Captive

TF Prime Barbarian AU RP

Chapter one: captured

Ratchet crouched, lips pressed into a thin line as he trailed along beside the trundling carriage; the two zaphorses snorting softly as they struggled against its weight. It was a regular delivery. They did this bi-monthly and even still, Ratchet couldn't help but nervously flick his gaze around, trying to keep a sharp optic out for any danger.

Of course, that was what Bluestreak was for, the young gunner seated atop the carriage along with Percy, the two mechs sighting down their snipers for any signs of trouble. And Ironhide and Kup took up rear positions, with Jazz on the other side of the carriage, keeping up with it along with Ratchet. With all of the medical supplies they were carrying, there was no room inside for any of them to travel in the carriage.

Ever since Event Zero*, as it was called, Iacon had a shaky truce with Kalis. Although the meteor shower that changed, well, everything, had been on the other side of the planet its aftershocks had been felt across their world. With Kaon, Blaster City, and cities all the way to Nova Cronum infected, energon production was severly limited. Iacon had never had its own source; it always traded with other cities for energy. And the impact of the meteors had shifted tectonic plates, severly damaging underground piping.

In short? Iacon no longer had a means of easily acquiring energon. Kalis, however, had always been its major supplier. And was still able to produce clean, uncontaminated energon. So instead of Iacon pumping directly from them there was an uneasy trade between them: every month they would alternate. First part of the month Kalis would send over gallons of energon in 'coptors. In exchange, Iacon would use part of that energon to run its factories and produce medical supplies and munitions. Usually these, too, were flown over, but- but the aerialbots were currently recovering after a run in with a pack of barbarians that also happened to have fliers with them.

Losing shipments to nomads or, worse, terrorcons wasnt unheard of; when energon supplies were running low fliers couldnt make it out either for the trades and theyd need to be done by foot then, too. So it wasnt a wonder why using the caravans wasnt so common. Not any more at least. But they couldn't at least try. Failing to do so would no doubt anger the other city and Iacon needed that energon to feed its citizens perhaps more than Kalis needed a steady stream of medicine. So here they were. Optics and audios alert with strung out nerves.

They were two days out from Iacon now and it'd be at least another three until they reached Kalis. Their group hadnt stopped once to rest, too fearful of the beings that might be out there, waiting for them. Instead the warriors alternated resting on one of the poor zaphorses. It'd be a miracle if the beasts didnt keel over by the time they made it to the other city...

It was another day and a half before the attack to the caravan occurred. The trap had been carefully laid on the path of the caravan, on a patch of terrain that barren, flat and held absolutely no way for the City Autobots to take advantage in a fight. They sprang out of holes carefully hidden in the rough tyerrain, belowing and swarming with sheer brute strenght and number.

They were Barbarians, those mechs who, after the cataclysm, had fled the cities to avoid getting infected by the Plague and became nomads. They usually lived off the scraps they could find from the very ground, but it was far from enough, and because of that their number had always stayed small and widely spread throughout the entire planet in small tribes. They were mistrusted and feared by the Ci9ty Autobots, who despised those mechs that had chosen to turn to such a savage lifestyle rather then hold onto their Civilized nature. Most were from the southern Hemisphere and were warbuilds, Decepticons that they were called. They were warriors, fighters at spark, and usually twice as large as the average Autobot.

They had gotten good at laying traps to ambush and rob caravans on their journey between cities and today was no different. Maybe two dozens of large war frames sprung into action from all around the caravan, hollering, screaming and charging the caravan with all their might to overwhelm and quickly defeat them. They held crude but effective hand-to-hand combat weapons like axes, swords and flails and were wickedly effective at using them. They outnumbered the Autobots three to one, and had a policy of taking no prisonners.

Usually that is.

Today however, would be different. From above came the rumbling noise of jet engines and three sleek forms appeared from above, dropping cluster bombs on the caravan to scatter and them and spread panic. One of them, the blue one, spotted something that caught his optics. One of the mechs had the markings of a medic on his frame. The Barbarians Decepticons didn't have medics, they in fact severely lack of them, and capturing one would bring Thundercracker great honor amongst his tribe. So he set on cornering the red and white mech and capturing him without harming him. Which was usually an easy task, since the City Autobots were complacent and soft in the spark and metal flesh.

He transformed to root mode and wrapped his arms around his prey, taking him into the air and knocking him in the head to offline him temporarily...

The thing about snipers, was that they were only any good at a distance.

Their travelling group was twitchy, on edge. Going several days without adequate recharge would do that to a bot, but even still, there was something...off...about their journey now. A prickling sensaion across their sensor net that made them jumpier and more tense than even before.

Bots had always wondered how the nomads managed to get the jump on them. Afterall, they never left survivors so it wasnt as if there was anyone to ask. But they didnt have guns, or anyway to really recharge their guns if they managed to steal any from the caravans. Not to mention the mostly flat, open topography of their planet.

So when the metal burst open in front of them and bots came spilling out of the ground, well- The zaphorses whinnied and bucked back, their hindquarters bumping into the carriage and knocking off Bluestreak and Perceptor from the roof. Ratchet heard one of their guns go off, but he couldn't be bothered to look and see if it was accidental or not; his servo transformed into a strut saw which he swung at his first assailant.

It was a medical tool, but it did its job of slicing through the mechs chest. Ratchet chanced a look over his shoulder towards Ironhide and Kup, watching the two veterans valiantly fighting off the attackers. Iacon had sent some of its best warriors, but it wasnt enough. They never knew how the nomads operated; to see just how many bots they used to attack? It was merciless. Ratchet swallowed, knowing he was likely going to die right along with his friends

With a savage snarl he used his blade to cut through the zaphorses reins, letting the beats run free. If he was going to die he wasnt going to make it easy for these mechs to lug their things back to wherever their camp was.

Then he dove forward, spitting curses at the bombs! Where did they even manage to get those?! His servo transformed back as he instinctively raised hsi servos over his helm, as if that could possible save him from getting blown up. When he managed to glance up, he spotted the trio of fliers and just barely had the time to wonder if these were the ones whom had harmed the aerialbots before he realized one of them was coming /right for him/!

"The frag-?!" He managed, and tried to jump out of the way. Claws bit into side paneling and he snarled in his attempt to mask the cry of pain he wished to hide. His attempt to dodge had claws hooking into him, rather than wrapping harmlessly around plating and he was jerked painfully off his pedes. Ratchet swung around, struggling in the others hold and managed to get a good jab into the blue mechs side- but immediately stiffened in the fliers grip when he realized just how far up he now was. Oh, Primus. This sicko was going to drop him on his helm, let him crash into the planet; what a miserable way to go!

Least he wouldnt come back a terrorcon though, he supposed.

Instead of dropping him though the other adjusted his grip and Ratchet-

He jerked awake, frame jolting upward as battle systems whirred to life. Blue optics flickered online after his wrist blades were already out, the medic wincing at the ache in his helm. Where was he? What was going on?

There was a shuffle from nearby and the little amount of light that came from a open doorway - more like the round opening of a metalmesh tent - was cut by a large form that now was shadowed against the sun's light. A winged, large, threatening form with glinting red optics... Then the seeker walked in and the sensation of imminent threat diminished. He was tall, at least twice the Autobot's size, sleek and definitely handsome, if you like the feral, fierce way warbuilds look. He had blue and white plating's, with red markings on his wigs, legs and arms. His optics were exotically slanted and his face was thin, long and aristocratically sharp and smooth. He had paused seeing that his 'guest' was awake, and spoke in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.

"Ah, you are awake. Good. I feared I might had hit too hard when I offlined you... How are you feeling?"

Even his voice sounded aristocratic and culturedl, and yet, this was a Barbarian Seeker! The Decepticons markings on his wings and the tribal markings on his faceplates were unmistakable! Yet he spoke in a concerned voice that could have belonged in the Golden Halls of Iacon! He sounded genuinely concerned and... there was an feral, dangerous undertone to his words too. Like some slumbering beast just ready to pounce at any time.

He walked over to him, carrying a small container make of recycled and reshaped metal, looking quite basic and handmade. Liquid was sloshing inside though, and the seeker knelt at the side of the berth to help the City Autobot sit up and held the container out to him.

"Here, drink this. It'll make the nausea go away. Its fresh Energon, believe me. From a natural underground source."

The liquid was indeed clear, pure and glowing blue and looked delicious, so fresh it sparkled. And very tempting to the parched medic, whom hit on the head must have made a bit pained.

White and red plating bristled, lifting up off the medic's frame in a subconscious attempt to make himself look bigger as he finally registerd the imposing figure in the, erm, doorway?

Not that Ratchet was all too concerned about vocabulary at the moment. As the other took a step inside a growl escaped the city mech and he brought his blades up; "Back off." His voice was hoarse and gruff. But despite his attempts to seem tough and unaffected, the medic's fear was overwhelmingly obvious as Ratchet's gaze kept darting around in a desperate attempt to find an escape or the way his plating jittered nervously.

The closer the blue mech got, the more stiff Ratchet became, until the medic swung his legs over the side of the berth; if he was going to be attacked or something, he wasn't going to sit here feebly like some coward! "Where are my friends?" He bites out, completely ignoring the others question as to his health.

How was he feeling?

Like a trapped animal, tense and afraid and ready to snap at this threat. He even bares his denta menacingly when the other /still/ approaches, despite the clear warnings to back off. Probably because the mech was smart enough to know Ratchet wasn't /actually/ going to do anything.

Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to slash the grin right off the mechs face. But he wasn't stupid. If he managed to kill this barbarian what would be waiting for him outside the tent? The rest of the tribe no doubt. What one mech planned to do to him would be much easier to navigate and defend himself from than rushing out of here and having a whole angry tribe after him.

So when the nomad touches him, Ratchet flinches away, but doesn't attack and even allows his blades to transform back into servos. He still keeps his distance though, plating slicked flat to keep it away from unwanted claws. And he optics the energon warily, mouth twisting into a grimace. "...Where are my friends?" he repeats, not taking the energon, servos clenching into fists in his lap. "Where am I?"

Thundercracker finally stop and, with a deep sigh, carefully put the container of energon on a nearby fat surface so it wouldn't be wasted. He then turns to face de medic and his red optics are narrowed to slits in his handsome face. The towering, slender Barbarian Decepticon looks very strong and powerful, as if he could break the smaller city bot with one hand and would certainly have no problems restraining him. But for now he doesn't and rather look at his captive with a flamme in his optics that looks both curious, hard and... hungry, maybe? WHile looking at him, whish s not very reassuring...

"You won't be harmed, Medic." He finally says, ignoring the question for now, and his arms cross over his chest in a irritated gesture. "We have a great need of your kind, and your capture will bring me great honor."

His statement in accompanied with a large fanged smile and red optics that burns brighter with pride and what could be seen as smugness, arrogance even. Even before the Plague, the Seekers were known to be highly prideful and arrogant creature looking down at the ground bound Cybertronian with disdain and sneer. The fact that they were the fastest, most agile and graceful flyers on the planet made this arrogance kind of well earned too. They were the masters of the sky and they knew it. When Vos became infected by the Plague after a meteor hit it directly, many of them flew from the air, the only place where Terrorcons wouldn't follow, and formed their own tribes. They rarely mingle with the ground bound Barbarians, and had their own Tribes, rules and social hierarchy, though sometimes they allied with ground tribes for raids and pillage of Caravans.

"Your friends had been left to fend for themselves, as is the law of the wild, Nedic! You will not concern youself with their fates, for you are mine and I stake a claim to you as my prized captive!"

The words were harsh and the optics locked on him even more so, smile still large but now the threat and dark promise in it was clear as day. There was another shuffle outside the door and the metalmesh flap of the tent was pushed aside so another seeker could walk inside. This one was dark purple and black, and looked younger and a bit smaller then his blue counterpart.

"Brother, our Winglord wants to talk to you." His optics darts briefly to the medic with a glint of interest and a disturbing smirk. "About your medic prisoner."

Thundercracker never let his optics leave the medic, staring him down hard and cold, threatening and hungry, in a disturbing way. He answer the smaller dark seeker with a feral hiss underlying his words, to make his point clear as crystals.

"You can tell Starscream that I will be there shortly. I have to secure the captive first!"

And the way he said 'captive' sounded like he meant a lot more then that. The seeker was looming over the medic's small form and his red optics were burning bright in his faceplates. The smaller seeker left with a nod and a last longing look to the red and white ground bound medic, leaving the two alone again.

"Makes no mistake, Medic. You are mine, and I will stake my claim on you. But first..." He takes the container of energon back and say firmly. "Drink."

A shudder ripples through the older mech; the kind of shudder one gets when they feel like they're being watched, but have no way to prove it. The way this seeker was staring at him...It made Ratchet's tanks twist themselves with dread. If there was any other way to pull himself further from the flier without tumbling off the edge of the berth, he would have.

"That's not very reassuring," he says blandly, glaring at the other from the corner of his optics. Again, he was trying to put up a tougher front than he felt, not wanting this mech to see him as completely weak. He knew the nomads thought of city mechs as useless and fragile and he didn't want the other to get any ideas that Ratchet would just accept...whatever this was, without some sort of fight. He might not be able to kill the seeker, but he'd make whatever the others goal was for him as difficult as possible.

And it wasn't like he believed the other wouldn't hurt him. Not with the disturbing way he was being stared at. Like some kind of prize, or pet. It made him bristle. And then he actually does bristle as the other continues, Ratchet's blue optics going wide as he stares at the other in horrified shock.

'Stake a claim'? What in the frag does that mean?! Before he can demand further answers though, the tentflap rustles and another seeker comes in. Finally, Ratchet has enough and practically throws himself off the side of the berth to get away from the blue mechs imposing presence and bares his denta defiantly at both mecha. "And, what?" he finally spits, "you think I will willingly lend you my services? Get smelted." What were they going to do, toss him in some medical tent and expect he'd actually want to help them? How did they think they were going to force his cooperation in such delicate matters?

Once the other seeker leaves, Ratchet stares down the blue one, helm tipped up defiantly; arrogantly. With reflexes one might not expect from a bot so old and clunky, he snatches the cube of energon from the bigger mech and retreats again, staying well out of the others striking distance. Ratchet's not an idiot, and with his earlier dread building in his tank he understands with perfect clarity what /this/ mech, in particular, expects from him.

Although he'd woken up rather hungry, all trace of that is gone and is instead replaced with a sudden urge to throw up. He even considers tossing the energon at the mechs face, but 1.) it'd be a waste and 2.) he was in no position to make the other angry. Even still he doesn't drink, just holds onto the cup tightly. "Stick your spike anywhere near me and I'll rip it off," he finally growls. His earlier observation still stands; he knew he couldn't kill this mech. Not with others outside and expecting his presence. But Ratchet wasn't going to just allow himself to be raped, or be treated like a piece or scrap. Like a prize to be won, rather than as a mech.

At this point, the seeker seemed to lose patience and took a few threatening steps towards his captive. He was a towering monster of a mech with large dangerous fangs, claws that could tear into the hardest metal, and fierce yet dangerously intelligent optics that locked on their 'prey' with disturbing intensity and focus. In two quick steps he was on the smaller mech and grabbed him by the throat, but not too hard, just threatening and poking the metal skin with sharp claw tips. He lifted him slightly and locked burning red gaze on him, a low hiss escaping his vocalizer.

"You are my prize, Autobot! I will stake my claim on you before another try to steal you away!" He snarled in his faceplates and seemed a lot more threatening all of a sudden.

Seekers were thought to have stronger feral instincts then the usual Decepticon, and acted almost animal-like on occasion. Like now, as the seeker was puffing and flaring his plating to appear larger and more intimidating, hissing low and threatening, a subsonic growl emanating from his engines. That close, he could see the cruisscross of scars and botched repairs littering the frame, that repair nanites had been able to take care of. One large clawed servo pressed to his groin and cupped the panel there very possessively, making his intentions clear as day.

"You are MINE! I will not let Starscream, or any other, steal you away! Mine! And you WILL submit, Autobot weakling!"

The servo on his throat tightened a little bit and he was pressed hard against the wall behind him, the large frame of the seeker trapping him there, anuble to move much. And claws were digging in the seams of his panel and looking for the release switch to open it manually...

Without thinking, Ratchet tosses the energon at the blue mech, anyway, and allows one servo to transform back into a blade. The seeker is fast, faster than Ratchet's reflexes, and the medic hisses as he's grabbed by the throat. But he doesn't give up, give in, and jabs his blade upwards, into the underside of the glass of the mechs cockpit. He doesn't pierce the armor there, knowing quite well that the mechs spark casing should be just behind the glass, but the threat was still there. All he needed to do was add enough force and he'd pierce dangerously close to the mechs life force.

This close the seeker could also see the minute details of his victims face; the lines around Ratchet's mouth and optics, indicatng his older age. And the spark of defiance, and hate, that burned his optics an icy, piercing blue.

"So much for not hurting me," he rasps mockingly, lips peeled back in disgust and he digs the tip of his blade further into the others armor. "I know your tribe is out there," he says, eerily calm, "So killing you would be incredibly disasterous to my health. But I have no intention of meekly allowing you to rape me-" his vents hitch when the feels the others claws grope his panel, and he ruthlessly presses his legs closed, trapping the servo there, knowing what the other was searching for. Ratchet's expression darkens and he jerks his arm down, letting the blade cut down the seekers abdomen- slicing through the top layer of armor- to rest the point of the blade over his panels, "Mutilating your groin won't kill you, though."

"I don't know what sick kind of culture you've got out here, but Im a mech not a possession!" He hisses, "And I'll just as happily stab your stupid tribesmembers who think they can touch me without my consent!" He also knows that he has no way to survive on his own. He can't kill this mech, he also needs more time to plan an escape, needs to figure out where he is and how to get home without starving or being killed by terrorcons. So he pokes harder into the others groin with his blade, twisting it, "You want me to, I can pretend you fragged me. But Im not going to let you just do it."

Thundercracker freeze when he feels the sharp pain of the blade so close to his spark and his hand tightens minutely around the medic's throat in reaction, but not enough to hurt... yet. His red optics narrows and they are locked in a staring match with Ratchet's blade pressing down on his panel threatening to wreck his interface equipment, and his own claws threatening to tear the mech's throat cabling with a twitch.

And it last for some times, the seeker unflinching, red optics unblinking and fierce, and then, after a moment, a very long and tense moment, he burst out laughing and release his hold on Ratchet, taking a step back to give him some breathing space. His optics are stioll oddly cold and calculating, but are also twinkling with amusement and... is it pride there as well? For the medic, no less? There seem to be. Thundercracker doesn,t seem to mind the shallow cut along his abdomen and the glass of his cockpit that is slightly cracker along the path of the weapon.

"You are a worthy prize indeed! I chose well!" He said with a large grin and add, mirthful. "I will claim you... eventually. But not until you beg me for it, and believe me, you will! I will not force you again. You have my word."

He wipes the energon that still covers his faceplates with a cloth he took out of subspace and then, seriousness returning to his expression and stature, points towards the entrance of the tent.

"Starscream and the others will be waiting to see you and acknowledge my claim to you. You do not have to pretend. Making a claim doesn't automatically means fragging. I will fight anyone who would try to take you away."

He took the medic's arm, and pulled him along out of the tent. Outside, the setting sun was bathing everything in reddish hues and he could see that they were settled on a high plateau surrounded by mountains. Maybe a dozen more tents were scattered about, with the largest one being in the middle and guarded by two large seekers with energon axes. The smells, sounds and bustling activities of a lively, strong community could be heard and the screams and giggles of two very young sparklings could be heard from within the largest tents.

Ratchet remains unblinking, unflinching as the pair have a battle of wills. Ratchet isn't afraid to die; he doesnt /want/ to, hence his hesitance to cause a true disruption, but if dying meant keeping his dignity then so be it. It wasn't as if it were all pride, either. This mech was huge, and powerful. Any forced...intimacy between them would be painful, and damaging. So a quick death versus a life of such torment? He'd allow his throat to be torn out before he let that happen.

As soon as the other lets him go, Ratchet slides away, using the space between them to get his back off the wall so as not to be cornered again. He keeps his blade out for a moment, opticking the barbarian warily. He can't help the sneer that passes across his face that the others words though; 'I will never want you,' he thinks to himself dismissively. How can the other feel so confident about that? /Why/ would he ever think Ratchet would want him, after the threat he'd just inflicted upon the older mech?

Nor does Ratchet trust his promise to not try and force him again. His promise to not hurt him had been rather flimsy as well; or did the seeker think he would have enjoyed having his panel forced open, and all that would have come after?

But he chooses not to say anything, too wary and afraid of inciting another outburst of anger from the other mech. Push came to shove, he'd kill the other but that would be signing his own death sentence and as he'd said, he wasn't quite ready to die yet. So he just grunts and allows his blade to transform away once again. He cups his servos in front of himself, his digits lacing together in a feeble attempt to steady their shaking.

'If you don't need to frag to claim someone, why the earlier insistence?' He can't help but wonder, his expression clouding over angrily at that admission. 'Because he doesn't see you as a mech. Easiest way to claim an object is to break it first,' his processor spit poisonously inside his helm. He almost flinches again when the mech moves to grab him again, but this time Ratchet refrains himself, and resignedly allows the flier to lead him outside the tent. If nothing else, this is Ratchet's opportunity to get an idea of the camps layout and to see how big it is.

When they exit though, he takes a sharp invent. Just where the frag are they?!

-TBC-