Broken, chapter 1
Wildrider waited to be punished.
He’d slagged up an assignment, and he knew it. Ordered to hold a position and provide backup when it was called for, he’d forgotten that when one of the Autobots began taunting him from cover. Wildrider didn’t even remember what the Autobot had shouted to him, only that his wheels had itched to spin, his chassis trembling with the denied thrill of the fight.
He was a terrorist, not a sniper. Patience was not his strong point; causing mayhem was what he had been created for. And so his engine had roared a response as he shot out into the open with a wild laugh, smashing into the Autobot lines. The next thing he knew, the Decepticon channels had gone equally wild, and the fury thudding through the gestalt link was all for him.
He had managed to get away without any injury more serious than a few scrapes, but he knew that wouldn’t last for long. They’d returned to the base in a stony silence and Wildrider knew he was going to face Motormaster’s brand of discipline at any moment. His only consolation was that Motormaster was rarely turned on by a mission falling through, so chances were he would only have the slag beaten out of him.
It had happened before, and it would happen again. Wildrider shifted on his berth, wishing that Motormaster would simply comm him and get it over with. The anticipation of waiting was worse than the actual beating.
He checked his internal chronometer, wondering what was taking so long. Was Motormaster thinking up some means of punishment that was even worse? Wildrider couldn’t imagine anything more painful unless it was out-and-out torture, the kind of thing Vortex would get a kick out of. Motormaster simply didn’t go in for that, though - mostly because it would damage his troops to the point where even the Constructicons would lodge complaints about the amount of repairs.
And Motormaster prided himself on not needing devices or instrumentation of any kind to chastise his troops.
After what felt like an hour of fidgeting miserably, Wildrider decided he couldn’t bear the silence any longer. He reached up to the shelf above his berth and turned on the stereo, though for once he didn’t push the volume up as high as it would go. This was part of the punishment, prolonging the wait, and he looked around for something - anything - to do that would distract him from it.
No such luck, he thought glumly. His room was crammed with all sorts of things, from a set of drums to a stuffed kangaroo he had taken from a museum - he loved collecting anything musical, destructive, oddly-shaped or just plain shiny. But none of it really appealed to him at that moment.
Maybe I should comm him instead.
He thought that over. It would be stupid to antagonize Motormaster further, but what if doing that made him hurry up and get the punishment over with already? Then at least it would be over and done with, and he could spend his time recovering rather than worrying in his room. Wildrider brightened up at once. That’s a good--
His door beeped, then slid open.
For a moment Wildrider wasn’t sure how that had happened, and then Motormaster stepped into the room. Oh, right. As his commander, Motormaster could override his access code. But… what’s he doing here?
A single cold shiver ran down his back, like a drop of liquid ice tracing the length of his spinal strut as the door hissed shut.
Motormaster stood there, watching him out of flat purple optics that gave nothing away, and Wildrider found himself hoping fervently that he wasn’t going to be interfaced. He was used to that - all the Stunticons were - but he didn’t want it to be done on his berth. He supposed the berth might be able to take Motormaster’s weight, but he didn’t want to be reminded of the experience each time he tried to recharge.
Maybe I’ll forget it somehow, he thought. He knew his memory wasn’t very good - that was a side-effect of being insane. Problem was, Motormaster knew that as well, and Wildrider had a feeling that Motormaster was going to mete out some punishment he would remember for the rest of his life, whether his mind was slagged-up or not.
“You cost us an energon shipment,” Motormaster said finally.
Wildrider said nothing, because there was nothing to say. Motormaster hated excuses and despised apologies, so he only looked down at his feet and braced himself for a blow.
“Sometimes I think I should get your processors wiped and reprogrammed,” Motormaster continued. His voice was so matter-of-fact that it made Wildrider’s internal components clench. “Slag, why bother with the reprogramming? A drone would be more reliable than you are. Wouldn’t make so much fragging noise either.”
He wouldn’t. It would break the gestalt bond and hurt all of us. Wildrider held on to that conviction desperately and said nothing.
Motormaster crossed the distance between them, slid a finger under Wildrider’s chin and tilted his face up. Wildrider fought not to react to the closeness, to the way his dermal plating felt as though it would crawl from the touch. “But then I thought I’d give you another chance.”
He smiled, and Wildrider felt sick with dread. Don’t show it. Don’t show anything. Motormaster loathed it when the Stunticons exhibited any sign of weakness, and although there had been a few times in the past when Wildrider had begged for mercy, he’d learned fast enough that that was a good way to simply worsen the ordeal.
“But there’s something you have to learn.” Motormaster let his hand drop. “You lost us a good opportunity to prove our worth to Megatron. Not to mention a lot of energon. So you’re going to lose a few things as well.”
Wildrider looked at him blankly. Lose a few things? That made him think of something falling out of a subspace pocket or his passenger compartment; what did Motormaster mean by--
Motormaster stepped back and drew his sword.