Warnings: Torture
Summary: SG. There's a reason why you never trust an Autobot. Especially the crazy ones.
Disclaimer: Transformers is property of Hasbro.
The room wasn't very large. And it wasn't very impressive either, with mildew growing in the dark corners and stains of bright pink still faintly visible on the faded metal. Then again, one didn't need much to interrogate a prisoner. Just a few strong chains and lots of creativity.
"Le's try this again." The thrum of electical currents filled the small space. "Tha code."
Another shake of the head, though slower than last time. Immediately, it was thrown back as the attatched, chained frame convulsed with shock after shock of electricity.
"An' now?"
The steaming mech said nothing, only glaring at his tormentor.
"Tsk." The visored mech drew the hanging prisoner down to eye level. "Let meh tell ya somethin', ya tool. J's gettin' impatient, an' this stopped bein' fun hours ago. So Ah'll give ya one last chance 'fore I have ta get creative," he snarled, "What. Is. Tha code?"
Blue optics glared and the bound mech growled back, voice static-laced, "Do your worst, Auto-creep."
The Autobot smiled in response, previous irritation suddenly gone. Ah, such bravado. "Nah, J's takin' a break. Figured if y'all ain't inclined ta tell me, then maybe you'll wanna tell our medic.
The chained Decepticon froze. Not...
The door behind the interrogator slid open. A white and green Autobot stepped in, a grin on his face plates and a tune in his vocalizer with his assistant trailing after him with a cart of medical supplies. Ratchet, the Autobots' infamous 'medic'.
"Jazz!" the medic greeted, smiling, "So glad you invited me and First Aid to your little session. You're looking a little thin this orn. Perhaps later, you'd like to stop by the med bay and I could-"
"Back off, tool," Jazz snapped, "Ya patient's over there."
The medic's brief disappointment at Jazz's rejection disappeared behind an excited smile directed towards the Decepticon prisoner. "Ah, yes, our patient. First Aid?"
The Protectobot wheeled the cart next to his mentor as he poked and prodded at the Decepticon. "My, you did quite a number on him, Jazz. But it's nothing I can't fix."
Jazz folded his arms in an attempt at non-chalance. "Whatever. Just comm. me when ya done, tool." The mech made his exit, the door sliding shut behind his retreating form. Even he didn't want to see the Hatchet at work.
Ratchet turned to his medical cart as the prisoner began to speak. "Please," he muttered, "I don't want-"
"Shh-sh!" Ratchet interrupted, servos hovering over his various medical supplies, "No need to worry, this should only hurt just a pinch. Well, definitely more than a pinch, but what's a little pain compared to the tremendous amount of gain! You'll be the envy of the Decepticon regime!"
"I don't want to be," he whimpered.
"Oh pshh," the medic replied dismissively, "Of course you do! But now that I've had a good look at you, perhaps the new arm isn't the way to go. You're arms are quite lovely the way they are. Oh, but you're pedes are horrendous, so utterly block-like and bland. We need to spice things up a little."
As the Autobot medic began to rummage around one the lower shelves, the Decepticon's optics grew wide with horror as he saw a rusted hook poking out. He caught the flash of a red visor in the corner of his optic. The medic-in-training was staring at the Decepticon with what seemed like pity. It was difficult to tell with that visor and mask over his face plates...
Regardless, he latched with the desperation of a damned mech. Which he was.
"Please," he whispered, "Don't let him do this."
First Aid's optics band seemed to stutter in hesitation for a moment before he took a step closer. "I think I can stop him. Call back Jazz before Ratchet starts..."
"But?"
"Jazz won't come back until he verifies the code," he murmured, glancing toward the medic as he babbled away about reprogramming neural nets for enhanced calibration, "And by then, it might be too late."
The Decepticon hesitated, weighing his options, glancing from the smaller mech to the 'medic'.
"Ah-ha!" Ratchet finally straightened, holding a pair of detached servos, a bit rusted at the joints. "These should make excellent replacements for those drab pedes."
Optics brightening in terror, he looked back to First Aid. "Promise me you'll call him. Swear it."
"On my honour as a medic," he assured the desperate mech.
The prisoner nodded. "Epsilon 384BDK theta."
As soon as the last syllable left his vocalizer, a cold, seeping feeling began to slide down his back. He shivered at the sensation.
"Wh-what're you-ngh!" He flinched as he felt surgical needles being jerked out from the back of his neck.
"Just making sure you don't squirm too much during your surgery," First Aid said cheerily, transforming out a medical slab from the cart while Ratchet sharpened his tools. "But don't worry, the pain won't be dulled any. We'll still get to hear every one of your delightful screams."
"But you promised-"
"That I'd call Jazz, and I will!" First Aid reassured the unchained the Decepticon and laid him down on the slab, "Just as soon as Ratchet's done with his lesson. Shouldn't take too long. Ratchet?"
Ratchet beamed at his apprentice. "Thank you, First Aid. And well done, A-plus on intelligence gathering, not I'd know anything about that. Still, I see what you did there, the whole, what's it called? 'Good cop, bad cop' routine. Only, here there are no 'cops'."
Ratchet grinned. "No, only a pair of medics, sharing upgrades to the fellow Cybertronian!"
First Aid glowed with pride at his mentor's praise while Ratchet turned back to his patient, laser scalpel poised. "Now, let's begin the lesson. Watch carefully, 'Aid." Ratchet leaned down, optics gleaming in excitement. "This might get a little messy."
There's a reason why you never trust an Autobot. Especially the crazy ones.
Then again, the Decepticon thought, weren't they all?
His screams resounding through the base spoke volumes.
A/N: Thanks for reading! And I really appreciate reviews-good or bad.