This Love, This Hate: Aftermath Part 9
The cell wasn’t large enough for the three of them.
Really, it probably wasn’t even large enough for two; not and still be anything resembling comfortable, at any rate. Still, despite that there were plenty of unoccupied cells around them, they had all been thrown in to the same one. It was probably done to make things as uncomfortable for them as possible.
However, all it really did was allow Hound to calm Perceptor down from his neurosis and give them the ability to talk without having to yell. Cramped or not, it was more of a benefit then otherwise. Whoever had then come up with this plan at discomfort, Sunstreaker reasoned, was an idiot.
At the moment, they were all fairly quiet. What had to be said had already been said and there were no ready answers for the questions on all of their minds. So, they sat, waiting for the eventual return of their captors.
They would return. They knew that they would. They already had four times, now, as it was; the time before last, they had left with the fourth occupant to their cell and hadn’t brought him back.
Where Cliffjumper had been taken, the Decepticons didn’t say. The lack of gloating superiority on the potential torture of their ally was troubling; ordinarily, they didn’t shy away from such a thing, eager to claim that energon had been personally drawn by their hands. They were, after all, Decepticons.
Perceptor had been the last to see him. Even paralyzed from the null ray, he had been able to witness the small red Autobot being taken away in another direction. After that, there had been nothing.
They had simply taken him away and never brought him back.
That had been over a day ago.
Eventually, the tell tale creak of the rusted cellblock door sounded off. Despite the sliding mechanism, it still managed to let out a horrid scratching noise that Sunstreaker was certain he would never forget. It was probably designed that way; some sort of subtle psychological thing intended to make them afraid.
It even worked to some extent. Sunstreaker had to admit that much; Perceptor and Hound both stiffened, and even he formed an instant grimace.
Barely a second after the door opened, a familiar voice whined. “But why can’t we have a bot to frag?”
This was one of those things that every Autobot had been warned about; Decepticons were notorious for their lust, both for battle and otherwise. Although no one spoke about specifics, everyone knew that amongst their ranks, someone had suffered interface assault at their hands. Everyone was warned of it; everyone knew that, should they be captured, they could be next.
That, and there had always been the instructional recordings.
For those reasons, Hound visibly shuddered at Skywarp’s words. Sunstreaker grit his dentals, waiting for the seekers to get closer. Perhaps he could make himself a bigger target; if they were going to do something, better him then the scientist or the tracker. Primus only knew that neither of them were strong enough to handle such a thing.
Starscream’s high pitched tone let out an annoyed huff. The Decepticon second in command had been in a foul mood since they had been here; probably, Perceptor had theorized, because Megatron had decided he rather kidnap an Autobot then trust his own second in command to build a weapon. “Shut up, Skywarp.”
Skywarp didn’t. “But the little one -“
“I said shut up!” Starscream struck something that let out a loud ‘clang’.
However, it was too late. Skywarp had said too much.
What had been uttered was quick to register along their minds. Sunstreaker turned to stare at his cellmates, optics wide at what the seeker has insinuated.
It seemed that the others had reached the same conclusions; Perceptor had visibly blanched, and Hound looked every part of horrified.
They had taken Cliffjumper away and they hadn’t brought him back.
He had never liked Cliffjumper; he was an upstart little shrimp who thought he could play with the big boys. Sunstreaker had been more then eager to show him his place on more then one occasion, but even he didn’t think that Cliffjumper deserved what Skywarp was hinting at.
No one deserved what Skywarp was hinting at.
Sunstreaker shot to his feet and struck the bars with his hands. “What the frag did you do, you sick freaks?! Where’s Cliffjumper?!”
When the seekers finally came in to view, Skywarp was grinning.
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Sunstreaker stared at his own internal calendar for what felt like a very long time. A single flashing light held his attention; a simple, ordinary appointment request made everything off kilter.
It wasn’t as if the request was anything unusual in and of itself. As one of the few Autobots with a background in art, he was usually the first one asked to perform a repaint. Granted, anyone with a working arm could hold a paintbrush, but it took someone with actual skill to do it right. Even though he had once used his talent on a canvas and had, at first, felt it was something of a degradation to waste his skill on what he had once called ‘regular paint jobs’, he was now fiercely proud of being called upon to perform them.
He was the best. There was simply no other way to say it. Every single Autobot had, at some point, had called on him and had done so more often then anyone else. He had even performed a repaint on Optimus Prime on more then one occasion.
So, it wasn’t being called on that caused him to pause. Although there hadn’t been a good battle in some time to scuff up paintwork, there was still the occasional touchup, scratches caused by a scuffle or marks caused by what he could only hope were particularly wild berth-related activities. This time, it was where the request was coming from that did it.
The medical bay had sent the call. Ratchet’s name was on the request, but it always was when an injured mech needed his services. There was only one Autobot in there that could possibly need his help.
Cliffjumper. It had to be. There was no one else; there hadn’t been a fight in weeks.
Sunstreaker, for the first time in his life, wasn’t certain if he wanted to take this call.
He could technically turn the request down; he had done so on particularly busy days, and no one would question it if he did. There were other people that could do this. Less talented people, but others nonetheless.
The last time he had seen Cliffjumper, the Decepticons were dragging him off. He hadn’t even seen him on the day of the rescue; Jazz had rushed past him so fast, all he had seen was the third-in-command’s stricken expression. Bluestreak and Tracks had been no better; at the time, neither had been able to answer his questions.
Since then, they had all learned what had happened. Prime had been rather blunt about what their small ally had gone through.
He had never repainted a bot that had been through that. Not knowingly, at any rate.
The request was gazed over three times in the attempt to find some excuse to turn it down. The time it asked for didn’t interfere with anything; he wasn’t even on duty during the requested slot. He hadn’t made any plans, and it felt like too much of a cowards move to make up some imaginary intention.
He was probably going to regret this later.
Hesitantly, Sunstreaker confirmed the request.
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This shouldn’t have been bothering him. He didn’t even like Cliffjumper. He shouldn’t be this worried about what state the minibot was in.
Sunstreaker found himself pacing in front of the medical bay doors. He had shown up several cycles early, mostly out of habit; he always showed up for the appointments early. He hadn’t even noticed that he had, really, until he got there.
Cliffjumper was alive; the little slagger was probably going to be just fine. He shouldn’t even be considering taking this any more seriously then any other appointment. Surely, the request would have had special orders to do so if it was necessary, right?
He needed to calm down, is all. Take a deep intake; Cliffjumper was still Cliffjumper. The last time he had repainted the red minibot, there had been snorts of derision and complaints about every little thing. Sunstreaker had been fed up by the end of it; he had even gotten brig time for painting the crass minibots’ back bright pink with ‘frag me’ in glow-in-the-dark ink. This time shouldn’t be much different.
They had never gotten along. What Cliffjumper must have gone through shouldn’t have to change that.
It didn’t matter that his paint must have been scratched off by Decepticon after Decepticon going at him. He had been there for three months. It might have even been nonstop; had there even been any paint left by the end of it?
Sunstreaker took a deep intake and continued to pace.
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Eventually, the door slid open.
Sunstreaker stopped moving when it did; he looked to Ratchet’s raised brow expression with some pensive worry.
After a moment, the medic let out a small sigh. “I warn you, he isn’t in the best shape.”
Sunstreaker frowned deeply; even after a nasty firefight, he had never received that sort of warning. Still, he nodded, already knowing that Cliffjumper was likely still suffering some visible injury. Otherwise, the minibot would be allowed visitors; even after several weeks, he continued to overhear worried complaints about the ban.
Ratchet let him in to the medbay. The main area was clear and empty of patients; only Swoop and First Aid sat by a table, talking in voices too low to pick up. Both gave him a glance as he stepped in, but otherwise didn’t do much of anything.
They headed to a private room in the back. He knew where they were going; it was usually where he repainted those that had ended up in the medical bay for some reason or another. It came with a table practically made for such a thing.
Sunstreaker took three steps in to the room in question. Then, he stopped short; as the door slid shut behind him, his jaw fell.
It was barely recognizable as Cliffjumper; at least, he had never seen the minibot completely stripped of paint, before. Bare gray gleamed from the metal without a single trace of any sort of paint at all. It took a moment to recognize the glimmer as the after-effect of thinner; paint must have recently been taken off, then.
After a moment, he realized that Cliffjumpers’ legs were gone. It took a few horrified steps closer to notice the welding scars crisscrossing the small frame just about everywhere from the neck down.
It wasn’t until he was at the berthside did blue optics finally lit alight. They stared at him in some surprise, bearing a slightly muted, powdery glow. It was the same sort of way recently installed, never-used optics shone before their first cleaning; both optics had recently been repaired. Had the Decepticons blinded him in captivity?
Had it not been for the lit optics, Cliffjumper would have looked like a cadaver.
“Holy slag.” Was the only thing Sunstreaker could think to say.
On the table, Cliffjumper didn’t appear amused. He frowned in a thankfully familiar way. “Thanks for reminding me that I look like scrap.” A grunt as he shifted in place. “I also feel like scrap. Thanks for asking.”
Boggling, Sunstreaker turned to look at Ratchet. The medic stood by the closed door and showed no signs of leaving. “I’m.. Repainting him now? Even with his, uh, legs being..?”
Ratchet gave a short nod. “He’ll need to be repainted when his legs are set back in, but that won’t be for several months.”
“Months..?” Sunstreakers’ optics widened; he couldn’t even fathom a reason why it should take several months.
“Hey.” Cliffjumper grumbled from the table. “Can we just get this started?”
Sunstreaker turned back to the complaining minibot with an annoyed frown. He gave a cursory look around; his expression quickly shifted to confusion. “I don’t see the sedation plug, Ratch.”
“That’s because there won’t be one.” Ratchet didn’t move away from the door.
“I am not going under.” Cliffjumper growled with clear annoyance, as if he had said this a hundred times before.
Sunstreaker stared first at the CMO and then at the berth-bound Autobot in disbelief. “Are you.. Sure?”
Ordinarily, even with only a limb or two being painted over, there had to be such stillness and lack of movement that most
preferred to go in to stasis until it was over. It was simply too much trouble on both the painter and the paintee to go about it any
other way.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Cliffjumper snarled. “I know how to stay still, slaggit.” What looked suspiciously like a flash of pain went across the minibots’ face. However, it was quick to pass back in to familiar anger.
“If.. You say so.” Sunstreaker frowned, feeling strangely awkward.
Finding the paint itself wasn’t difficult; the cans and brushes had been set up in the usual wheeled tray. He pulled it over, picked out Cliffjumpers’ usual colors, and gave his target a once-over.
Even with the missing legs and welding scars, this was still a fairly routine operation. He just had to do this as he always did and not pay attention to the rest. It didn’t matter who this was or what condition he was in; he just had to focus.
With that, a larger brush was picked up. The detail work - what little of it that Cliffjumper had - would have to be done after the main parts were all dry.
As the brush was set down, Sunstreaker lost himself in his work. He started from the bottom, as he usually did; he didn’t even bat an optic as he went over what many would consider ‘private’ areas; he had painted over panels and array covers so many times that it had long since lost meaning.
At first, everything was fine. The panel was brushed over and so was a good portion of Cliffjumpers’ waist. It wasn’t until he began to brush his sides did things change.
Cliffjumper began to shake. He was trembling, really, tiny little shivers that ran up and down his frame.
With a frown, Sunstreaker looked up from his work. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped as he looked at Cliffjumpers’ face.
Extraordinarily wide blue optics were aimed squarely at the ceiling. They didn’t so much as twitch, focusing intently and lining an expression marred with what looked like horror.
Sunstreaker had never seen anything like it. Even after being severely wounded in battle, those that had been under his brush and chose to stay awake had usually ended up relaxing. Even if only a single limb was being worked over, some had even slipped in to recharge without sedation; if they had a hand free, some even read a datapad or played games while he did his work.
Cliffjumper, on the other hand, looked as if he were about to cry. He stared with such intensity on the ceiling that it was downright disturbing.
Sunstreaker frowned; he decided not to say anything about it. For now, he could continue to paint even with the trembling; it would probably effect the detail work, but this main coat was broad enough that it didn’t matter.
So, he kept at it. Colors were swapped from red to black to gray and back again, and the front of Cliffjumpers’ frame slowly gained their proper colors. Sunstreaker couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as the scars were covered up and made invisible; a lesser artist might not have been able to coat them in such a way.
Then, he moved the brush to Cliffjumpers’ throat. Ordinarily, the entire front of the frame was coated before being dried and turned over; it included the helm when it was a full body job. As soon as the bristles met the more flexible dermal plating, the minibots’ fuel tank let out a very audible, very ugly-sounding growl.
“Uh..” Sunstreaker sputtered.
“Keep going.” Cliffjumper shut off his optics and spoke between clenched dentals. “Not gonna purge. Just.. Keep going.”
Sunstreaker boggled; however, he did as told, thankful that he didn’t actually have to paint Cliffjumpers’ main faceplate.
By some miracle, the rest of his front was finished up without any further trouble. Despite the continued rumbling of the minibots’ fuel tank and a few disturbing sounds from his throat, Cliffjumper did manage to keep his word.
Once that was settled, the heating lamps were set up and turned on. Cliffjumper visibly shuddered as they did.
Sunstreaker backed away, practically fleeing to the door and to Ratchet’s side. The medic hadn’t left once, watching it all in complete silence. A wide-optic, questioning stare given to the CMO was left unanswered.
The paint was slow to dry. Cliffjumper shook the entire time.
As the cycles ticked closer to time, Ratchet finally moved away from the door. The medic didn’t say a word as he calmly headed to a closet, pulled out a large bucket, and set it underneath the head of the berth. The stare sent after that wasn’t answered either.
The paint eventually did dry. When it did, Sunstreaker shut off the lamps before heading to the berthside. Cliffjumper was carefully turned over, taking care to set him on the specially built berth; the headrest even had a hole large enough for standard faces to rest and breathe through. It was a little too large for most minibots, but it still did its job.
As soon as Cliffjumper was turned on to his front, faceplate set properly in the headrest, he purged in to the bucket.
Sunstreaker let out a startled gasp. “What the slag?! Are you okay?!”
“M’fine.” Cliffjumper mumbled. He sounded exhausted. “Keep going.”
For a moment, Sunstreaker gaped. After looking to a nonplussed Ratchet in some amazement, he picked up the brush and, shaking slightly himself, did just that.