Patient 425828766
A/N: G1. Cyclonus/Galvatron, sort of.
It was cold and brittle, the world around him. Groans met his audios, sounding foreign and animalistic. The so-called psychologists used long and wickedly curved scythes to attack their caged patients, silencing the organic and the inorganic. Torkulon was meant to be a world where those who were troubled could find ways to ease their pain, or have someone else aid them. It was meant to be soothing, calm, and nurturing. None of those traits were evident as the scythes rose and fell into flesh, metal, and rock alike. For beings that claimed they were supposedly /helping/ those who had been damaged in mind, they were surprisingly ruthless towards them. A creature, mindless from the "treatment" let out a low moan and fell to the ground, lungs heaving and gasping for air. Pity was something that it could not even comprehend if it was even given; the animal was too far gone even for that.
It was what Cyclonus had to look forward to in his own leader: a mindless zombie, capable of only the rudimentary functions to stabilize himself. Once a mighty conqueror, Galvatron was nothing more than a sparkling's new science project, keeping the Torkulons amused. It hadn't mean to be that way; Cyclonus had only brought his beloved leader there for treatment, not a lobotomy, but he had been convinced it was the right thing. If only he had listened to Galvatron's pleas, and his own spark. It was too late for wishing, and too late for regrets. The game had been played, and Cyclonus had dealt the losing hand, pitiful though it was.
He allowed himself to be brought down to the chambers below the planet, listening to the low and angry grumbles. He had asked, once, why Torkulon was suddenly so violent, and had been told it was Galvatron's fault. His mind was beating against its restraints even as it was assimilated bit by bit into the soil. Pride had kept Cyclonus sane for the brief solar cycles he was with Galvatron below the surface. The pride and comfort had begun to wear off now, stellar cycles later, and Cyclonus wearily sat before his leader.
"Greetings, Lord Galvatron," he said in his slow and cultured way, staring past the bars of the cage at the pathetic excuse for what Galvatron had been. Grasping at the air like a seeker sparkling assured Cyclonus that, even though his beloved commander was less than the lowest human, he still sought out freedom, a comforting thought. Listless red optics turned to Cyclonus and Galvatron clicked quizzically, reaching out to run a hand over one of Cyclonus' horns.
His hand slammed into Cyclonus' horn with a passion and a will that caused pain, beautiful pain, slipping along Cyclonus' circuits to his processor. The hand rubbed and coaxed, squeezing to the point of denting, and Cyclonus groaned aloud. Another hand snapped over his mouth; such a concession was only allowed from Galvatron's Autobot pet, Rodimus. Cyclonus was a Decepticon, dignified and strong, and did not stoop so low as to make any noise of pleasure. It was an admission of need and want, weaknesses in their own right punishable.
Indeed, Galvatron's hand wrapped around Cyclonus' thruster and teased it, claws skating across with an ugly screech that only served to further impassion the two Decepticons. Cyclonus' hands twitched in their bonds and he let a whimper slip past his lips despite the harsh squeeze it earned. Wanting to claw at Galvatron, feel circuitry hum under his touch was something that haunted Cyclonus for most of his activation. For just one moment, Cyclonus wanted Galvatron to whimper and shiver under Cyclonus' ministrations. It wasn't right that the conqueror was the only one who could tease and taunt. Fitting, but not right.
"Can't fight back, can you?" A taunt, aptly aimed at Cyclonus' love of fighting and winning, left Galvatron as the hand stroking the horn moved to the other thruster. "Helpless like some sort of Autobot prisoner..." sadistic glee made his leader's voice irresistible, and Cyclonus longed for a moment to be free enough to share this moment. But that was the game, Cyclonus never more than a metaphor for Optimus, long deactivated, or Rodimus. It didn't matter to the second, so long as that hand didn't stop stroking.
Cyclonus jerked away from the memory with the aid of a fresh string of babble that made his spark ache. Galvatron stared at him with all the intelligence of a drone, babbling something in the language that he had no doubt made up that was hauntingly familiar. It may have been the fact that every lost mind in here babbled in the same way. Perhaps they conspired against their saner captors, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and take over the world that caged them. It was a move befitting Galvatron, a strong and fearless conqueror, who never let a pithy thing like insanity stop him. Cyclonus had always thought Galvatron was too long gone, but this... this was a million times worse than ducking every time his wrathful optics turned one's way.
"The Autobots are now off of Cybertron," Cyclonus attempted with a cheerful tone, staring deep into those mindless optics. Such life and desperation had once swam in the deep red, but now there was nothing but dullness, coming from not only the mainframe but the spark as well. Not even drones were this pitiful, for they never knew what it was to choose and to live. Galvatron had, and his choice had been stolen by the Torkulons and Cyclonus himself. This small comfort was all that Cyclonus could offer, and he gave it freely. The Decepticon army thrived under his command, had even reclaimed Cybertron. It wasn't logical to be unhappy as his feet touched home once more, Skywarp's memories dancing across his mainframe in a joyful celebration. Even Scourge had unwound to enjoy more than a few energon cubes.
"They're running for their lives," Cyclonus continued with a wistful air. "It was something that you could never have achieved, and yet you should have had the honor of laying your foot on our rightful home first." His attention returned and he looked down at his own feet. "It did not feel right to lay my feet down first and call myself a conquering hero to the Decepticons. The honor was yours, not mine, and I stole it as I stole your mind. Forgive me, as I seem to be unable to do anything right by your grace."
"Forgive me, Lord Galvatron, but the Autobot has escaped," not even kneeling before Galvatron like a cur was enough to save Cyclonus from his wrath. The fusion cannon barely missed his side and Cyclonus looked up to his master in mute appeal. Smoke billowed, matching the fiery wrath that was every inch of the Decepticon commander, and Galvatron roared inarticulately.
"How could Rodimus have escaped? You had him!" Though the anger was powerful and blistering, it was directed more at the absent Autobot than at the half-cowering Cyclonus. The game had been lost yet again, and Rodimus was missing once more. Not necessarily a wily or crafty Autobot, or even one deserving of the Matrix, what the Prime lacked in the processor he more than made up in speed. Cyclonus prided himself on being one of the fastest fliers in the Decepticon army, but ground-crawlers loved to confound and dart around until it didn't matter who was faster, and then peel away. It was a ridiculous contest that usually landed the unfortunate flier the loser, as Cyclonus was this time around.
"He is extremely fast," Cyclonus reminded Galvatron gently, standing and looking at his leader. A move to return to his post was easily thwarted, and Cyclonus stood still, hurt. Galvatron was glaring at him, no doubt reliving days where Megatron had chased Optimus, and gave a growl as an answer. It was enough, and Cyclonus returned to his side, steps quick and light. No one noticed, or pretended not to, the slight movement of Galvatron's hand, brushing against Cyclonus'.
A warning and a promise, both acknowledged and accepted, could undo all the careful deliberations that one took to steel one's features. The second-in-command never faltered, never wavered, and no one noticed, or again, pretended not to, the small curve to Galvatron's mouth. The game may have been lost, but it was never over.
Static invaded Cyclonus' processor, sounding almost pained. His head snapped up as recharge was flung carelessly away, Galvatron attempting to beat off attacking Torkulons. Cyclonus hissed and stood, revealing his weapons, scattering the small organic beings. Galvatron stared up at him with animalistic gratitude before returning to whatever nonsensical babble he so loved. Cyclonus remained straight, glaring at some lingering Torkulons until he was completely alone. Wounds sparked on Galvatron's arms and elicited whines from the once-might conqueror.
"They will heal," Cyclonus soothed, his vocal circuits making the switch from gruff to gentle in an easy leap. Practice made perfect, after all, and practice Cyclonus had. Soothing Galvatron was sometimes the only recourse left to any Decepticon, and one that was used shamelessly. To a lesser extent it still worked on the shell of what Galvatron had become, at least bringing him to a state of semi-calm. It was enough, and Cyclonus eased himself back to the hard ground.
Scourge would call soon, ask for orders and suggest that Cyclonus return to check on some petty disturbance or battle plans easily criticized without the replacement commander's presence. At times, Scourge was both frustrating and helpful, and a decent balance of both when the need arose. No one wanted Cyclonus alone with Galvatron for very long, fearing that something would snap inside their new leader. It was no secret what the two thought of each other and what they did inside of closed quarters. The Decepticons liked to tell themselves that it made no difference; Galvatron was still as likely to backhand one of them as he was to frag another senseless. What the two did was their own business, despite the curiosity of some, namely Swindle. Vids were a lucrative business, of course, and who were better prey than the highest ranking Decepticons in the universe?
"I should be rid of you!" Cyclonus exclaimed, staring at the only mech ranked higher than him. Galvatron was his last obstacle, one that clenched at his spark and refused to let go. "Maybe then I could recover and rule Cybertron as I should," he continued, low. Memories were only thin trickles of what Cyclonus needed from the battered and broken mech before him; thought they were all he had left, Cyclonus refused to be a slave to such emotions. His lord had always called them weak, proclaiming that any who fell prey to them was not worthy of being a Decepticon. Pity, then, that they both had.
"Of course, if I do, it is final," Cyclonus slumped and drew himself inward. "There will not even be the slightest chance of you regaining any cognitive function..." of course, there never truly was, if the slagged Torkulons could be believed. "It would be a mercy," he told himself firmly. He was no longer sure who he was trying to persuade: Galvatron, the simpering wreck, or himself.
"Mercy is for the weak! Destroy them!" Conquering hero, Decepticon warlord, bringer of death: Galvatron was all of these and more. Fusion cannon blasts scattered Autobots as the loss of life on the desolate colony grew. Cyclonus forgot most of what he was shooting at over the rise and fall of screams. It was a beautiful symphony that not even Soundwave could find fault it. Terror was always music to Galvatron, and what was music to him was music to Cyclonus as well.
"Cyclonus." With no argument at the clear order in the tone, strangely different from the indifferent remarks and more of a relief, Cyclonus moved to his leader's side and watched the carnage. Autobots and civilians both fled before the army as Decepticons pillaged the energon they so desperately needed. "It is beautiful, Cyclonus. Total and utter destruction, madness, chaos. Look at them flee!"
"I see," Cyclonus remarked tactfully, watching the wanton massacre. Now it was plain useless to continue the fight, but far be it from him to intrude on the obvious pleasure Galvatron was gaining from the fight. The Decepticon warlord's hands clenched and unclenched, optics staring straight ahead from a proudly tilted head. Battle was Galvatron's drug, one that the leader admittedly did nothing to kick; he liked the sound of screams and pain far too much to avoid it. There were worse things for him to like, Cyclonus knew, and tolerated the battle-lust that existed deep within his leader's spark. "These Autobots are cowards, though; look how they refuse to put up a fight."
A hand snaked out and grabbed Cyclonus' wrist, anything but harsh. In fact, Cyclonus could have sworn that the digits were... /caressing/ his joint. It was unexpected but not unwelcome, and so the second tolerated it. Galvatron made no reference to the odd movements as he watched, lips moving to the sounds of screams. "Cowards the Autobots are not," he finally answered, and it pulled at Cyclonus' memories of Megatron, becoming more and more vague as time went on. "They run because they hate to defend themselves, the fools."
"As I said, cowards," Cyclonus persisted rather foolishly. Despite his insubordination, the digits continued to trace and tease, tugging Cyclonus inwards. Hesitating for only a brief moment, the second clumsily obeyed, moving closer to his leader's side.
"Not cowards, Cyclonus," Galvatron retorted calmly, surprising Cyclonus, "never cowards. Self-preservation in the most instinctual form with a hint of residual Quintesson programming," a hard mouth pressed into Cyclonus' and the second protested no more.
No longer being a substitute was rather liberating, and the pulse of Galvatron's war-aroused spark beating against his was too pleasant of an experience to pass over. Would that it could only occur more often.
"Primus knows your spark belongs to the thrill of war," Cyclonus sighed, fingering his weapon. Alone once more, the Torkulons that were foolish enough to risk coming down fleeing from his glare, the only other presence was of Galvatron, severely lacking. "But now Torkulon owns what was once yours to own, and your spark is nothing but a hindrance to your joining with the pit," he shuttered his optics; the mind of Galvatron, raging and imperfect, would never join the pit, lost to a planet for eternity. All Cyclonus' fault, every last bit of it.
He raised his weapon and pointed it at Galvatron, staring into the dead optics, devoid of any and all emotion. "I'm sorry," he said, shuttering his optics.
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"How was the visit?" Scourge was nothing if not courteous and even slightly concerned, his optics never leaving the weary Cyclonus. "Commander?" he prodded after a few cycles of silence, and finally Cyclonus looked up with a shrug. "I take it he's the same as ever?"
"Just another patient for the Torkulons," Cyclonus agreed, staring at Cybertron's smooth and clean surface. "This is as much his victory as ours," he said, and Scourge knew better than to argue. "We owe our status to his hard work."
"I suppose," Scourge said, turning away and admiring the clean lines of his planet of origin. "You think he'd be happy with conquering Cybertron?"
"Not in the slightest, and neither will we," Cyclonus answered firmly. "Give the troops a few solar cycles off, and then tell them to mobilize. We don't stop here." Scourge nodded and beat a hasty retreat, leaving Cyclonus alone. The commander placed a piece of charred purple metal on the planet's surface, watching it waver and then hold still.
It was enough, and Cyclonus strode away, shouting orders to his troops.