Fic - Recall, Chapter 2
Title: Recall, Chapter 2
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R (to be safe)
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Breakdown, Motormaster.
Summary: First Aid tries to work out what’s going on, but is interrupted by visitors.
Prologue and Ch. 1
The Combaticons had brought him to the Nemesis, that much was clear. The purple walls, the occasional view of dank ocean floor outside a porthole, the sheer number of Decepticons who turned to stare as Vortex walked him quietly and calmly from the hangar to wherever it was they were going. It was loud and echoey, and every so often the PA system would buzz to life and Soundwave could be heard issuing some unintelligible coded command.
By the time Vortex pulled him into a dimly lit room and coded the door shut behind them, First Aid was ready to collapse.
“All right,” Vortex said. “You stand there a minute, I need to move a few things.”
First Aid backed up against the door, his entire frame rattling.
Vortex gave him a look, but the meaning was hidden beneath his battle mask. “Maybe you oughta sit down,” he said, and tugged First Aid over to a chair.
First Aid stared at it, searching for chains or straps or spikes or... he had no idea. Unpleasant things. But it was just an ordinary chair, grey metal with a padded plastic seat. The kind of thing you'd usually find in an office, not in a... whatever this was. Storage locker? Trophy room? Surely it couldn't be a recharge chamber? Although there was what looked like a recharge station over in an alcove. And a bank of dark machinery whose purpose First Aid really didn’t want to know.
"The sitting down part?" Vortex prompted; his visor was still smeared with energon from his attack on Swindle. "I don't want you falling over, you could hurt yourself."
What on Earth was that supposed to mean? First Aid cringed into the chair, dazed and dizzy. He didn't like having his back to the door, anyone could come in. And as for the room itself; it looked like a physical manifestation of Vortex's chaotic mind. So many reflective surfaces, so many spare parts that looked like they'd been torn viciously from their owners, so many shelves of strange and alien objects. It was horrible; First Aid shivered so hard the chair legs rattled against the floor.
Vortex gave him a curious look. "You're a whole lot quieter than last time we met," he said. First Aid stared hard at his feet. The last time they'd met... Vortex had been imprisoned in the Ark, and First Aid had shot out his vocaliser at point blank range through the bars of his cell. He searched for any dregs of courage he had left; this was going to be bad.
"Thirsty?" Vortex asked.
"Huh?"
"Are you thirsty, bored, tired, what?" Vortex dipped a keycard into the energon cuffs, which released with a faint sizzle.
"What?" First Aid couldn't quite get his processor synched up with his mouth. Why had Vortex let him go? Was he meant to run, was that it? He could imagine the copter planning that. Letting him go, here, in this strange room full of crazy objects, then hunting him through the corridors of the Nemesis until he was too tired and too weak to run, too lost to hide. Or until another Decepticon got hold of him. He stayed resolutely in the chair; he wouldn't be a party to that.
Vortex took a hold of his hands and lightly stroked his fingers, a repulsive gentle pressure that made First Aid want to crawl into a corner and never come out.
"I don't want to hurt you," Vortex said, and even through the fog of confusion, First Aid couldn't help but note how different that was from, ‘I'm not going to hurt you'. "I don't want you in the cuffs, either, but I'm going to have to secure you to something," Vortex continued. "Can't have you offlining yourself when I'm not here."
Offlining himself? The thought was abhorrent. How could he do that, when his team were looking for him? When there were people he should be helping, useful things he should be doing. Offlining Vortex was a better thought, but even that made him distinctly queasy. He'd tried before, and failed. It just wasn't in his programming, and Vortex seemed to know it.
"Talk to me," Vortex said. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to go home," First Aid replied, stunned at the crackle in his own voice.
Vortex's grip tightened just a little. "Tell me something you want that I'm willing to let you have."
First Aid couldn’t find the strength to pull his hands away. An icy prickle spread through his circuits. “No,” he said, quietly. “You tell me what you want.”
“You,” Vortex said, simply. “And oh look, I’ve got you. Next question.”
First Aid struggled to think back to his training, to the joor upon joor with Jazz and Bumblebee and Ironhide. What to do if he was captured, what to say, how to act; how to handle being interrogated. But this wasn’t an interrogation. At least, it didn’t bear the hallmarks. Eventually, his fuel lines knotting in dread of the answer, he settled on one word: “Why?”
Vortex’s optics flickered, head tilted to one side. He would have looked comical if he wasn’t so utterly terrifying. But before he could answer - if he was planning on answering at all - a buzzer sounded and the door opened. "Hey, Ons," Vortex didn't bother to look up.
"Please tell me you didn't put Swindle in stasis..." Onslaught paused, the door swooshing shut behind him. "Well," he said. "This explains a lot."
First Aid cringed, staring down at his hands. And at Vortex's hands wrapped around them. He tried to find somewhere else to look.
"Is Swindle in stasis lock?" Vortex asked, his optics on First Aid. "I didn't think I hit him that hard."
Must have been the repeated kicks to the head that did it, First Aid thought. He shrank from the image; it was a reminder that Vortex could very easily do the same to him.
"Starscream doesn't think you should have hit him at all," Onslaught sighed. "Although I can't imagine why." He turned his attention to First Aid. "You’d better be planning on sharing."
First Aid tensed, his engine stuttering.
"Now you've gone and scared him," Vortex commented. He stood, pulling First Aid out of the chair, and dragged him over to the recharge station. First Aid's servos whined as he attempted to struggle, to pull his hands away, but to his horror and shame he hardly fought at all. Dizzy, he couldn’t follow what Vortex was doing. A pressure registered on his left foot, a small tingle of current which ran the length of his axle. Oh no, what were they planning now? He couldn't fight, could barely think; limp with terror, he lay his head on the firm plastic surface, and waited.
"Come on," Onslaught said. "Time to kiss some seeker aft."
"Mmm," Vortex said. "Sounds like fun." He pressed something into First Aid's hand, and whispered close by his audial, "Back soon."
* * *
How in Sigma’s name had he managed to recharge? First Aid jolted upright, slamming himself into the corner. A chain rattled, slipping off the berth and tugging a little on his ankle. It hummed, electrified, sending a sharp jolt of pain right the way up his leg struts.
He vented hard, and waited for the hurt to ebb away.
The object Vortex had given him had fallen on the floor. A flattish black box with buttons, it looked like a TV remote. Could be linked to the monitors opposite the recharge station. It was probably booby trapped. First Aid left it alone.
He hugged his knees to his chassis. At least he wasn't shivering any more. A low fuel warning beeped, but he ignored it. Please, he tried to scream down the gestalt bond, hurry up and get me! He could sense his team, their uneasy hopefulness, their busy dread, but he couldn't get through to them.
After a while, he lay down and cut his engine. Fuel conservation, he thought, first priority. Second priority: escape. He recalled the stories, daring tales of Autobots taken to the Nemesis who'd got out all by themselves - through stealth or cunning, or sheer force of firepower. Jazz and Blaster, Bumblebee and Sunstreaker; but they were warriors, all of them. First Aid hadn’t had that kind of training.
He ran a diagnostic on his systems, ever watchful in case the gestalt bond should suddenly open. His comms were functional, but he couldn't get a signal, and he had no idea what or where the signal dampeners were that Swindle had mentioned. Looking around the room, he realised he had no real idea what anything was, and the few identifiable objects would only be useful if he could reach them.
So what if his armour was uncompromised? So what if the only things physically wrong with him were scorched paintwork and a few minor dents? As soon as Vortex returned, all his strength would ebb away and he'd be useless. Just like before.
And until Vortex returned, he had neither the know-how nor the wherewithal to get loose from the chain and rig up a new weapon out of the contents of the room.
Something scraped against the door. Oh no, Vortex was back. But the scraping continued, a sound like someone jimmying the lock. After an astrosecond or two, a nervous-looking mech stumbled into the room, forcing the door shut behind him.
It was a long moment before he noticed First Aid. "Oh frag," the newcomer said. He glanced around, then dived straight at the recharge station. First Aid yelped, but the mech missed him, burrowing under the bunk. "I'm not here," he hissed. "Tell anyone I'm here and I'll shoot you!"
First Aid didn't bother to reply. A set of heavy footsteps boomed along the corridor, and a deep, malevolent voice roared, "Breakdown! Where the slag are you?" The door rattled, as though hit by something large. "Vortex, you've got until I stop speaking to quit whatever sick and twisted thing you're doing in there, I'm coming in."
The door squealed on its bearings, and a very large mech appeared, silhouetted in the light from the corridor. "Breakdown!" Motormaster boomed, glaring around the room. He noticed First Aid. "Where is he?" he demanded.
First Aid shivered against the berth. Judging by the vibrations, Breakdown was shivering just as hard beneath it. "I don't know!" he squeaked.
"Hmph," Motormaster snorted, taking another good look around. For some reason, he didn't cross the threshold. "Tell Vortex I was here and I'll slag you," he snarled.
OK, that was two death threats in the space of five minutes. Things just got better and better.
It was a good four breems after Motormaster left that Breakdown finally crawled out from under the bunk. First Aid kept his visor dimmed, his optics focussed on his own feet.
"Good Autobot," Breakdown said. "You just keep on not lookin’ at me. Want an energon treat?"
"Huh?" First Aid shuffled back into the corner.
Breakdown perched on the edge of the bunk, and shook a little glowing stick in First Aid's down-turned face. "Tasty?" he said. "I'll, um, I'll just leave it there." He put it down. "You won't tell Vortex that Motormaster was here, will you?"
I might not have any choice, First Aid thought. He settled for, "I'll try not to?"
"Good. You can eat that, you know, it's not poisoned." Breakdown picked up the remote control. "Hey, you get a decent perception on this thingy?"
* * *
Perception, it seemed, actually meant reception. As in TV reception.
It was surreal. Despite his apparent concern about Vortex, Breakdown stayed for a good few joors, chewing on a seemingly endless supply of energon snacks, and channel hopping whenever he got bored. Which was frequently.
The remote, it seemed, was just a remote. First Aid wasn't so sure about the energon treat, but looking at it made his engine growl, and there was always the chance that if Vortex found any trace of a visitor, there'd be hell to pay later.
"You want another one?" Breakdown asked, in the same tone one might use with a drone or a pet.
First Aid shook his head. "No thanks." He spoke before thinking. It was ridiculous to keep his manners around Decepticons, but Breakdown didn't seem to notice.
"OK," the Stunticon said abruptly. "Gotta go." He left the remote on the berth and slunk out into the corridor.
First Aid muted the TV and listened. He expected Vortex to appear, a chaos of whirling rotors and unpredictable aggression. But the corridor outside appeared to be empty. Perhaps Breakdown had left for another reason.
Decepticons were strange. There was no comparison between Hot Spot and Motormaster, but First Aid couldn't comprehend someone running from the leader of their gestalt, hiding and trembling under an enemy prisoner. It was weird. What kind of a monster did a person have to be that their team mates were afraid of them?
He had a vision of Swindle on the hangar floor, heard the crunch of breaking bearings.
First Aid shuddered and focused on the TV. A silent dance of colour, it was strange without the volume, but he wanted to hear if anyone approached.
No one did. Sure, there were footsteps all the time, the faint echo of people stomping and scuttling through the network of corridors outside, but no one came to the door. It was exhausting, sitting and waiting, then laying and waiting on the edge of recharge, as the light from the screen flickered over him and still no one came. He watched his chronometer, saw the astrosecond become breems become joors. He tried to think of a plan, but each simulation he ran ended in disaster.
At least he was alone.
He tried not to imagine what would happen when Vortex finally did come back. Tentatively, he ran a psychological profile on the copter. He didn't want to, but it was better than doing nothing. Analyse and prepare, he thought, if not physically then at least mentally. Perhaps then he could minimise the long-term damage, and maximise his chances of recovery when his team finally came to get him.
It was a horrible thought, recovery, almost smoothering the spark of hope kindled by the irregular flashes of insight as his team mates searched for him.
He ran the profile over and over, cross referencing it against case studies in his medical database. It was far from reassuring.
As the joors rolled by, he began to wonder whether Vortex had forgotten about him. The copter wasn't exactly the most balanced of people. Eight joors became ten, then fifteen. It was a long time to leave someone unless there was a purpose to the leaving.
First Aid tried to reconcile Vortex’s actions with what Ironhide and Jazz had taught him about Decepticon interrogation techniques, but the two just didn't mesh. If Vortex had wanted information, there were far quicker ways of getting it than leaving First Aid to watch TV for an entire solar cycle.
Twenty four joors, twenty five. It was strange. First Aid wondered if he was meant to be affronted, if he was supposed to grow ever more impatient and infuriated until he began to rail at hidden cameras, demanding fuel, explanations, attention. Instead, all he felt was relief.
The longer Vortex was away, the greater the chance that First Aid’s team would find him before the copter had a chance to do something truly terrible.
* * *
Chapter 3
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R (to be safe)
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Breakdown, Motormaster.
Summary: First Aid tries to work out what’s going on, but is interrupted by visitors.
Prologue and Ch. 1
The Combaticons had brought him to the Nemesis, that much was clear. The purple walls, the occasional view of dank ocean floor outside a porthole, the sheer number of Decepticons who turned to stare as Vortex walked him quietly and calmly from the hangar to wherever it was they were going. It was loud and echoey, and every so often the PA system would buzz to life and Soundwave could be heard issuing some unintelligible coded command.
By the time Vortex pulled him into a dimly lit room and coded the door shut behind them, First Aid was ready to collapse.
“All right,” Vortex said. “You stand there a minute, I need to move a few things.”
First Aid backed up against the door, his entire frame rattling.
Vortex gave him a look, but the meaning was hidden beneath his battle mask. “Maybe you oughta sit down,” he said, and tugged First Aid over to a chair.
First Aid stared at it, searching for chains or straps or spikes or... he had no idea. Unpleasant things. But it was just an ordinary chair, grey metal with a padded plastic seat. The kind of thing you'd usually find in an office, not in a... whatever this was. Storage locker? Trophy room? Surely it couldn't be a recharge chamber? Although there was what looked like a recharge station over in an alcove. And a bank of dark machinery whose purpose First Aid really didn’t want to know.
"The sitting down part?" Vortex prompted; his visor was still smeared with energon from his attack on Swindle. "I don't want you falling over, you could hurt yourself."
What on Earth was that supposed to mean? First Aid cringed into the chair, dazed and dizzy. He didn't like having his back to the door, anyone could come in. And as for the room itself; it looked like a physical manifestation of Vortex's chaotic mind. So many reflective surfaces, so many spare parts that looked like they'd been torn viciously from their owners, so many shelves of strange and alien objects. It was horrible; First Aid shivered so hard the chair legs rattled against the floor.
Vortex gave him a curious look. "You're a whole lot quieter than last time we met," he said. First Aid stared hard at his feet. The last time they'd met... Vortex had been imprisoned in the Ark, and First Aid had shot out his vocaliser at point blank range through the bars of his cell. He searched for any dregs of courage he had left; this was going to be bad.
"Thirsty?" Vortex asked.
"Huh?"
"Are you thirsty, bored, tired, what?" Vortex dipped a keycard into the energon cuffs, which released with a faint sizzle.
"What?" First Aid couldn't quite get his processor synched up with his mouth. Why had Vortex let him go? Was he meant to run, was that it? He could imagine the copter planning that. Letting him go, here, in this strange room full of crazy objects, then hunting him through the corridors of the Nemesis until he was too tired and too weak to run, too lost to hide. Or until another Decepticon got hold of him. He stayed resolutely in the chair; he wouldn't be a party to that.
Vortex took a hold of his hands and lightly stroked his fingers, a repulsive gentle pressure that made First Aid want to crawl into a corner and never come out.
"I don't want to hurt you," Vortex said, and even through the fog of confusion, First Aid couldn't help but note how different that was from, ‘I'm not going to hurt you'. "I don't want you in the cuffs, either, but I'm going to have to secure you to something," Vortex continued. "Can't have you offlining yourself when I'm not here."
Offlining himself? The thought was abhorrent. How could he do that, when his team were looking for him? When there were people he should be helping, useful things he should be doing. Offlining Vortex was a better thought, but even that made him distinctly queasy. He'd tried before, and failed. It just wasn't in his programming, and Vortex seemed to know it.
"Talk to me," Vortex said. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to go home," First Aid replied, stunned at the crackle in his own voice.
Vortex's grip tightened just a little. "Tell me something you want that I'm willing to let you have."
First Aid couldn’t find the strength to pull his hands away. An icy prickle spread through his circuits. “No,” he said, quietly. “You tell me what you want.”
“You,” Vortex said, simply. “And oh look, I’ve got you. Next question.”
First Aid struggled to think back to his training, to the joor upon joor with Jazz and Bumblebee and Ironhide. What to do if he was captured, what to say, how to act; how to handle being interrogated. But this wasn’t an interrogation. At least, it didn’t bear the hallmarks. Eventually, his fuel lines knotting in dread of the answer, he settled on one word: “Why?”
Vortex’s optics flickered, head tilted to one side. He would have looked comical if he wasn’t so utterly terrifying. But before he could answer - if he was planning on answering at all - a buzzer sounded and the door opened. "Hey, Ons," Vortex didn't bother to look up.
"Please tell me you didn't put Swindle in stasis..." Onslaught paused, the door swooshing shut behind him. "Well," he said. "This explains a lot."
First Aid cringed, staring down at his hands. And at Vortex's hands wrapped around them. He tried to find somewhere else to look.
"Is Swindle in stasis lock?" Vortex asked, his optics on First Aid. "I didn't think I hit him that hard."
Must have been the repeated kicks to the head that did it, First Aid thought. He shrank from the image; it was a reminder that Vortex could very easily do the same to him.
"Starscream doesn't think you should have hit him at all," Onslaught sighed. "Although I can't imagine why." He turned his attention to First Aid. "You’d better be planning on sharing."
First Aid tensed, his engine stuttering.
"Now you've gone and scared him," Vortex commented. He stood, pulling First Aid out of the chair, and dragged him over to the recharge station. First Aid's servos whined as he attempted to struggle, to pull his hands away, but to his horror and shame he hardly fought at all. Dizzy, he couldn’t follow what Vortex was doing. A pressure registered on his left foot, a small tingle of current which ran the length of his axle. Oh no, what were they planning now? He couldn't fight, could barely think; limp with terror, he lay his head on the firm plastic surface, and waited.
"Come on," Onslaught said. "Time to kiss some seeker aft."
"Mmm," Vortex said. "Sounds like fun." He pressed something into First Aid's hand, and whispered close by his audial, "Back soon."
* * *
How in Sigma’s name had he managed to recharge? First Aid jolted upright, slamming himself into the corner. A chain rattled, slipping off the berth and tugging a little on his ankle. It hummed, electrified, sending a sharp jolt of pain right the way up his leg struts.
He vented hard, and waited for the hurt to ebb away.
The object Vortex had given him had fallen on the floor. A flattish black box with buttons, it looked like a TV remote. Could be linked to the monitors opposite the recharge station. It was probably booby trapped. First Aid left it alone.
He hugged his knees to his chassis. At least he wasn't shivering any more. A low fuel warning beeped, but he ignored it. Please, he tried to scream down the gestalt bond, hurry up and get me! He could sense his team, their uneasy hopefulness, their busy dread, but he couldn't get through to them.
After a while, he lay down and cut his engine. Fuel conservation, he thought, first priority. Second priority: escape. He recalled the stories, daring tales of Autobots taken to the Nemesis who'd got out all by themselves - through stealth or cunning, or sheer force of firepower. Jazz and Blaster, Bumblebee and Sunstreaker; but they were warriors, all of them. First Aid hadn’t had that kind of training.
He ran a diagnostic on his systems, ever watchful in case the gestalt bond should suddenly open. His comms were functional, but he couldn't get a signal, and he had no idea what or where the signal dampeners were that Swindle had mentioned. Looking around the room, he realised he had no real idea what anything was, and the few identifiable objects would only be useful if he could reach them.
So what if his armour was uncompromised? So what if the only things physically wrong with him were scorched paintwork and a few minor dents? As soon as Vortex returned, all his strength would ebb away and he'd be useless. Just like before.
And until Vortex returned, he had neither the know-how nor the wherewithal to get loose from the chain and rig up a new weapon out of the contents of the room.
Something scraped against the door. Oh no, Vortex was back. But the scraping continued, a sound like someone jimmying the lock. After an astrosecond or two, a nervous-looking mech stumbled into the room, forcing the door shut behind him.
It was a long moment before he noticed First Aid. "Oh frag," the newcomer said. He glanced around, then dived straight at the recharge station. First Aid yelped, but the mech missed him, burrowing under the bunk. "I'm not here," he hissed. "Tell anyone I'm here and I'll shoot you!"
First Aid didn't bother to reply. A set of heavy footsteps boomed along the corridor, and a deep, malevolent voice roared, "Breakdown! Where the slag are you?" The door rattled, as though hit by something large. "Vortex, you've got until I stop speaking to quit whatever sick and twisted thing you're doing in there, I'm coming in."
The door squealed on its bearings, and a very large mech appeared, silhouetted in the light from the corridor. "Breakdown!" Motormaster boomed, glaring around the room. He noticed First Aid. "Where is he?" he demanded.
First Aid shivered against the berth. Judging by the vibrations, Breakdown was shivering just as hard beneath it. "I don't know!" he squeaked.
"Hmph," Motormaster snorted, taking another good look around. For some reason, he didn't cross the threshold. "Tell Vortex I was here and I'll slag you," he snarled.
OK, that was two death threats in the space of five minutes. Things just got better and better.
It was a good four breems after Motormaster left that Breakdown finally crawled out from under the bunk. First Aid kept his visor dimmed, his optics focussed on his own feet.
"Good Autobot," Breakdown said. "You just keep on not lookin’ at me. Want an energon treat?"
"Huh?" First Aid shuffled back into the corner.
Breakdown perched on the edge of the bunk, and shook a little glowing stick in First Aid's down-turned face. "Tasty?" he said. "I'll, um, I'll just leave it there." He put it down. "You won't tell Vortex that Motormaster was here, will you?"
I might not have any choice, First Aid thought. He settled for, "I'll try not to?"
"Good. You can eat that, you know, it's not poisoned." Breakdown picked up the remote control. "Hey, you get a decent perception on this thingy?"
* * *
Perception, it seemed, actually meant reception. As in TV reception.
It was surreal. Despite his apparent concern about Vortex, Breakdown stayed for a good few joors, chewing on a seemingly endless supply of energon snacks, and channel hopping whenever he got bored. Which was frequently.
The remote, it seemed, was just a remote. First Aid wasn't so sure about the energon treat, but looking at it made his engine growl, and there was always the chance that if Vortex found any trace of a visitor, there'd be hell to pay later.
"You want another one?" Breakdown asked, in the same tone one might use with a drone or a pet.
First Aid shook his head. "No thanks." He spoke before thinking. It was ridiculous to keep his manners around Decepticons, but Breakdown didn't seem to notice.
"OK," the Stunticon said abruptly. "Gotta go." He left the remote on the berth and slunk out into the corridor.
First Aid muted the TV and listened. He expected Vortex to appear, a chaos of whirling rotors and unpredictable aggression. But the corridor outside appeared to be empty. Perhaps Breakdown had left for another reason.
Decepticons were strange. There was no comparison between Hot Spot and Motormaster, but First Aid couldn't comprehend someone running from the leader of their gestalt, hiding and trembling under an enemy prisoner. It was weird. What kind of a monster did a person have to be that their team mates were afraid of them?
He had a vision of Swindle on the hangar floor, heard the crunch of breaking bearings.
First Aid shuddered and focused on the TV. A silent dance of colour, it was strange without the volume, but he wanted to hear if anyone approached.
No one did. Sure, there were footsteps all the time, the faint echo of people stomping and scuttling through the network of corridors outside, but no one came to the door. It was exhausting, sitting and waiting, then laying and waiting on the edge of recharge, as the light from the screen flickered over him and still no one came. He watched his chronometer, saw the astrosecond become breems become joors. He tried to think of a plan, but each simulation he ran ended in disaster.
At least he was alone.
He tried not to imagine what would happen when Vortex finally did come back. Tentatively, he ran a psychological profile on the copter. He didn't want to, but it was better than doing nothing. Analyse and prepare, he thought, if not physically then at least mentally. Perhaps then he could minimise the long-term damage, and maximise his chances of recovery when his team finally came to get him.
It was a horrible thought, recovery, almost smoothering the spark of hope kindled by the irregular flashes of insight as his team mates searched for him.
He ran the profile over and over, cross referencing it against case studies in his medical database. It was far from reassuring.
As the joors rolled by, he began to wonder whether Vortex had forgotten about him. The copter wasn't exactly the most balanced of people. Eight joors became ten, then fifteen. It was a long time to leave someone unless there was a purpose to the leaving.
First Aid tried to reconcile Vortex’s actions with what Ironhide and Jazz had taught him about Decepticon interrogation techniques, but the two just didn't mesh. If Vortex had wanted information, there were far quicker ways of getting it than leaving First Aid to watch TV for an entire solar cycle.
Twenty four joors, twenty five. It was strange. First Aid wondered if he was meant to be affronted, if he was supposed to grow ever more impatient and infuriated until he began to rail at hidden cameras, demanding fuel, explanations, attention. Instead, all he felt was relief.
The longer Vortex was away, the greater the chance that First Aid’s team would find him before the copter had a chance to do something truly terrible.
* * *
Chapter 3