Title: Chamber Play
Chapter: 1/15
Continuity: G1
Warnings: crack, dark, comedy, angst
Characters: Blades, Onslaught, Blast Off
Rating: whole fic: R; this chapter PG
Summary: Blades gets taken prisoner by the Decepticons. But not all on the Nemesis is as he expected, and he ends up stuck with someone he could live without.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing.
Beta: ultharkitty
Note: I had that idea 2010 or something, and finally was able to write it. It's written for Onyx17 on LJ. :)
About the title: a chamber play is play of usually three acts which can be performed with a small cast and practically no sets or costumes in a small space.
Onslaught tugged on the chains attached to Blades' wrists, and almost caused him to stumble. Great. The last thing the Autobot wanted was to fall flat on his face when all the Decepticons were watching.
Not that many Decepticons were in the hallways of the Nemesis just then, but it was a matter of principle.
An annoyed huff puffed from Blades' vents, and Onslaught tilted his head slightly, his visor gleaming for an astrosecond. But the Combaticon leader kept quiet.
Wordlessly, he opened a door, signalling Blades to enter a dark room.
The Autobot's processor clocked fast, calculating potential escape plans, and the chance to get away at the moment Onslaught was distracted. But even though Blades was known to be reckless, he wasn't stupid enough to try any of this.
Instead, he reluctantly stepped in the room, and was surprised.
It seemed occupied. At the middle of the opposite wall was a berth, next to it a desk with a few datapads. A bit further down from it, at the wall next to the door, there was something resembling the sofa the Protectobots had in their rec-room.
"Get in!" Onslaught growled. And Blades winced, much to his dismay.
Having stepped in further and made room for Onslaught, the Decepticon closed and locked the door.
"Sit down there." Another growl when Onslaught pointed at the couch. This show of authority grated on Blades, and he'd love to have snapped something back. He resisted, knowing it was for the better, and sat down. He glared at the Combaticon, trying to hide his discomfort.
He was in private quarters, that much was obvious, with a Decepticon and a locked door. His jaw clenched as denta ground and his fingers flexed nervously - a habit he could never quite suppress.
Contrary to Blades' expectations, the Combaticon only touched him when he attached another chain to his feet. Then he fastened the chain to something at the corner of the wall, and activated the energon stream in it. It tickled on Blades' ankle, but the sensation faded soon.
"Don't pull too much on it, or you'll get shocked," Onslaught said on his way out.
The door slid shut, leaving Blades alone in the foreign, dark room. The glow of his optics and the brief flickers of energon of the restraint were the only light source. The gloomy atmosphere made him uncomfortable, and his mind wandered.
Pulling at the chain once, a surge of pain travelled up his leg. It was like spilled acid on his plating. Blades leant over the armrest of the couch, looking at the fastened chain. Little sparks of electricity rushed over the mechanism on the wall. It didn't appear as though it would be easy to loosen.
He sat up straight again, and waited, glancing around warily.
It didn't look like Soundwave's quarters. Blades doubted the weird Decepticon communications officer had a room with tools on the desk, and some device he hadn't seen before. There were also datapads on the night stand, and an empty energon cube.
Blades frowned, and hoped it wasn't Vortex' room. His rotors gave another twitch. Chained to the wall in a dark, the Protectobot couldn't imagine a worse place to meet the psycho 'copter.
The soft covering of the sofa rustled as he shifted slightly. The sound was noisy in the quiet room. At least the hum of the Nemesis' systems was familiar. If Blades offlined his optics, he could imagine he was in the Ark.
The door opened.
"Lights," a blank voice said, causing Blades' optics to switch on again.
It wasn't the Combaticon heliformer entering the room. It was the shuttle. A bulk of brown, purple and black metal, and all Blades knew about him was the frightening change between size of root and alt-mode and the destructive cannons.
He wasn't sure if he'd rather have been in Vortex' quarters.
The shuttle didn't seem to have noticed Blades yet. He went to the computer console to Blades' left, and turned it on, typing something on it before he deactivated it again. Then he sat down on the berth. The shuttle's hand was huge; he rubbed his neck as he glanced around.
Blades' systems stopped working for the fraction of the astrosecond when it was clear the shuttle saw him.
Like the heliformer, the Combaticon froze.
"Uh," Blades raised a hand, the chain on his wrist rattled. "Hi?"
The shuttle just stared. His parted visor looked as though it was about to pierce through Blades' head.
Without a word, the shuttle got abruptly up, and left the room.
"Okay," the Protectobot uttered, raising his optical ridges.
He shuffled back on the couch and leant against the backrest, pulling his feet up. The waiting grated on him, but at least there was light now.
The kliks ticked by, then the breems. Two and a half to be precise, before the door opened once more.
Heavy steps of the heavy mech entering made Blades' fuel pump stop for a moment. The purple visor was bright, but Blades couldn't see the optics beneath. Neither could he tell from the stance of the shuttle if he was angry. Only the engine revving to a low, deep rumble indicated that the mech wasn't pleased.
For the moment, Blades was glad he wasn't part of his gestalt.
"You won't touch anything," the Combaticon said. "You will not talk unless it's necessary, and you will remain on that couch. If you dare wander around, I'll weld you to the wall. Do you understand?"
Taken aback, Blades nodded.
The Combaticon huffed, and turned. Next to the berth, he tapped against a plate on the wall, and then pushed. It got loose, revealing cables, and a stack of energon cubes.
"Vector Sigma," he muttered almost unintelligibly.
It was obvious that something happened that Blades should be aware of. Only that he wasn't and he had no idea what was going on. Wasn't he going to be interrogated?
"So," he began carefully, "what happens now?"
"What did I tell you about the talking?"
Wow, Blades winced, the shuttle really was moody. "I, uh, I know, but seriously. Are you gonna torture me? It'd be nice to know, you know, to prepare myself mentally and stuff."
Even with the battle mask withdrawn, the other's bare face plates didn't give much away. Only his voice hinted at disgust. "Why do you think that? I'm not Vortex, for pit's sake."
"Uh, okay then." Blades shrugged. He fanned both his rotor blades up and pressed his back harder against the back of the couch. "What happens then?"
Another huff, a sound that so brief, but the most expressive mannerism of this mech so far. It almost sounded like an insult. "You stay there." He sipped from his drink. "And I stay here. Got that?"
"No, not really." What the frag was going on? The Protectobot felt like he was trapped in some weird human comedy movie. "Why am I here? Shouldn't I be in a brig or bleak, dark chamber, or something?" He actually would rather be there than chained at the wall in a Decepticon's quarters, let alone in a Combaticon's quarters, for frag's sake.
"Yes, you should. But the brig is flooded."
It was spoken so blankly and in a matter of fact way, for a moment Blades didn't know if it was supposed to be a joke. But this mech didn't look as though he was fond of jokes.
"Flooded?"
"Yes. Do I need to repeat everything I say? Flooded. By salt water, if I need to clarify that. Because we're on the bottom of an ocean," the shuttle said, the voice dripping with condescension that Blades would have loved to snap something back.
"And… you don't have other rooms to lock me in than yours?" The Nemesis hadn't looked that small to Blades.
Now, the mech sighed. It sounded tired, exhausted even, but also annoyed. "There are. But you're our responsibility, since it was Brawl and Vortex who caught you."
Blades shuddered at the words. He did remember all too well.
"And now," the shuttle continued. "Megatron forbade us to use any other rooms but ours, because we knew the brig was unusable, and you and your gestalt destroyed our HQ. So we are forced to live in this sunken wreck until the repairs are done. If you see it like that, it's your own fault."
The mech seemed actually pretty angry about the destruction of their base, and that had to mean something if he didn't usually show anything much at all.
"Well, I didn't get myself captured on purpose," Blades countered.
"And I'm not the only reasonable mech in my team on purpose. So, since we both don't like the situation, let's pretend you're not there which includes you being quiet." The shuttle emptied his cube, and lay down. "Lights out."
The room became dark once again.
The heavy mech on the berth shifted a few times, then the silence crawled over Blades.
This was awkward, and ridiculous, and unbelievable, but mostly horrible. He missed his team, and now that he tried to reach out to them, he couldn't. They had put a device on him, under his plating, and it didn't only jam his communication equipment, but also dampened the gestalt bond.
Blades glanced next to him at the empty space on the sofa. He didn't feel like recharging.
He was lonely, and that with another mech in the room. Trying to recall whatever information he had on the Combaticon, Blades realised he didn't know much. Until now, the shuttle hadn't really mattered unless he charged his cannons, which hadn't happened often so far.
Maybe this was a trap, and they just expected him to fall asleep, only to catch him by surprise.
Blades' intakes started hitching, he couldn't stop them. He leaned his head on his knees.
He wouldn't recharge all night. He was determined.
His blue optics staring at the motionless shadow on the berth, Blades waited.
He didn't even know the shuttle's name.
Blades stirred.
Someone shook his shoulder, and an unfamiliar engine rumbled close to him.
His optics flickered twice before his systems calibrated the visual sensors and he saw dark plating. Legs, with a brown paintjob, his logic circuits reasoned, and it didn't match any mech he knew.
His battle programming activated. Optics sharpened; their input slowed as more pictures per astrosecond were processed. Blades' joints tensed, and he was about to reach for his gun. Mid-movement he stopped when he noticed the restraints around his wrists, and that was when his memory banks caught up with him.
He'd been captured, was held prisoner on the Nemesis, locked in the private quarters of a weapon of mass destruction.
Blades looked up, optics widened, and expecting the worst to happen, but the shuttle merely held out an energon cube.
His face was covered by his battle mask, and his posture gave nothing away of what he might think of Blades' reaction.
"You're going to take that now, or do I need to forcefully feed you?" The Combaticon's voice was flat, but unimpressed, almost displeased. "I rather prefer you choose option one, because I'm not keen on the latter."
With a brief nod, Blades took the cube out of the large hand, but didn't drink.
The shuttle huffed, and turned, going to the berthside table and rummaging through the datapads.
It gave Blades the time to assess his situation, but just like the night before, he couldn't make much sense of it. Least of all of the energon ration, the quarter cube that he held. Blades shifted into a more comfortable position. He'd slid half down the back rest when he'd gone into recharge. He'd tried to avoid it, but the exhaustion had claimed him eventually without his intent.
Eyeing the energon, then eyeing the Decepticon, Blades pondered on drinking. He needed to, but he was suspicious of the generosity. It could be poisoned, with additives in whose effect he could only guess.
He needed to find out if the energon was safe to drink, but he had no idea how.
Blades uttered the first thing that came to his mind. "Thank you."
The shuttle looked up. "Don't thank me," he said; Blades thought he almost sounded like a drone with his way of speaking. "I'm only following orders. I didn't give you the cube to stare at it."
"I'm just wondering why you give me energon in the first place. Or are ordered to give me energon." Yes, Blades was almost proud of himself that he managed to subtly ask about the fuel, and that so shortly after waking up. "Do you treat all the prisoners like that?"
The shuttle shrugged. "Usually, the Decepticons avoid taking prisoners."
Blades tensed.
"But we're Combaticons," the shuttle continued. "And I don't know why Onslaught feeds you. Now drink, before I lose my patience."
That wasn't the answer Blades wanted. He sniffed, carefully, trying to smell if something was off. The fumes tickled his olfactory sensors, and made his tanks ache. Not as reluctantly as he should have, he sipped. The energon was just like at home.
It was gone in six gulps.
Leaning back, his feet still on the couch, Blades kept hold of the cube. He expected something to happen, like an effect that normal energon wouldn't cause, but two breems passed without anything changing.
Even the shuttle had barely moved in that time, only reading from a datapad while still sitting on the side of the berth.
It was quiet. Too quiet for Blades who wasn't used to sitting still for that long if First Aid wasn't in the room and snapped at him during repairs. Then at least he'd always been able to talk, to prod the gestalt bond, or make First Aid be startled or flustered.
Now, he could only sit there. Maybe he was supposed to do something and no one told him? The Autobots had never programmed any knowledge or taught them how to behave in captivity. Was Decepticon culture really that different?
"Uhm, you… there," Blades still didn't remember the shuttle's name. "Are you going to do something?"
Large intakes vented an annoyed huff. This time, the Combaticon didn't look up. "We had this topic just yesterday. No, I will not torture you, nor is my intent to beat you or harm you in any other way you're going to ask. And now be quiet."
"So, I'm not like your pet or something? And have to clean your room and such?" Blades wouldn't mind not having to clean anything. He didn't particularly like cleaning.
The shuttle raised his head. "Do you think my quarters are dirty?"
This was not the reaction Blades had anticipated. "I, well, no. But-"
"No buts-" Blades was interrupted, the other's flat voice morphing into a stern growl. "Just sit there. Be quiet. It's not my habit to utter idle threats. I have an arc-welder here, don't tempt me to use it."
Blades slumped. At least he didn't need to scrub the floor, but this didn't stop the ache of missing his team, and wanting to escape this awkward situation.
He wrapped his arms around his legs; his rotor blades bobbed now and then. He was unable to stop it. They always moved somehow when he felt unwell.
"I'm Blades," he tried again after another breem. "I don't know your name."
"Vector Sigma." The first reaction was an exaggerated, prolonged sigh. "Will you stay quiet if I tell you my name?" The shuttle glanced back at him over his shoulder, the visor gleaming in what probably was irritation.
"I will?" Blades wasn't sure he'd be able to keep quiet, but it was better to agree. Then he could at least stop thinking of the mech as only 'the shuttle'.
"Fine. I'm Blast Off. Don't expect any pleasantries like 'I'm happy to meet you', because I'm not."
The heliformer nodded once again, and thought to himself, neither am I.
