the bucket. Jazz had certainly seen worse.
He still couldn't disassociate himself from it.
Anger cropped up around the disgust. It filled him up, his spark surging with fury, until he forced himself to close down the broadcast because he couldn't stop his engine from revving. His energy field was a frentic whirl. His plating clattered.
Jazz stared into the dark of the underlevels and forced himself back into control. He had plans. He had to be patient. They were too outnumbered to even consider rushing into things.
He pushed to his pedes and continued climbing, lest he be late for the meeting. The images wouldn't leave him alone. Optimus in pain. Optimus subjected to the attention of those monsters. How many others were suffering like that? Jazz didn't even know, for sure, how many Autobots were in Decepticon custody. Only the ones Megatron had gloated about.
He passed through three sub-levels, anger giving him energy. His caution increased ten-fold. If Megatron caught him, execution would be a kinder fate. Jazz didn't know what Megatron would decide.
He'd executed Ironhide; he'd allowed Ratchet to live.
He'd executed Inferno; he'd kept Optimus for his personal pet.
He'd made sure that every last one of their flight-capable mechs were killed. But he'd caught and kept Hound.
Megatron was as unpredictable as ever.
Jazz set his jaw in a firm line. He kept climbing. He would end Megatron if it was the last thing he did. Optimus wasn't in charge anymore.
No more mercy.
0o0o0
“I told you not to watch that!”
He snatched the receiver from Snarl's hands and shoved it into subspace before the other Dinobot could make another grab for it. He just barely resisted the urge to smash it instead. They might need it later. Plus, he was loath to destroy anything that Wheeljack had given them.
Snarl's field lashed with indignation where it notched up against Grimlock's. “Me Snarl wanted to see.” His spines quivered.
“It's not important,” Grimlock growled. “It's just to make you mad. Make you stupid. But we will not fall for it. We aren't stupid.” Not like Prime, he added, but he kept that to himself.
The others didn't need to know it.
Slag huffed. “You Grimlock don't make sense.”
“Don't have to. You Slag and you Snarl just have to obey,” he retorted and glared at both of them. See if they pulled out another receiver and what he'd do. If he had to revert back to previous language packets to get his point across, he would.
Grimlock didn't need to watch Megatron's little broadcasts to get angry. He was already furious enough. But anger made you reckless and do foolish things. He couldn't afford that.
“What Dinobots doing anyway?” Slag grumbled. “We Dinobots alone. What point?”
“Not alone,” Grimlock insisted. “Wheeljack's not dead. Ratchet's not dead. We'll rescue both. Defeat the Decepticons. And save Cybertron.”
Snarl's gears ground with shock. “And how we do that?”
Grimlock frowned. He hadn't quite figured that out yet. The largest problem was getting to Cybertron. The space bridge was an option, but it was always guarded by a rotating staff of Decepticons, some easier to take down than others. The larger concern was that Grimlock did not know what was on the other side.
“Me Grimlock still working on plan,” he admitted. If only they had a means of contacting Cybertron. That would make working out the particulars a lot easier.
Slag snorted. “You Grimlock scared.”
“I not scared.” He raised a balled fist and Slag clamped his mouth shut. “Smart,” Grimlock corrected. Smart like the Autobots and his enemies never thought he was. “We watch. We wait. Then, we act.”
Snarl dropped down to the ground, aggravation dark in his field. “Waiting boring,” he complained.
“Better than dead,” Grimlock retorted.
“Like him Sludge?” Slag said and his sneer made Grimlock angry all over again.
It passed, however. He recognized in Slag the same thing he felt in himself: a helpless anger blunted by grief.
“Yes,” Grimlock said as he leaned against a rock formation, arms crossed. “Like Sludge.”
And Swoop, his mind supplied.
Megatron would pay dearly for both of them.
0o0o0
The Rainmakers flew overhead, criss-crossing patterns that ensured they wouldn't miss anything. Wheeljack shrank down into the empty mine and prayed that his attention deflector continued to function properly.
It was an anxious thirty minutes.
He watched his energy levels tick down, the deflector drawing mercilessly upon his meager stores. But it was worth it to ensure he wasn't found. He'd seen what had become of the Autobots Megatron captured - death or slavery. Wheeljack knew what he preferred.
Acid Storm and Sunstorm swept across the sky one more time and then they were gone. Wheeljack tracked the roar of their thrusters until they were dim echoes. He waited longer, in case they chose to double back.
The Coneheads had done that just last week and Wheeljack had almost been caught. He'd wasted precious energy reactivating the deflector in a rush.
At least the mines here provided some cover. There were unstable elements present, their very instability being the cause of abandoning the mine in the first place.
When another ten minutes had passed in silence, Wheeljack allowed himself an ex-vent of relief. He disengaged the deflector and pulled himself out of the tiny crevasse where he'd wedged his frame. He stretched, cramped cables and hydraulics crackling with relief. Flakes of grit fluttered to the ground.
He would need to hunt down energon again.
Wheeljack consulted the old datamap he'd scrounged from the ruins of Ibelex. While most of Cybertron's landscape had been ruined by the war, there were a few landmarks that proved useful.
Hmm. The closest sign of former civilization was a tiny mining outpost. He doubted there was anything to be found there but he supposed it couldn't hurt to look.
He tucked the map back into his thigh panel and climbed out of the crevasse. At the top, he dusted his hands and quickly scanned the horizons. No Seekers in sight. And no sign of any ground-bound Decepticon troops either. They rarely ventured this far from Iacon anyway.
Wheeljack oriented himself toward the mining outpost and shifted to alt-mode, sensors on full apart. His Earth rubber tires bumped across the blaster-pitted ground. It was silent, too. Silent and still. Unlike Earth. There was always noise on Earth.
Noise like the subtle, barely noticeable ping on the edge of his comm suite. Wheeljack paused and popped back into root mode, helm tilting. It was on a little used frequency, one popular long before the war. One had to have certain equipment to even pick it up, not to mention knowledge of its existence.
In fact, if Soundwave even knew about it, Wheeljack would eat his own spoiler.
Wheeljack tapped into it and his optics rounded in surprise. It was a message, recorded and on auto-repeat, but he'd known that voice anywhere.
“This is Commander Jazz and I have a message for all surviving Autobots. It's time. No more hiding. We will not go quietly into the night. We will not vanish without a fight. We're going to live on. We're going to survive. And we're going to kick Megatron's aft.”
The last bit was a string of coordinates, rattled off so quickly Wheeljack had to listen to it twice to pick out the exact location.
It was a risk. A huge risk.
Wheeljack turned around, aiming himself in the direction of the coordinates. Two days drive. Well within the meeting time.
It could be a trap. But what Decepticon would quote an Earth movie like that?
It was a risk. It could be a trap. Did he dare take that chance?
No more hiding.
Ratchet on the screen, caught and broken.
Wheeljack threw himself into alt-mode, the poor scrape of his tired components a reflection of his current state. Before long, he wouldn't need Megatron to hunt him down to kill him.
What did he have left to lose?
0o0o0
Bumblebee closed his comm-suite and hopped down from the ridge. Being out in the open left him feeling twitchy anymore. It was safer in the dark.
He'd had a close call with Shockwave's drones yesterday. Jazz would kick his aft if he knew how careless Bumblebee had been. But he'd been starving and his sensors had picked up an energon signal that caused his tanks to gurgle.
Little had he known that energon signal was one of Shockwave's drones. Bumblebee had never backpedaled so quickly in his life.
And now this.
Bumblebee frowned as he retreated to the safety of a crashed ship, one of many nonsentient ones that had gone down in the early stages of the war. Hollowed out and stripped of anything useful, it had just enough of an outer shell to protect him from overhead scans.
But Jazz's message... he couldn't ignore it either. It was a joy to hear his Commander's vocals. A relief to know that there were others out there, alive and free of Decepticon ownership. Unlike Ratchet and Hound and Prime.
Bumblebee wished he'd never gotten his receiving array functional again. He could have lived without knowing what atrocities Megatron had committed.
He tucked himself into the back, where he'd made something of a nest. He couldn't stay here for much longer, not for his own safety and certainly not if he wanted to meet with Jazz. But it had been nice to have something like a safe space. For however short a time.
“Primus, Goldie. I didn't think we'd ever find you.”
Bumblebee froze, his spark hiccuping. His hand shot to the side and he grabbed the heavy pipe he'd scavenged for a weapon. His optics tracked the dim of the shuttle, searching out the speaker.
He didn't need to look to know who it was though. There were things not even a war and a four million year stasis could make you forget.
The voice of your first love was one of them.
“How did you?” Bumblebee asked, careful to keep his vocals barely above a whisper.
“Luck. Intuition. A bit of the boss bot's smarts.” Rumble melted out of the shadow to Bumblebee's left, a cocky grin on his face. Then again, that was usual for Rumble.
He planted his hands on his hips. “Ya can put the pipe down, ya know. I didn't come here to hurt you.”
Bumblebee snorted and tightened his grip. “Right. And I'm supposed to believe that.” He glanced at a nearby port window, but couldn't see any movement outside the shuttle. “Why else would you come here?”
“I'm hurt, Goldie, right in th' spark.” Rumble pressed a hand to his chestplate with a half bow. “We have our history, yeah, it's true. I thought it still meant somethin'.”
Bumblebee shot him a sharp look. “I've had your piledrivers aimed for my chassis one too many times, Rumble. What do you want?”
How many times over the course of the war had they been here? And by here, Bumblebee meant facing each other, on opposite lines, carrying on a terse conversation without resolution. Because Bumblebee would never betray the Autobots and Rumble had made a vow to Soundwave and there was an invisible wall between them, so thick as to be impenetrable.
“I told th' boss you'd be prickly, but he sent me anyway.” The light behind Rumble's visor flashed. “I came ta give ya a message to carry to yer boss. Tell 'im Soundwave wants ta help.”
Bumblebee blinked. “Gonna need a bit more explanation than that.”
“Well, it's all yer gonna get.” Rumble flicked a hand at him. “Just tell 'im that Soundwave's not happy with what old Buckethead's up to. And that we got allies.”
“Who?”
“Well, that's for us ta know and you ta find out, isn't it?” Rumble grinned. “So I'll just let ya get back ta whatever it is yer doin' and I'll leave and we'll both pretend this never happened if ya get caught. Deal?”
Bumblebee narrowed his optics. “How am I supposed to believe you, Rumble?”
“Guess you'll just have to trust me.”
Right. Because a history of trusting Rumble or Frenzy had proven to be good for Bumblebee's health.
“I don't,” Bumblebee said.
“I know.” Something in Rumble's voice softened, even as he stepped back into the shadows. “But maybe there's still a chance to change that, yeah?”
Bumblebee could have given chase. He didn't bother. Whether Rumble was lying or telling the truth, there was no point. Either Decepticons lay in wait for him just outside this shuttle and he was doomed, or Soundwave really did have a stake in this.
He slumped back into his nest and tucked the metal pipe against his side. He played Jazz's message over and over. Rumble's, too.
Bumblebee supposed he had a choice to make.
***
a/n: *wince* Brutal. You can probably guess what's coming in the next chapter. Megatron continues to escalate, but he also succeeded in provoking Jazz. What does that mean for the future? Read to find out. ;)
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
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