Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of Hasbro/Takara.
Warnings: Overlord.
Author's Note: Issue #6 of More Than Meets the Eye opens with Fortress Maximus in Rung's office. Just expanding upon the flashbacks a little. Enjoy.
"What happened? What do you remember?"
"I find it fascinating, Fortress Maximus, the way our kind is constructed. The variations in design, the intricacies, the slight dissimilarities from one frame to the next — wouldn't you agree?"
No answer.
"Take the battle mask, for example. What does it conceal, my dear warden? One might assume a mouth — or perhaps not. It's one of the many delightfully unpredictable features of our race." A pause, a cruel smile. "As you may have noticed, I've begun a survey — I'm curious, you see. At fifty samples, we're locked in a tie — twenty-five with mouths, twenty-five without. And, well — fifty without heads. In any case, Fortress Maximus, your men make fantastic test subjects, and this newest one will tip the balance."
Pained, hysterical screams of terror — the tortured squeal of rending metal — the stuttered turn of a failing engine.
"Twenty-six without mouths. Very interesting."
"What do I remember?"
Time passes — hours, days, weeks, perhaps even months. There is no light of day, no darkness of night, no way to discern when one cycle slips into the next. Time becomes an enigma, a torturous mystery, filled only with the hollow constant of dull, dragging terror.
In the beginning, Fortress Maximus kept tally not of the passing of days, but of the passing of his men. It was easier to measure time by murders rather than minutes — but at some point, the Autobot warden lost count. One prolonged death became another, screams consumed in an acrid haze of burning circuitry and extinguished sparks. After counting failed, Fortress Maximus tried a different approach: names, he would remember names. But that tactic was doomed from the start, when presented before him were bodies so mangled that paint colors became indistinguishable.
Now, no longer having a grasp on time or on murders, Fortress Maximus tracks only his seething hatred — not only for the Decepticons, but for the Autobots who have completely ignored the plight of Garrus 9. He knows not how much time has passed since the initial siege of the prison — but it's been long enough, and he knows that the Autobots must be aware.
They simply don't care.
"I remember…"
Fortress Maximus has been ripped apart and pieced back together an endless number of times. Like everything else, he's lost count. His arms, his legs, his optics — they've been mutilated and removed and replaced, and each replacement is shoddier than the last. Each removal is less painful than the last, too, which is both comforting and disturbing. There will come a time, the warden knows, when he will no longer feel the torture inflicted upon him. When that does happen, he isn't sure if it will constitute as victory or defeat or neither.
Overlord reappears. Judging by the fluorescent splashes of spilt energon spattered across his dark armor, the Phase Sixer has returned from another battle in the Pit — or, perhaps, a one-on-one challenge between himself and a twelve-victory ring fighter. Whatever the case, Fortress Maximus recognizes the pleased hum of Overlord's systems, and even after endless torture and degradation at the hands of the rogue Decepticon, it still makes his paint crawl.
The warden braces himself for another round of abuse. He's been immobilized — on this particular occasion, one leg is missing from the knee joint down and his other extremities have been nailed to a recharge slab-turned-torture table — and he can't curl in on himself, and even if such a posture is a sign of weakness, he no longer cares. Fortress Maximus finds himself almost relieved that Overlord is alone, and hasn't returned with yet another doomed Autobot — because at least for now, his unwillingness to share codes and secrets won't take yet another already-doomed life.
The Decepticon circles his prey, arms crossed, optics gleaming, lips twisted into an obscene leer. "Today marks a special anniversary, Fortress Maximus. Would you like to fathom a guess of how long you've been my prisoner?"
"Go to Hell."
Overlord ignores the words. "One and a half years. Now I know that in the grand scheme of things — in what our kind considers a lifetime — one and a half years is a mere footnote. Little more than a sparkpulse. But I think you would agree that these last one and a half years have felt like much, much longer." The Decepticon is closer now, his armored bulk leaning over Fortress Maximus' supine body, mouth inches from the warden's audial fins. "You are wonderfully stubborn. Delightfully loyal — even to the very Autobots who have abandoned you. Your uncompromising honor has made these last one and a half years that much more pleasurable."
Fortress Maximus scowls — it's such a simple movement, and yet it hurts — and he grates, "All of the Autobots in the universe can abandon me, and you still won't get what you want."
"Very well, then," is Overlord's reply, and much to the Autobot's horror, his smile has grown. "Your left leg is looking far too intact these days. I never did like asymmetry."
"I remember…"
Five more Autobots are tortured and murdered before Fortress Maximus. Inexplicably, so are three Decepticons. Their abuse is just as drawn-out and horrifying as the punishment inflicted upon the Autobots, and the warden wonders to what end.
He's legless, now: Overlord has sawn them both off at mid-thigh, leaving stumps of mangled metal and damaged circuitry. Fortress Maximus knows he's bleeding energon — it pools beneath him, warm and sticky, before slowly cooling — but it's never fatal, never enough to kill him, and he just wishes it was. His arms will be next — it's been far too long since they were last torn to shreds, and their relatively intact state is bound to draw Overlord's attention sooner or later.
Despite the rogue Decepticon's reassurances otherwise, Fortress Maximus knows that Overlord is growing weary of the situation. He's bored. He's not getting what he wants — whatever that might be, because Fortress Maximus knows it's not simply the access codes to the Aequitas Chamber he's after.
But the warden has cycled through this thought process a countless number of times since being taken prisoner — and it tires him. He wishes he were among the Autobot dead, in their rumored open graves. He wishes he had died when he'd been thrown into that crowd of bloodthirsty freed Decepticon inmates, over a year and a half ago.
He no longer hopes for an Autobot rescue mission, because Fortress Maximus would rather be dead than suffer the memories.
"I remember…"
"I know you must be getting bored of your surroundings, so you'll be excited to hear that there is a change of scenery in store for you in the near future." Overlord takes a step closer, the giant, serrated blade of his chainsaw motionless — for the moment. "Where you're going, you won't need legs — or arms, for that matter." And then the weapon is powered on, its blades whirring and gnashing, and Fortress Maximus feels it connect with his right arm, just above his elbow joint.
Overlord makes the cut quickly, and in a haze of pain and spraying energon, all Fortress Maximus can think is how light that side of his body suddenly feels.
His left arm is soon to follow.
The warden remembers a time, long ago, when damage to his frame was met with internal microrepair, as well as the standard, flashing warnings and relays. He hasn't seen those warnings in a great while, and he's quite certain that his body no longer has the ability to repair itself — and now he's bleeding, again; his arms are gone and his legs are gone and he just wishes he were gone too.
Overlord hangs his chainsaw on the wall, next to an array of other horrible torture and dismemberment devices, then returns to the now-smaller body of Fortress Maximus. The rogue Decepticon is covered in the Autobot's vital fluids, and he seems quite pleased by it.
"Much better. Not that I'm worried about you making an escape." The warden feels Overlord's optics rake over his mangled frame. "Sparking circuitry — ruptured energon lines — rent plating. You're a mess, Fortress Maximus."
The ragged pulse of pain gives way, just for a moment, as the Autobot feels hatred boil up in his fuel tank. "Where are you going to take me?"
Overlord doesn't immediately reply. He's too busy admiring his handiwork: digits smear spilt energon across the warden's damaged chassis, trail obscenely close to his gasping, parted lips, grope at the searing stumps of his arms and legs. Fortress Maximus thrashes and bucks, pain replaced by panic, and finally the Decepticon responds.
"You're going to have a little chat with the door guarding Aequitas. And you are going to remain there until it opens up."
"… nothing. I remember nothing at all."
Fin.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading!