Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:
Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies
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Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or Blitzwing [if I did, I would be one happy fangirl]; I do however own the story and this particular history for him and the fragger currently tearing him apart.
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Searching Memory-Banks…
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Begin
The room is lit only very dimly.
Dark, hungry shadows lap at its edges; waiting to consume whatever may come too close, reaching out to try and swallow that last bit of light, but never able to come close enough to do so. But, every so often, the single light within the center of the room will flicker, as if the devouring blackness is finally getting to it, before that last little bit of light is able to fight back, to keep that inky darkness at bay.
This weak light penetrates through some of these shadows, pushing them away from metal carts and tools; glinting off, slicing into the darkness in an attempt to slay it or at least keep it from creeping any further into the small room. The light, despite how weakly it radiates, refuses to give in to the dark evil trying desperately to close in on it. It fights to remain lit, it fights to keep those waiting, ravenous jaws from clamping down over it.
That single light, fighting to remain on, shines down upon a single form shackled to a berth. The small form held fast at the ankles, wrists, and forehead. That light, though dim, reflects brilliantly off of dark blue plating, accented by orange and red. It sends shimmering shafts across the walls, forcing the deadly blackness to flee from any place it touches. The room remains in eerie silence as the two forces battle; still does the dark overpower the light, but the light refuses to go out.
It brightens for but a moment; the shadows skittering across the floor, walls, and ceiling; trying desperately to find a place to hide, before continuing their assault as the light flickers and dims yet again.
As the pale light reflects off of blue armor, my optics flicker slightly, before remaining closed. My digits flex, creating a soft scraping noise as they run over the rusted metal below me. There is sharp pain that shoots through my backstrut, and I cannot help but moan, denta gritting together from the sensation. It feels like molten slag had been poured over my back; burning so bad that it feels like that sensation alone would melt my armor.
My optics finally open; slowly brightening until everything becomes clear. Or… Or as clear as it would get… My gaze focuses in on the shadows that reach toward me, beckoning me to come closer. Dancing around the room as close to the dim light as they dared. Some of them hide beneath my frame, trying to coax me to follow them, to abandon the diminutive amount of lighting shining down on me.
My intake feels so dry, my tanks fuel-deprived. When was the last time I'd refueled..?
I attempt to lift an arm; whether to force the shadow beneath it to flee from the light, or to attempt touching it, I am unsure… But… My arm… I-I can't move it! I can feel the panic rising in my spark when I attempt to sit up—I'm trapped! I'm fragging trapped! Where the frag am I?! What is this place?!
…
Who am I..?
My designation… I-I can't think of it…
Wait… How did I even get here? Why am I shackled to a berth?
Why can't I remember..?
The shadows flee; skittering into the deepest corners and crevices of the room as a bright shaft of light shines in. An audio-splitting screeching fills the room as rusted doors that had once been hidden within inky darkness are forced to open. They wait at the edges of this new, brighter light, testing it, seeing how close they could come.
But it penetrates through any that are too close; stabbing, slaying, destroying the dark shadows.
Save for the one that slowly enters the room; a black silhouette against the white light from outside. The doors close once more behind this new, dangerous shape, giving another grating screech as rust slides over rust. The shape seems to melt into the blackness of the room as it rushes to fill it once more as that blinding light disappears.
As the shape approaches the little mech's frame, it seems to come right out of the shadows itself; inky black, large, dangerous, as it looms over him. The shape blocks out that single light, casting the youngling into shadow, forcing the last of that light to leave his frame, and for the shadows to slither over it slowly. They engulf his small form, ravenously devouring it into darkness; licking at his plating, coiling around his limbs and chest, until only his optics can be seen through it. Piercing, fearful, and as red as the plasma to run through an organic's veins.
Thump—thump—thump. Within the youngling's chest, his spark pounds. The sound seems to echo through the otherwise-silent room; as if, somehow, the sound had been collected, and is now tossed between the shadows. They do not allow for it to stop bouncing off the walls; tossing it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between each other continuously.
I look on with only fear in my optics at this shape. I… I can't tell what he—she—it looks like. What happened..? Did… Did my optics have damage to them? Or did this… This… Thing tamper with my memory-banks..?
Fraggit, I don't know!
It's just a shadow—I can't even see their optics… Primus, please help me here!
I tug against my metal bonds, but can only succeed in cutting up my wrists and ankles; for the rusted metal to dig under my dark blue armor and scrape against gray protoform. I grit my denta from that feeling, digits flexing and rounded tips scraping over the rusted metal slab beneath me.
I… I just want out of here!
"Now, now, sweetspark—no need to struggle." The shadow-like shape purrs slowly, softly—but it is filled with so much venom and warning. The voice alone is strange: Polyphonic, and the youngling cannot decipher whether it is mech, or femme. Whoever or whatever this shape is had altered the mech's memory-banks; glitched his audio receptors. There is no better way to remain undetected it the only witness is unable to give a description on voice or appearance. And this Cybertronian is well aware of this fact.
The room's dim light glints off of a surprisingly-clean tool; the shafts of light reflecting off of it and piercing into the darkness of the room as the shadowed shape lifts it off of a nearby cart after taking a few steps in its direction. The tool is lifted, carefully inspected by this mech or femme. Once more do they approach the berth, and the nameless young mech can only struggle against his rusted bonds. The tool is cruel; hooked and narrow on one end with a pointed tip. It looks like something that would be used for holding wires out of the way during surgery.
The shadows wait in their corners, staring hungrily at the tool as it suddenly descends, locking into the exposed protoform of his upper arm, digging into his arm. A scream immediately follows as the tool rips, tears, shreds at the protoform.
Dark shadows slither around the wound, mimicking the shape that the Cybertronian's dactylin makes as it brings that tool deeper, tugging wires forcefully, shredding circuits, and sending hot flashes of pain throughout his arms.
"St… Sto-oooop! I… I beg you!" He cries out, whilst rounded dactyl dig against the berth relentlessly. The youngling's struggles become fiercer after he speaks, but it only succeeds in pulling the tool through his arm jaggedly, and causing the pain flaring through his limb to become just that much worse. He… He wants his pain receptors disabled! Why are they doing this to him?! What had he done to get this cruel treatment?!
"Hush, now; this isn't even the beginning, runt."
What?! N-not even the beginning..?
I can only groan as the cruel tool is forcibly removed from my limb, but I'm not given a chance to sigh with relief as this… This… ,Cybertronian's' digits move to caress the new wound and sending chills up my backstrut; Energon drip—drip—dripping from it. I can't spare the substance as it is, fraggit!
But then, my optics widen. I can feel those sharp digits forcing their way into the gash in my arm—tearing the protoform further as two of them are forced into the wound. I grind my denta together, muffling another cry, feeling as one wire at a time is pulled free, feeling as the jagged wound is shredded from within. I shut my crimson optics tightly, and I can feel coolant running from their corners, down my cheek-plates, to the rusted berth beneath me.
Another groan leaves my vocoder as those digits slowly draw out of the gash on my upper arm, coated in my own blood-Energon. I shut my blood-colored optics tightly as those digits dripping my Energon meet my faceplate, slowly drawing down my cheek-plate, and leaving the lightly-glowing substance on my face. It gives me chills, that simple movement.
What… What had I done to deserve this? I-I honestly can't remember anything!
Those long, sharp digits slowly drawing down the youngling's faceplate, they finally reach his chin, and are ultimately removed. The tool, wires hanging from its cruel hook, Energon dripping from its unforgiving end, is placed right back where it had initially been found.
For many long moments, the shape seems to melt back into the shadows. The shadows slither around the young mech as his dactylas ball into tight fists and he finally brings his piercing optics to open. His gaze slowly begins drifting about the room; over tools that litter a multitude of carts and counters that surround him. He looks to the shadows as a soft scraping noise emits from somewhere in the room, echoing into the darkness.
Another cart, being pushed by the shadow of a Cybertronian. The youngling's frightened gaze flicks to where their own optics should be located; though with his altered memories, he cannot recall their appearance in the slightest of degrees.
A flash of silver, the dim light reflecting off of the tool in a bright white ray, and another tool is chosen from this new cart. A blade—a scalpel to be exact—is this form's newest tool. So simple, yet so effective. That blade is lowered oh so slowly, until finally meeting with the jagged wound in the youngling's arm.
He squirms and whimpers as the scalpel is drawn through his protoform—making such clean, yet painful slices into his upper arm.
The pain gradually begins to worsen; the Energon begins to run faster. My optics slowly brighten as the pain intensifies, and I do my best to hold back my cries. I… I can't give in like that… Wh-whoever this is, they want me to know pain; they want to draw screams of terror and agony from my vocoder.
But then I hear it.
A sickening crack!
At first, my optics simply remain wide, mouth agape. The pain doesn't seem to hit me right away, as shock does instead. My arm… M-my arm…
And I can't hold back the scream that finally leaves me; it splits through the dark room, bouncing between the shadows. My voice cracks from the splitting screech that leaves me; my digits begin scraping against the berth with an audio-splitting sound. I arch my back off of the berth as I shut my optics tightly against the tears that begin streaming down my faceplate.
My arm… I-it doesn't follow the movement… It lays limply, still held at the wrist, b-but no longer connected to my frame… I can't bare the pain that now flares through what's left of my arm.
Vents rapid, spark pounding from within its chamber, I begin feeling nauseous. The Energon draining from my faceplate; I know I'd purge if I had anything left in my tanks! And what's left of my arm gushes Energon—I feel myself growing dizzy from both a loss of the much-needed substance, and the pain tearing through my circuits mercilessly.
What have I done to deserve this?!
Primus… Have mercy!