C.M.D: This is a fic idea that has been brewing in my mind since... geez... almost six years? Since the first time I ever read an IDW comic, which was Last Stand of the Wreckers (thus began my addiction) but I haven't had the chance to really get it going. I've finally stopped procrastinating and am intent on cranking this fic out, and with any luck will have it done in a couple months time (because I'm sorely behind the last several issues of the formerly-titled RID and Sins of the Wreckers and I know more stuff is coming out soon!) so be prepared for an influx of chapters for this story. And angst. And drama. And... Ah, you get the idea. Anyhow, please enjoy!
i.
He didn't understand why he was even alive.
Machines beeped around him, a thick casing around his helm to prevent him from bleeding out further. It wouldn't repair him but it would keep him alive -for a time. Around him, the sound of creaks and soft groans and engines thrumming nearby.
So he was on a ship. That informed him of so much. Prisoner or not, Snare could not move anyhow, thus could not confirm his status beyond that. All he was certain of was that he had survived and he was safe. For now.
The rest would reveal itself later.
Maybe.
ii.
His chronometer was off.
The Predator was sure of it. It kept telling him that no time had passed, yet the sounds and lights had changed often enough around him that Snare knew that time was still moving. Doubts filled him though. Perhaps he wasn't actually alive anymore. Maybe, instead of surviving the hell of Garrus-9, he had fallen into a sort of purgatory; trapped in a void that was neither life but was not restful death either.
It would explain enough.
Better anyhow than the alternative that he indeed lived, and, possibly, this was some sort of prison Overlord had made specifically to torture the flyer. To drive him mad with uncertainties before boredom drove the six-phaser to resort to more entertaining methods.
Snare tried not to think how that second scenario seemed like the plausible reality. If he did, he'd lose the last bit of his sanity for sure.
iii.
Finally, some sort of other life came to his little cell.
Unable to see, Snare listened as heavy pedefalls first approached the door; metal sliding back with a rusty hiss as another 'bot entered. He was certain they were mechanical, if not Cybertronian, for the Predator could hear their joints creak for a good oiling and atmosphere cycle through a series of canted vents. All was confirmed as his visitor drew closer, Impactor's face staring down at the injured mech.
"We've got you someone to do repairs," was all the Wrecker said, before there was the sound of another guest coming into the pitiful medbay.
Impactor glanced at the second individual, lip components fixed into the hard scowl he always seemed to don, disappearing from Snare's berthside to be replaced by some unknown face. The 'bot, also surprisingly Cybertronian, bore no symbols or other outwardly signs of allegiance. A neutral then. The Predator thought to say something but could not find the words. He'd used up many of them on Garrus-9, slowly gaining a dangerous Autobot's trust before turning him loose, in an attempt to escape the nightmare Overlord was insistent they all live in. Reminded of that hellish place only brought forth one truth: Impactor had not killed him as he'd begged, instead leaving him for dead or for another psychotic Decepticon to pick up for play.
Yet none of that had happened.
He'd managed to stay alive long enough it seemed (though not conscious) to be collected by the Wrecker later.
And now-
Now, Snare did not know. Powering down his optics, he decided thinking over the Autobot's reasons were best left to plague himself with later, and let the neutral do his job fixing him.
iv.
Chronometer fixed, Snare now was aware of how much time he laid on that slab following his extensive repairs. Eleven orns, fourteen cycles, eight kliks and twenty-three point seven astroseconds.
The Predator hated the wait equally as much as he hated this unfamiliar silence. Garrus-9 had been anything but, and he'd grown uncomfortably used to the sounds filling the halls and skies in that Pit. Yet, there was nothing for it. He had to rest or his frame could easily crumble apart again and leave him seeping energon in pools -so said the neutral, anyhow. He was no medic and Snare would have taken more faith in his words if he were, but a smart engineer would proclaim his faults and the flyer wasn't stupid.
So he waited but that period of recovery had finally come to a close.
Wary, yet still eager to move again, Snare slowly pushed himself up off the berth. He removed the metal shell covering his helm, ensuring that the fresh welds would not come undone while he rested, and when nothing unfavorable took place, continued on to remove the supporting machines. They beeped for a moment, aware they had been cut off suddenly from their host, before the machines immediately shut-down in an attempt to save power. The Predator was only glad he didn't have to take care of that task himself.
Medical equipment was already sparse enough in this war; he did not have enough knowledge or concern to handle these devices with a careful servo to power them down manually. Better that they took care of themselves lest he damage them in some fascinating way.
He was stalling, he realized. Green optics narrowed in silent frustration. This near-death may have caused a lot more problems than first assumed, if his sudden penchant for side-tracking and inner pondering was any indication. Shaking his helm furiously to dislodge these redundant thoughts (and hating himself for it after as it left him aching and sore) the Predator quickly clambered to his pedes and marched stiffly for the door.
He wasn't certain what he would find on the other side but anything was better than sitting and waiting.
v.
He expected this.
"You work to keep your place. Or you leave."
Somewhat.
"Your choice," Impactor informed, arms folded surely over his broad chest. "But, I doubt a 'con is gonna get very far with no Decepticon outpost around for at least a hundred kpc*."
Snare did not glare or make a snide comment. He merely stared the Wrecker head on, sparing only a quick glance around the poor shuttle and towards the other lil' mech that occupied the deck with them, before settling back on Impactor himself. The violent Autobot's proposition was hardly an offer; there was no other alternative, and the harpoon-bearing brute knew it.
Yet, this was not surprising.
Why save a 'con from an easy death unless he had uses? And Snare was confident that he had many skills plenty others would find valuable.
It wasn't an astrosecond more before the Predator nodded his helm in agreement. If Impactor or his annoying grunt were surprised by his complacency, they never said. The minibot turned back to the ship's controls while the purple warrior continued to stare Snare down.
Snare decided to wait for any orders he might start spouting- foolish or not.
"Good," was all the tank rumbled, his expression reflecting anything but, "You can start by scrubbing every inch of the closet you've been huddled in these last few decaycles. It reeks of wasted ozone and your scummy energon."
Already trying to get a rise out of him. Well, the flyer knew these types of games all too well and he would not be baited. Not by some Autobot too vicious for his own kind, but too weak to be a Decepticon. With no reply or returning jibe, Snare turned and marched back for the door he'd first come through; resolved that he'd make the floor shine so much, that big-mouthed idiot would see every horrible dent and greasy-rust mark pocking his frame.
vi.
He'd become a maid.
Worse than that, Snare realized a few orns in. He was a grunt.
There were only three mechs in their rusting, little shuttle ship and the Predator created the less mess out of them all. Yet, under Impactor's orders, he'd been tasked with every chore the other two didn't wish to do. And probably hadn't for a while, given the state of the, well, everything.
Thrusters thrumming with building frustration, Snare was left alone to clean after two annoying lugs who either complained that nothing he did was enough or that everything he did was too clean. It left him pondering why he didn't just jump ship anyways -Impactor and his offer be damned.
Still, he didn't, for whatever reasons (pride, paying off a debt, some sort of ill-placed gratitude) so the flyer was left scrubbing the gears for the shuttle's docking door; disgusted by this task as it spilled red-tinged oil all over his servos and weighing the pros and cons of staying an indentured servant to the two Wreckers.
vii.
Routine had a funny way of leaving one remembering the past.
The "past" in particular for Snare not having been "so long ago" as he would have liked.
Boredom in the monotony of his chores had led his processor into roving over recent memory files; perhaps his systems' method of ensuring that nothing had been corrupted during the shot to his helm, and to absorb, categorize and finally store everything away properly in his archives. Whatever the reasons, the Predator was trapped with a series of recollections he was better off without, yet subjected to re-witness with great discomfort.
The starting raid on Garrus-9, Overlord's intervention, the descent into the most hellish of realities, Snare's eventual betrayal to his remaining kind, the critical shot to his helm...
He should have died. The flyer knew it. Believed it with profound conviction. He'd hoped for mercy, just once in his life, and had been denied even that by the ruthless Wrecker's callous dismissal (his precise words were: "Shut the frag up, whiner"), thus he should have bled out. Or been the victim of another Decepticon's tortures. Instead, the same mech that had refused to kill him returned after the fight to collect him -the 'why' exactly still had not been answered and Snare wasn't sure it ever would be.
It didn't take a genius to understand that Impactor had narily escaped whatever justice the remaining Wreckers (those with a more concrete, moral high ground that is) would have meted out for the rogue Autobot. The shuttle, in all its dilapidated wonder, was a testament to the tank's hurried departure from the rest of the Wrecker unit. So it stood to reason that not even the Autobots knew that Snare still functioned.
What that meant for the rag-tag crew of two violent Autobots and one slave Decepticon remained up in the air. But whatever their course, wherever the silent minibot took them in this endless universe, Snare was sure it meant little good for any of them.
viii.
Their first trip planet-side and the Predator was not allowed to leave the shuttle.
Snare curled his fists at his side, fuming silently, as Impactor turned to finish prepping for departure. So that's how things were going to be. Not only was he the ship grunt, expected to take care of tasks only ever left for drones, now he had to be the shuttle babysitter too?
"Am I granted access to a weapon then, to protect against your suspected threat to this derelict?," the flyer asked sourly.
Impactor's response was to laugh. "Whatever for?," he sneered, looking back at the Predator. "One flash of that pretty, purple mark and I'm sure you'll be fine."
Another jibe at his faction. The Wrecker needed to find something new to try and torment Snare with. Though him trying not to would be appreciated as well. In either case, it was obvious that the flyer wasn't going to be given a weapon and the shuttle didn't come with any decent defenses of his own, so he was wide open for attack should any 'bot attempt it. Wonderful.
Fuming still, the Predator busied himself with polishing the stools of the bridge chairs, now that they had been emptied of their filthy occupants. He became so absorbed in his task that he almost missed the two Wreckers tromping off out of the docking bay; close to firing his thrusters in outrage when the barbarians returned cycles later covered in energon and even more filth.
So it was going to be that kind of situation.
ix.
It became vastly apparent that he wasn't just going to be the maid or shuttle sitter.
Despite hitting planets, and asteroids and other pitiful rock-side hovels, Impactor nor Guzzle cared about anything other than obtaining some high-grade, weapons and ammo. The little bit of credit they earned from each of the odd jobs the two Autobots picked up as they wandered around space aimlessly was put only toward the three Wrecker "necessities". Not a single other thing was thought of.
Which was stupid. Snare frowned, looking at the list he had compiled in his own free time (there was a lot of that, honestly) and could only feel more frustrated. Aside from lacking any real leadership, Impactor clearly wasn't concerned about maintaining the derelict the purple warrior had chosen or ensuring credits were put aside for medical supplies.
So once again, the duty fell onto the Predator. Which wouldn't be such a problem if the flyer had been assigned the task by their "commanding officer", yet that wasn't the case; and having to find out that they were travelling about, low on basic rations, supplies and even fuel for the ship, was beyond infuriating. Someone needed to oversee their finances as well, apparently.
The wise thing to do would be bring the issue up with Impactor and arrange for some credits to be given to Snare for supplies and other ship needs. A more level-headed officer would address the issue first-hand and work quickly to rectify it -the Wrecker was not that sort of person and expecting cooperation would be dumb on the Predator's behalf.
So he waited until Guzzle and Impactor disembarked from the ship for reasons unknown (probably a bar hop, more like) and the flyer set to work. Alone once more, Snare easily hacked into the shuttle's account, taking assessment of the value available and his long list of needs. Surprisingly, Impactor and Guzzle had racked up quite a number of funds, despite their excessive, personal shopping, but there still wasn't enough... The ship needed oil, lubricant and fuel, along with tools for more complicated repairs. Standard energon rations would be necessary for all of them and the medbay was severely understocked on even basic supplies. Definitely not enough credits available to fully restock.
Venting in annoyance, the Predator quickly went through his list again, shortening it to the most dire of needs before he began shopping; noticing that some of the funds had suddenly disappeared, meaning Impactor and Guzzle had already started their drinking binge. Marvelous.
Shuttering his optics slowly, the flyer finished the last of his supply order, watching in silence as the account continued to drop in credits. By the time he logged out, the two Autobots had managed to nearly deplete the entire account. Whatever. If this was going to be the worst of life with the renegade Wreckers, than Snare would be fine.
Nothing could possibly phase him.
x.
He thought nothing could phase him.
He was wrong.
Suppressing a shiver, Snare tried to distract himself by oiling gears in the engine room again; not finding any solace in the menial task and instead glancing frequently for the narrow doorway. He couldn't hear much from the deck, but he knew the two Wreckers were there... Covered in more energon than any 'bot should be, optics bright with some sort of frenzy and an energy about them both that made the Predator very aware of his primal wish to flee.
So he had.
Truthfully, he would have probably run at the sight of so much energon dripping from their frames, but it was the way that Impactor had fondled his stained harpoon, his gaze searing into Snare's wings, that had urged the flyer to take refuge in the compact energon room.
It wasn't an escape, not really, but it was all that he could do given his options. The thrumming of hard-working pistons at least helped to soothe away the nightmare of a smiling pit-spawn with hungry, red optics, yet this unexpected scare slipped some doubts into Snare's recovering sanity.
Had he merely survived one hell to be trapped in another?
The Predator could not suppress his shiver this time.
C.M.D: Hope you enjoyed this new fic start! Yeah... it'll be in a snippet format. Less rambling inbetween. Also, for some more Impactor/Snare goodness, check out FoxyTurttle on archiveofourown- feeder of my pairing needs in this desert of material.
*Kpc: kiloparsec. A unit of measurement in astronomy to measure distance between parts of a galaxy or planets and stars.