Author's Note: This fic is not for the light hearted few who wish to see happiness. Serious themes here include violence, adult themes, coarse language, and character death. The characters will not all survive. Most of the survivors will not survive completely. People will die, people are dead, and there is no returning from the grave. War is a harsh thing, and defeat at the hands of sadists is even worse. (Please note: unless otherwise stated, the Decepticons and Autobots speak to each other in Cybertronian. Decepticons will rarely, use English to communicate - even with humans.)

Disclaimer: All characters are 18+ and are fictional. Please do not continue if you cannot handle female sexuality, death, semi-graphic depictions of violence, and sexual abuse/harassment. Transformers is (c) Hasbro.

Cities of the Future
Chapter I

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
-Shakespeare

Maggie knows who she is. She knows her name, her (dead) phone number, her (old) address, and even her (obsolete) social security number.

But lying here on the cool, impartial metal flooring of Lord Megatron's grand castle, she wonders if that even matters anymore. Phones do not work. Her home has long since turned to dust. Social security does nothing, when there is no government to uphold it. And her name...

Her name means nothing to this crowd.

She knows, sliding hands seductively over her flat belly to ripped up, indecently short shorts, that organics are not pleasant things for her audience. They do not appreciate hair or skin or sinew – they prefer cold steel and gears and computers. No, she knows that sliding her hands all over herself does nothing for them – not like it would to another human. She takes great pains to stay quiet and meek and simple-minded, because that is what they want; she spreads her legs and works her shorts and leggings down her thighs because that is what they want; she blushes furiously even as she openly pleasures herself in front of them because that is what they want.

It isn't the organic masturbation that gets the Decepticons off; it's the humiliation she suffers through each and every time she does it in front of them. They love to watch others be tortured, mentally or physically. In the end, this is just a show – the real anguish starts later, when one of them carries her exhausted body back to her "room" and toys with her in private. Her lips even have tiny scars, one or two stretching beyond pink flesh, from Barricade's razor sharp fingers – which can be highly sensitive, as she's found.

She listens to catcalls and deeply vocalized chuckling, feeling red optics glued to every arch of her hips and every hot tear that manages to blink out of her eyes. Lord Megatron is reigning over this particular show, lounging before her with optics promising something sinful and wretched, if he were to get her alone. Thankfully, he always offers her first to his most loyal subjects – and now Maggie wonders when she became thankful that she is offered to the likes of Blackout and Barricade.

She is even more exhausted than normal tonight – she had stayed up late, "entertaining" Barricade – and when she lies slumped on the floor, breasts heaving and body numb from the cool floor and burning heat in her stomach, she hears Lord Megatron's deep voice call out.

They speak in clicks and whirrs, electronic noises she could never hope to translate, but she does know what he's asking. She's known ever since she first heard the phrase. Roughly translated, she assumes it means, "Who shall play with the toy tonight?"

Mingled fear and relief sweep through her as she hears deep, harsh growls respond to Lord Megatron's question. Bonecrusher is only ideal because he requires no energy from her – he simply tosses her around a little, preferring bruising to making her reach in sharp crevasses and bring him to what they termed "overload" once for her.

The Deception's massive hand scoops her up at Megatron's amused affirmative, and she lets herself be dangled like Ann Darrow in King Kong's fist. The ground is so far below that even shifting to relieve the pain of sharp metal on her back is a bad idea – Bonecrusher can easily drop her if she annoys him.

The walk back to her "room" is long and silent, with only small mutters escaping the giant Decepticon. Maggie allows herself to be completely at his mercy – there isn't much else for her to do.

The door is massive and her "room" is almost large enough to fit even Lord Megatron, but she hesitates to give it such a personal term. This isn't a room made for her – it is a cell that the Decepticons have slowly adjusted for her and, in turn, them. There is a shower and a drain that dumps used water and biological waste into what was once the Atlantic Ocean, with no curtain or tile – just cold metal and a bar to cling to in order to prevent slipping. Her "bed" is little more than a block of metal – the bottom half of a smaller-sized stasis berth – layered with thick blankets that have been stolen from wrecked homes and dead families. The only whole ones are the top two – one serving as a sheet, and the other serving its designated purpose. There are plenty of pillows – all from the same homes as the blankets – but none of them are there for her, really. It is all a show.

The entire room, right down to dimly-lit electric lights and the inconspicuous laptop charging in the corner – everything is just there to make her look more appealing. An organic outside of organic culture looks awkward and alone; put them in their own habitat and soon you start to notice their subtleties.

So says Starscream.

Bonecrusher kneels down, thick knees on either side of the berth, and drops her onto the soft blankets. She stretches even as she lands, back arching and head tilted to gaze at the huge Decepticon above her. He watches her back, silent and calculating but so unlike his smaller companions, who will never hesitate to let her know exactly what she has to do. He rarely even talks around her – and never in English.

It therefore comes as a complete surprise when his voice processor grinds out something harsh and gravelly and yet understandable.

"Humiliated? Yes, no."

Maggie stares at Bonecrusher, biting her lip too harshly, and then sighs, nodding her head a little. "Yes."

"Good."

One gigantic hand comes down towards her and she flinches reflexively, before realizing that his long finger is only hovering over her.

"Barricade gave organic scars. Yes, no."

"...Yes."

He grunts in what she thinks might be annoyance, and then states, "Organic is good for Decepticon morale. Lord Megatron is pleased. Organic has spent time with Lord Megatron. Yes, no."

"No!"

Her voice cracks and she forces back her fear, lounging on the blankets and pillows of dead families. Bonecrusher contemplates her, finger tapping against her collarbone lightly, barely even registering.

"Organic does not wish to be Lord Megatron's personal pet. Prefers multiple owners. Yes, no."

"I – no. Yes. I don't know!" Maggie exclaims, biting her lip again. "I don't – I don't want to be here."

"Organic has no choice. Question repeats."

"...I don't want to ever be this close to Lord Megatron."

Silence.

"...How – easily organic calls him Lord. Been here long enough. Organic prefers Barricade to Bonecrusher. Yes, no."

Maggie frowns and stares around the room for a long moment. "...The choice you've given me is between sexual or physical torture."

"...Which do – you prefer?"

The pronoun surprises Maggie even more than the fact that he's speaking English, and she turns to stare at him again.

"...Does it matter? I don't have a choice."

"I am giving you a choice."

She can't even begin to answer him honestly, but given the choice at gunpoint, this very moment...

"...You."

Bonecrusher's body hums a little and he sits back, crouching at the foot of her berth like a persistent shadow.

"Sleep, organic. Long days ahead."

She nods her head and shifts under thick blankets, curling up and staring at the still form over her.

"Are you staying?"

"For the moment. Company is you or Starscream." Bonecrusher doesn't make a face, but the dislike is evident in his tone. She wonders if any of the Decepticons like Lord Megatron's second in command.

That is how Maggie's 715th day under the Decepticons ends – her, huddled in a dead man's blanket, with the looming shadows of Bonecrusher hanging over her head.

Her dreams have become utterly devastating.

Ironhide rocks on battered hydraulics and attempts to sooth the quietly crying Annabelle without waking her mother, sleeping in his backseat. Both of his girls wake up screaming most of the time; Sarah manages to reign it in quickly enough but Annabelle is too young to realize that noise that loud and human is just as dangerous as her dreams.

His tires, tread worn and air seeping out slowly with every long drive, complain against the pavement but he's long since shut down his sensors. Feeling is for peacetime, and he's not sure if that will ever come. Ratchet has tried to reassure him occasionally, but the old medic is starting to run out of optimism.

Annabelle's cries slowly soften into sniffles and Ironhide settles back down, spreading scanners out to their limit to make sure her shrieking hasn't drawn any unwanted attention. It wouldn't do for him to attract Decepticons – not with Sarah and the child with him.

It's only moments later when Sarah herself jerks awake, crying out, "Will!" before falling silent and checking the immediate surroundings for any movement.

"I told you not to let me fall asleep, Ironhide."

The old Autobot's sensors pick up something in the distance, but it's a friendly signal so he relaxes. Probably his replacement for duty, so that he might get a few cycles in a stasis berth.

"You cannot go long without sleep, Sarah," Ironhide says after a moment, "Humans can only go approximately seventy-two hours before they start to hallucinate, and we need you as alert as the rest of us."

"Hardly alert when I'm snoring in your backseat," the woman grumbles, sitting up and leaning forward to pick Annabelle out of the front seat. "Did she wake up much earlier?"

"Hardly even klick. Looks like our replacement's showing up – you can get more than a few breems soon."

"...Was I really only asleep for that long? It feels like ages."

Ironhide doesn't respond, because he knows why her sleep seems so much longer to her than it really is. Nightmares can drag out even the shortest sleep cycles – or so he's been told. He suspects that when all you see behind your eyelids is your home and life be blown up in one glorious orange blast, your sleep can last forever.

Static interlaced with deep bass and guitars echoes in Ironhide's audio receptors and he sighs, shifting on his tires in annoyance. "Slag it, I continuously tell him not to broadcast his whereabouts and he never listens!"

"I don't think he cares, Ironhide," Sarah says quietly, rocking Annabelle gently into sleep. "He doesn't have to anymore."

"Of course he does – perimeter guard is the most important duty and-"

Dust flies as tires skid across the desert, clearing only when the rumble of the other's engine subsides into a dull hum. The dingy yellow paint, chipped and scraped in many places, is the only thing that Ironhide can use to determine that the newcomer is, indeed, Bumblebee.

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry, Ironhide," Sam says as he climbs out of the Autobot, who shifts and clanks into his equally chipped, dinged, and bent bipedal form. "My fault. The foot was acting up again; Ratch had to double-check Wheeljack's calculations. We're here now, though."

Sarah pushes Ironhide's passenger door open and he allows her to get out, cradling her child in one hand as she goes to embrace the other standing before her. "Only the foot?" she asks in concern, looking the boy over, "Why is it always the foot? You would think an arm would be harder to connect."

"I don't know, but I hate doing jigs." Silver glints as Sam raises his left arm to brush dust out of his hair, "Either way, Wheeljack just forgot to connect something after the last repair. It should be fine now."

"I should do something about his sloppy performance lately," Ironhide grumbles, earning a laugh from the boy.

"Aw, come on, 'Hide, he's got bigger things to worry about than a kid's cybernetic foot. I can always hobble around on the one organic one – Jazz is a little more in need of repairs."

Ironhide thinks of the improbability – impossibility – that Prime's second-in-command will ever function again, but shoves aside his pessimism. "Sarah, let's leave them to their job. You need at least a few cycles to rest before we can do anything productive."

The woman sighs but responds only by climbing back into the front seat; her temperature is slightly raised and so Ironhide adjusts his beaten up air conditioner, taking off towards the only entrance to Autobot headquarters.

Headquarters, Ironhide thinks to himself, feeling the ever-present pessimism swoop in, Hardly even enough space for the few of us there are.

"Ironhide..."

He wonders if he's spoken aloud, and responds cautiously with, "What is it?"

"...I'm starting to forget."

He should have seen this coming. Still, he has to force himself not to decelerate or accelerate, keeping his pace steady and voice level. "Forget...?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Sarah's foot taps nervously against his floor and her voice takes on an edge he hasn't heard in almost two years. "I can't remember what he sounded like... If he smoked. I can't remember what the last thing he said to me was – really said, not just shouting and screaming. Jesus, Ironhide, I can't even remember what color his eyes were!"

He refrains from speaking at first, choosing to monitor her increased blood pressure and heart rate instead. Then, he says slowly, "It is to be expected."

"I remember Optimus Prime more clearly than my own goddamned husband, Ironhide! And I spent only a few days with him!"

He can't hold back the sudden deceleration that comes with the memories floating in his processors. Primus, he thinks, forcing himself back to speed, I cannot miss him that much.

"Humans have sensitive and limited memory. You will forget these things. If this war goes on long enough, you will forget Optimus. If you were to die tomorrow, Annabelle would not remember your face in a year's time. It is simply how things are."

If this were two years ago, Sarah Lennox would have yelled at him. At the very least, she would have told him to stop being so blatant – humans do not appreciate grim statements and examples. Now, she simply sighs and leans back in the seat, cradling her daughter to her chest and humming in mild aggravation. She's learned that the Autobots will never lower their standards for the humans that live among them; the humans must simply rise to Autobot principles.

"You will eventually forget everything about that day," Ironhide adds quietly. "I am sorry, but-"

"Not everything." Sarah's voice is cold and hard and so unlike the woman he's grown attached to; she sounds like a warrior – like someone with nothing to lose. "I'll never forget who took him away from me."

He wonders if she blames Ratchet still, even though years have passed since the Autobot medic had failed to save her husband. It hadn't been possible at the time; Ratchet had not studied humans nearly enough to save them from so much damage. Sam had been attacked nearly a year later, after allowing himself to be studied by the medic – that is the only reason he was as well off as he is now.

"Ratchet did all he could at the-"

"It isn't Ratchet's fault," she mutters darkly. "I'll kill Blackout myself."

Ironhide should feel relief from her statement, but for some reason it just makes him more worried over his adopted human companion. She doesn't have the capabilities to take out the vicious Decepticon – he doesn't even know if he himself does.

They reach the small opening for the underground base – barely even big enough to go through, with a low clearance and absolutely no chance of backing out. His side-view mirrors nearly scrape against the metal interior, but his weight and signal trigger the elevator nonetheless.

They drop down through miles of bedrock, the slow droning of the lift the only noise, barely even drowning out the silence. It is in that silence that he hears Sarah let out a sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hears her hum some old Earth lullaby to her daughter.

The lift opens into the main bay and Ironhide immediately takes off for Sarah's room, dodging around the few humans who have stood up to Decepticon attacks and lived to tell about it. His scanners catch Ratchet out of the medbay but there's nothing Ironhide needs from him – nothing desperate, at least – so he continues down the hall, stopping only once he comes to one of the bunker rooms for the humans living in the Cybertronian base.

"Get some sleep, Sarah. You will feel better in the morning."

"Ironhide..."

The woman cuts herself off and climbs out of his cab, cradling the young child to her chest and looking over the dusty, scratched, scraped and dented metal; Ironhide forces himself not to shift uncomfortably, even as her eyes seem to pierce his armor better than Ratchet's sensors ever could.

"...Thank you, 'Hide," she finally sighs, leaning her forehead briefly against his frame. "Let me know when something comes up."

"I will," he responds, even though they both know he would rather die than interrupt her sleep, and she leaves him to idle in the hallway, wondering where to go next. He doesn't like that his purpose has been reduced to such a narrow field, but he has no choice.

Private communication lines flare to life as Ratchet calls out for him, and so he reverses and begins the short trek back to where he last saw the medic.

"What is it, Ratchet?"

Old and worn metal creaks as it shifts and Ironhide rises to his feet, looking across the bay at his friend. Ratchet looks up from his kneeling position, talking with a man who needs a new leg for his son – They're so fragile. Why do they fight in a war that they cannot win?

"...Ironhide, did you hear me?"

"Sorry. Repeat."

Ratchet stands now, face breaking out into the Cybertronian equivalent of a grin, and he says, "Jazz is awake."

Megatron stands in the dark pit – one of many dark pits, none of them particularly different from the other – and finds himself laughing. A full blown, deep laugh that rattles every gear and surely must knock something loose inside his processors; a laugh that he's not had in eons, if ever.

He walks through the pit, layers of scrap decorated with Autobot insignias and the bones of hundreds of thousands of humans only impeding his movement slightly. He's laughing even as he kicks the head of some Primus-forsaken Autobot to the side, remembering how so long ago that Autobot had sworn never to betray his side. They do not need to betray... They simply need to give up.

He finally reaches the farthest edge of the pit and finds himself kneeling down to better view his guest, who is half-functioning, almost permanently locked down, reduced to bare processors and raw data intake.

"Oh, Optimus."

Megatron's guest makes a noise – more like gears grinding together than anything – and almost shifts.

"You think I will take my time with you?" he asks, face contorting into a horrible smile, "You think I will make this easier for you than my dear comrades?"

He finds himself running claws down metal scraped nearly clean of red and blue paint, red optics following their path.

"You call for me over broken lines and do you realize what that means?"

He laughs again at the slight shifting his guest manages, one long claw finding the beaten and half-destroyed spark casing almost hanging from the other's chassis.

"Why, when you call me down here so late in the evening, you leave the loyal little human pet in the hands of those who would rather be touching you. I cannot say I am not surprised she has not yet died."

A murmur, almost like speech.

"Ah... Bonecrusher was most eager to take her. I suppose that should be expected – you did cut his playtime short."

Fans click.

"But... I cannot say I do not enjoy this."

Even after two years at the hands of the Decepticons, his spark still pulses as strongly as the day it was cut. It taunts Megatron more than words will ever say. Maybe Optimus even knows this – maybe that is why he hasn't yet given up everything, as his comrades once did. Maybe that is why, even surrounded by the remains of close friends and an infant race, his optics still glow with a sad kind of hatred and he manages to hiss, "You... will never kill me."

Megatron snarls in rage, but even while he rakes his claws against Optimus' spark, drawing screams of agony from his enemy, he cannot help but think that nobody knows him better than his dear old friend.