Disclaimer: I don't own transformers or any recognizable names within but we already knew that. The OCs are mine, though, and they are a fan-creation/parody of the original Transformers. I am not making any money whatsoever off of galavanting them around the multiverse.
A/N: In an unwanted break from fluff and cuddles I've apparently decided to explore my darker side.
I started wondering - Sky Hunger in flyers is a pretty common torment among the fandom, but what kind of things really get to other builds? In this chapter: Communications types. For a lack of desire to screw with Blaster or Soundwave, I plucked one of my OCs out of the closet and thrust the poor thing into this. I think it's important to mention that the OC is a minibot or else the scale will seem really, really off.
These are short, kind of semi-standalone chapters. I've never really written angst and torture before so it's been interesting.
They've broken my visor; taken my optics; they disabled my audios. It's dark, and it's quiet and everything is very, very still… my energy field reaches, blindly, seeking sensation, seeking anything to touch to ease the numb, drifting feeling clouding my processor. The only thing I can feel is the bindings holding my hands behind me, but even that - I have felt it for so long that I no longer feel it, my arms twisted so far that I think the numbness may be because they are broken, the wires stretched and torn so that my systems can't even tell if they're still attached.
At first I had the pain to focus on, the holes in my plating where wires sparked and crackled, burning my protoform before my self-repair could redirect the energy flow. My joints ached from being forced to kneel like this, my circuits overheating from the lack of air, fans spinning hastily to keep me alive - I could feel them spinning, feel the vibrations through my plating, but they've long since stopped, fallen into disrepair, unable to keep spinning any longer in the unending heat generated by my own chassis. I used to cry out when the hands came upon me, I couldn't hear myself but I felt myself crying. Soon all I felt was the static prickle in my throat of my voice module giving out, struggling to reboot itself until something snapped painfully and I felt no evidence of my voice ever having existed. No sounds existed. There was nothing but darkness and silence.
I could feel my brothers at first, all of us reassuring one another that we would make it out together, make it out whole, that we would live after this, and cycle after cycle the whispers became quieter, more filled with pain until they became mere whimpers of existence, the echoes of continuing life and nothing more; the bonds are silent now and I can feel nothing, inside or out. The silence terrifies me - I was built for sound, to absorb and twist it to my whim, to speak, to sing, to shout, to listen and hear and feel the waves washing over me like the rolling tides of the Rust Sea. I saw it once when I was a sparkling - I remember I was afraid of the waves, of the noise they made, roaring as they crashed down upon the shore. My brothers had laughed at me for my fears, for hiding behind our Creator, but none of them would venture close to the sea either and they were forever disobeying Creator's warnings about damage to themselves, thinking themselves brave to prove him wrong, only to prove him right.
I smiled at the memory - or, at least, I think I smiled. I wanted to smile, desperately, I wanted to. I wanted to cry, but my cleanser had since run out, even the smallest of droplets dried up in the heat of my burning circuitry. I wanted to scream, but my voice didn't work anymore. I wanted to feel something - anything - but though my field stretched and reached and begged weakly for something, anything, to mingle with it in the short, depleted distance, there was nothing to answer my pleas, only echoes of silence and darkness.
A hand appeared upon my shoulder and I wrenched away, trying to scream, trying to beg - the numbness, the silence, the lack of existence; I would rather sit and question whether or not I was still online than to feel those massive hands upon my chassis, digging into old wounds to open them again, denting crumpled plating further, seeking out sensor nodes to rip out of my circuitry so that true deprivation could settle in.
My struggles stilled from exhaustion, and I realized the sensation of weight upon my shoulder was gone. Perhaps… I had just imagined it? Perhaps my processor was so far gone now that it sought out any reprieve from the lack, even to force phantom pains upon itself, the ghostly, painful hands roaming my plating…
I felt my broken vocalizer clicking with effort when the hand appeared again, squeezing very carefully to hold me still though I wrenched and twisted as best as I could, unsure if I was upright or down, sitting or standing or laying across the floor, if there was a floor. There were more of them this time, more hands gripping my shoulders and legs to still my frantic, uncoordinated thrashing as others trailed over my head and face. I snapped at them when they touched my lips, but never caught them. They're not real, my processor trudged through the sludgy, heated fog. You're only imagining it; you can't touch them because they're not real.
I twitched when the hands trailed gently over my missing optics, my sensory network that had been so long without sensation now over-stimulated, every touch, imaginary though it may be, sending a shock to my addled processor. Fingers on my broken audios, a wire sparking painfully at the contact, causing me to flinch and my vocalizer again click and struggle to make a sound, then easing down towards the back of my neck very slowly, very lightly, until the tips grazed an access port, one hand lingering when the other lifted.
This was new… they've never tried a connection before as that would cost them their anonymity in tormenting me, offering me as much information about them as they took from me. I would know who they were, what they were intending to do - and then where would the surprise be in that? A jack pressed against the side of the port, grazing its way slowly into the outlet until it pushed in to connect with a click that resounded throughout my plating as powerful as any slap or stab or strike of the whip.
Easy now, I'm here to help you.
My firewalls were damaged, blocks of data missing, simply burned away as my neural relays failed over time, but they wobbled and flickered unsteadily - these crumbling walls would do nothing to prevent access if the connecting presence even so much as nudged against them; but the mech, and I assumed it was a mech, kept his distance until I had calmed slightly. I could feel myself trembling now, feel my plating rattling against the hands holding me still, cradling me, even, for how gentle they were. They were always deceptively gentle at first - I could almost measure the intensity of the beating to come by how falsely loving their caresses were.
Easy… easy… we're not going to hurt you. The presence, the bright spot hovering at the edge of my consciousness, hovered a respectful distance away, still just waiting. Slowly, he edged forward and my firewalls wobbled in a way that I was sure was unhealthy.
The mech crooned quietly towards me in a manner suited to a frightened animal which I suppose suited the way I jerked and flinched beneath them. Hush, little one, we will not harm you. Lower your firewalls, let us help you…
It's foolish to trust his words, whispered so sweetly, but I wanted so badly to believe that there was an end to my dying processor's tormented illusions. It still whispered that this wasn't real, that nothing was real. Perhaps I was already dead, and this was some sort of initiation into the Matrix… or perhaps instead… had I been so bad…? Creator had never told me so… but surely this, all of this, was the darkened, smelting torment of the Inferno…?
Please, he began again when I made no acknowledgement, let us help you.
I might have cried if there was any liquid left to weep with, but I convulsed with dry, silent sobs, and I only knew because I could feel their hands struggling to hold me at the surge of movement, pulling me tight against a broad chest, arms winding protectively around my frame. My weak walls crumbled, unable to hold themselves erect any longer and the bright spot edged forward into my sluggish processor and corrupted data.
I cannot find your designation… Do you remember who you are?
I… My own thoughts seemed so loud after all the time spent in silence. I am… uncertain…
Will you let us repair you? Hands moved across my wounds, grazing them lightly though hovering as though awaiting permission. The protective embrace tightened around me, stilling my shivers. Perhaps repairs will help you recover your memories, there is so much damage here…
I… I am… so very tired… if you are truly here to heal, then please… and if you are here to harm, please… please just let me die this time… I am so very tired…There is nothing I have that you want and the emptiness… I cannot stand any longer…
There is no need for such theatrics, little one. He was scolding me now - I could almost see Creator wagging a servo at me with the same tone of voice. I let my head fall forward, satisfied with reality at the vibration of metal striking metal, a shaky smirk twisting my lips. We are going to put you into stasis now, for repairs… and when you awake you will be safe. I promise.
Who are you? The hovering hands were trailing up my arms towards my helm, showing his intentions as the correct overrides were sought out.
My name is Mirage, our medic is called Ratchet.
And who is this? My own hands tried to find the full width of the broad chest supporting me, head tilting up despite knowing I would see nothing there. There is another here, yes? I am… I'm not imagining it?
His name is Trailbreaker. He will be protecting you until we are home again.
'Home', he says… oh, how I long for home… for the soft music that seemed to reach every hidden crevice of our domicile, my brothers laughing, Creator's fond smiles and affectionate caresses, the confections created with whole-sparked intentions but lacking the skills to make them even slightly appealing to the optic. They were not taking me to my home… but any home was welcome, any refuge…
I shuddered as my systems began to shut down, falling slowly into stasis, rerouting to compensate for the damage to my circuits to keep the energy circulating. The protective arms lifted me like a mere sparkling, cradled against the expansive chest, and I gasped at the sudden chill bite of fresh air on my heated plating, the sensation remaining like a thin layer of ice across my processor as I slipped away.