A/N

I don't like to bother people too much with these so just a few quick words. This is the rewrite of the formerly known "Moonlight Dancing," one of my older fics that was left uncompleted. If you've never read that fic, no worries! It won't affect your experience at all. If you have read Moonlight Dancing, all goods! Hopefully there'll be enough changes to shake up the experience for you.

Also, the rating may eventually be moved up, but that's about all from me. Enjoy! ^-^

Important: this fic contain mature themes, some hella hopeless situations, as well as mentions of rape and other forms of abuse. It's just really, really quite dark.

"A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that's unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push."
-Ludwig Wittgenstein-

Ever since her brother taught her how to laugh, humour had been a powerful defense mechanism for Sync.

Of course, it came easier to some than to others. Bumblebee had always possessed a reckless optimism and amicable nature that made his humour infectious to everyone around him. Laughing had been easy with Bee around. Decepticons could be on the verge of peeling away your armour and throwing your still-screaming protoform into a smelting pit, and Bee would find a way to bring a smile to your faceplate. Nobody would argue the claim that Bumblebee had been all the brightness of Cybertron's suns concentrated into the form of one Transformer.

Sync, on the other hand, had been gifted with a far more selfish humour - quick wit, and a sharp glossa. Somebody always had to be the butt of her jokes. There was always a sarcastic quip or provoking remark to be made at someone else's expense. Perhaps that had been part of the reason why Prime had chosen to take her brother, and not her. Perhaps if she had been a little more like the courageous scout, a little more bot-friendly, it would be her empty husk lying abandoned on Earth instead of his.

At least he would've been able to find some humour in her current situation.

Sync's gears groaned in protest as she adjusted her position, attempting to ease the stiffness that had inevitably set in from her newly sedentary lifestyle. Layers of grime caked her once luster hues, accentuated by the dirt and grit that had gradually accumulated between her cogs. She could not even guess the number of solar cycles that had passed since her last shower. When she had first been captured by the Decepticon hunting parties, she hadn't believed life could get any worse than being buffed until her armour was almost blinding, her shiny chassis twisted and flaunted to potential buyers.

That's what she'd believed, until she'd bitten and spat at one too many of said buyers and been moved to the retraining center.

Showers were a faraway thought, now.

You never were good at appreciating what you had, she thought to herself with a sardonic smile.

To be fair, it was difficult to say which was worse. Being paraded around for the amusement and pleasure of some salivating warmongers, or being hidden away in the bleak, dark hole that had been aptly nicknamed the "Hell Cells." Superficial cracks and telling scorch marks now littered her chassis; stories of a time when she had yet to learn how to hold her glossa. And yet, the sting of an Energon prod remained far more preferable than bowing at the pedes of one of them. The bloodthirsty hounds. The trigger-happy militarists.

The unrepentant Decepticons.

Sync hadn't had much time to ponder the consequences of defeat during the war. Funny that, given that wars never ended with two winning sides. Somebody always came out on bottom. A victor couldn't emerge without a pile of defeated bodies to raise himself upon. And yet, despite the inevitably of a loser, no one had ever discussed what might become of the Autobot faction should the tides turn against them. No one had ever dared mention the possibility of such a tragedy. What would the enemy do, should they get their filthy claws on the universe? What happened to the Autobots when there was no longer a leader - no longer a cause - to rally them behind?

For those among them who were blessed, it was a question that they never had to learn the answer to.

It would be an understatement to say that the death of Optimus Prime had renewed the Decepticons'... enthusiasm for murder. Their victory on Earth had certainly put the pep back in their step, relentlessly pursuing the remaining Autobots to all corners of the galaxy, like a pack of starved cyberhounds. Death had been quick - in the beginning. Brutal, but swift and subsequently merciful. Nothing compared to the Decepticon's actual ingenuity when it came to inflicting suffering. Only the unlucky few - those who had foolishly managed to evade the initial wave of Decepticon forces - got to live to see just how colourful their imagination actually was.

Oh, yes, mass deactivation had merely been the appetizer for what Megatron had in store for the survivors.

After the initial excitement of the onslaught had subsided, Autobots began to gather a false sense of hope. Perhaps the Decepticons would forget about them. Perhaps they could regroup in the farside of the universe, and live out the remainder of their lives peacefully - far from the reach of the tyrant that now ruled their home planet. It had been a foolish and desperate hope, but the only hope that continued to power their struggle for survival. They needed something to keep them going. Some kind of faith or goal to stop their inevitable collapse into despair.

And then came the unthinkable: an offer of peace. Extended by the dictator himself. An open invitation to return to Cybertron, to help their efforts to rebuild their shared home.

To the well-rested, the vigilant, and the hopeful, it was an offer that was blatantly too good to be true. As if Megatron - the vindictive, sinister, asshole that had single-handedly caused the destruction of their planet in the first place - would let anyone off the hook that easily. But to the downtrodden, desperate and scared Autobots?

It was a gamble many of them had been willing to make.

The stories spread like wildfire from there. Newly assembled hunting parties obliterated the first Autobot ships to be drawn in, slaughtering all mechs onboard and dragging any femmes back to their planet, never to be seen or heard from again. Whispers of slavery and torture began to be passed through the transmissions of those who had yet to be captured. Megatron had not been lying about his desire to rebuild their home. Unfortunately, it wasn't the type of rebuilding that they required any more mechs for.

Sync glared into the darkness as memories of her own capture began to resurface, forcibly cutting off that train of thought as she turned her attention back to her dim surroundings. Life in the Hell Cells had given her far too much time to think. Exactly how much time she'd spent cooped up in her own filth was almost impossible to calculate, but she would hazard a guess that it was somewhere along the lines of "too long." Time was ridiculously hard to keep track of in the underground prison, safely nestled within the walls of an Intergalactic Control and Detainment facility that employed every vindictive nutcase whom hadn't had their fill of murdering and torturing their own kind. Combined with a disabled chronometer and no natural source of light, counting the days was nigh impossible. A tactic that was, no doubt, intentionally employed to further dishearten the defeated souls that rotted beneath their establishment.

Not that any prisoner required the discouragement.

The Decepticons had spared no expense to ensure their valued prizes wouldn't stray far. Energon bars separated one cell from the next, their faint buzzing that permeated throughout the chamber a blatant warning that they were live - and they were going to hurt if anyone was stupid enough to attempt breaking through them. Not that throwing yourself at the bars would've been a particularly wise escape plan in the first place, but Sync was well-acquainted with the sorts of crazy things desperation could drive a bot into doing, so she didn't feel inclined to pass judgement.

The constant hum of said bars had been irritating at first. In fact, everything had been irritating at first, but Sync imagined a lot of that had to do with her vehement rage that had consumed her since her capture. Muffled sobs, pacing pede steps, inaudible mumbling. She had arrived in the Hell Cells expecting a mob of like-minded femmes ready to rip the Decepticons a new aft hole for daring to even think that they could use their bodies as they pleased. Instead, she had merely seen a reflection of what she was destined to become - desolate and broken. The only thing that upset the monotonous routine was the defiant screams of new arrivals, cursing and spitting and swearing on their lives that they would make their jailers pay.

Though that never lasted long.

It was the same story on repeat: and a tale she was quickly tiring of. The weight of over fifty disheartened sparks packed into such tight quarters was suffocating, a morose atmosphere that sucked the fight straight out of any Autobot thrown into the aptly nicknamed "Hell Cells." The harsh reality of their situation was a hard concept to come to terms with, when they'd wasted so many stellar cycles trying to avoid this very position - and a depressing truth once it had finally been accepted.

Her optics raked over the scene spread before her - or, at least, the parts that she could decipher from the darkness. Silhouettes of her disheartened comrades were vaguely discernible in the neighbouring cells, their optics dimmed and postures arranged in various slumped stances. Oh yes, their faction must've truly done something atrocious to the universe to deserve this level of karma. To even call the Autobots a faction nowadays was a stretch. Never in a billion years would Sync have imagined that fate would lead her to such a dismal end. Dead, perhaps. Viciously mutilated, potentially. But not this. Not propped up against a wall that was almost filthier than she was. Not living at the mercy of Decepticons.

Not destined to become the pleasure toy of some homicidal maniac.

Her lip components curled at the thought of them now serving as the representatives of their population, rolling her stiff joints to relieve the building aggression. Their purpose had nothing to do with rebuilding their fallen planet, of that she was sure of. This was about humiliation. This was about punishment. It was about Lord Megatron flexing his big guns and rubbing it in their faceplates that he had won - and they were going to suffer for ever trying to stand in the way of him and his goals.

She had to hand it to him - locking them in cells and crushing their spirits was a good way to go about it. Resistance was difficult when one constantly ached and throbbed from the many scorch marks that riddled one's chassis - courtesy of the generous patrolling officers who took far too much delight in putting some "spark" back into them. Sync despised those prods almost as much as she despised the bots on the opposite end of them. Especially when she'd seen femmes dragged into the middle of the hallways and made an example of, for far lesser transgressions than she had ever committed.

To top everything off, it was also no coincidence that their small rations barely fought off the constant warning messages about fuel levels. If the guards arriving like clockwork didn't do the trick, the Autobots' Energon levels were intentionally kept at dangerously low levels to make physical resistant near impossible. Though, she had certainly done herself no favours in that retrospect. Judging by the amount of Energon cubes that she'd left untouched, it had at least been a deca-cycle since she'd last refuelled. Her latest fuel strike was certainly testing the limits of her willpower.

All for a good cause, she reassured herself.

It was abundantly clear that the owner of the Hell Cells went to great extents to ensure that nobody even thought about putting up a fight. The hopelessness of their situation was illustrated in every slumped form, every pair of downcast optics. Their helplessness was almost tangible and it made her tanks roil.

Oh yes, she would be interested to see how Bee would have found the humour in this.

Her servos clenched into fists, dormant anger and humiliation bubbling back to the surface of her consciousness. Life in the Hell Cells was the inevitable conclusion for any Autobot femme, she wouldn't deny that. There was no shame in winding up there. They could run, and hide, and fight all they liked, but they lacked the appropriate resources to elude the Decepticon forces. Nothing but sheer dumb luck would help even the most elusive of bots to slip past their forces - and luck was something they had not had in abundance the past vorn.

There was a time where she'd believed that she might be able to evade the hunting parties, given the right amount of caution, and could escape far enough into the universe that she would merely be forgotten about. Abandon her squadron. Disappear into the vastness of space. Such a pleasant fantasy at the time, but one that she'd never had the steel to act out. Even after various close-calls, she'd always been persuaded to remain, whether by her commander or her comrades. They had been good mechs. Honest mechs. And they might have survived if it weren't for her own stupid blunder.

The femme offlined her optics, trying to banish the dark images that accompanied such memories. She couldn't have saved her team even if she'd wanted to. It was a hard truth, but a truth all the same. Or at least one that she told herself to silence her conscience. Decepticon hunting efforts had increased tenfold, raising a fully-fledged slave-trading business that spread to even the deepest reaches of space - and just so happened to specialise exclusively in Autobot femmes. Her commander had had them constantly on the move. Planet to planet, star to star, milky way to milky way. The mechs fleeing their demise and Sync fleeing her capture. Nobody ever said it, but she knew. She knew her presence put them at unimaginable risk - yet she could never bring herself to leave them, either.

...Oh for Primus' sake, happy thoughts were not working today.

She tapped her digits against the floor in an unsteady rhythm, nervous energy beginning to get the best of her. A distinctive whine filled the cells, a familiar indicator that the rusted doors were finally prying themselves open. For the briefest, most fragile of moments the entire brig was flooded with light, eliciting soft hisses of protest from those who were blinded by its glare. An approaching guard, undoubtedly.

Metal footsteps clicked over the grime-slicked floor, adopting a rhythmic yet undisciplined tempo that betrayed their lack of military background. The mech in question was the same size as her, though his build consisted of rippling, compacted cables that suggested a hard punch was going to do more than dent a bit of metal.

Perfect.

She watched him draw closer, steeling the last scraps of her resolve. Yes, she would attest to the fact that the Decepticons had done everything within their power to squash the rebellious spirits of the femmes that landed themselves in the Hell Cells. But the funny thing about leaving a bot with no options, was that conventional motivations such as self-preservation didn't matter so much anymore. When you backed a cougaraider into a corner, it was going to lash out. And when you locked an Autobot in chains and ascertained they would have nothing to lose from at least trying, they would fight to their last moment to escape.

Something her fellow femmes seemed to have forgotten.

Sync's optics burned into the side of his helm as the mech drew closer, until his crimson optics finally met her defiant glare. Her reputation as a troublemaker surely proceeded her (a reputation she gladly owned), and his pedesteps gradually slowed at the suggestion of trouble.

Sync was never one to disappoint.

It was not until he reached an eventual stop outside her cell that she finally dropped her gaze: pointedly falling to the Energon cube positioned near the bars of her cell, untouched since its delivery over a stellar cycle ago. His optics inevitably followed, narrowing in annoyance to see that she had skipped another opportunity to refuel. It had been the fourth time in a quartex that she had refused to touch the low-grade scrap they were serving up. Long enough that she suspected the guards had been warned about the dangers of her ongoing fuel strike.

"Drink."

Oh, a command. That was obviously going to work. Sync met his order with stony silence and not so much as a twitch of a digit. She hadn't starved herself for the better half of a quartex to crack now.

"Are your audios malfunctioning, Autoscum?" Original. "I said drink."

Her audio receptors were functioning, alright. Any ability to process common sense, however? Well, that might have been a little impaired. Her vocaliser remained inactive, mouth components stubbornly pressed together as she regarded him with dripping contempt. Patience wearing thin, the guard rapped the prod against the Energon bars - finally rousing the attention of surrounding femmes, who glanced worriedly in her direction. Sync could feel their optics practically pleading with her to obey. Nobody wanted to witness her punishment anymore than she wanted to experience it.

"Drink," he snarled, "before I force it down your intake."

Her optics fell to the sparking prod clutched tightly in his hands, her circuitry all too familiar with the damage it could (and would) inflict. This time she obediently shuffled towards the cube, movements slow and sluggish, but a form of compliance nonetheless. Her spark whirred wildly in her chamber as her gaze remained fixed on the infernal contraption in his hand. Far too many memories were associated with that thing. She'd learned to fear those sparks within a few days of arrival- and for a very good reason.

Primus, she was really going to hate her for this.

She forced herself to look away from the prod as she finally entered reaching-distance of the cube, instead focusing on the satisfied faceplate of the Decepticon. Oh, didn't he just look so damn pleased with himself. Would he brag to his friends that he'd made stubborn D-27 finally consume her ration of Energon? Was he planning to pointlessly torture her regardless, just to drive the message home?

She'd never discover the answer. Instead of focusing on the instrument in his hand she centred on the irritation building in her chestplate, drawing upon her underlying disdain and pure hatred for his faction to keep that anger firmly lit. She made sure to hold his optics as she stretched out one pede, slowly and purposefully spilling the contents of the cube all over the floor.

And just to add insult to injury, she summoned a smirk.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. The door to her cage was ripped open with a snarl, the mech splashing through the rapidly-growing pool of Energon, prod already sparking. She dived towards the entrance in what appeared to be an attempt to evade him, narrowly avoiding the sticky substance as he yanked her backwards by the collar and forced her to the floor. There was no point trying to suppress the screams that ripped free of her vocaliser. That was a pointless waste of energy. She allowed her cries to reverberate throughout the cells, her systems sparking in protest as the prod was jabbed into parts and joints, overloading sensitive circuity and locking up her limbs. The sheer pain left no room to rethink the potential foolishness of her decision.

Eventually the guard relented, but only to twirl the prod in his grasp as he searched for another place to target. Sync continued to writhe on the floor as the last of the current left her body, vocaliser sputtering white noise and vision beginning to glitch. If she'd forgotten why she hated the prod so much - why even her rebellious glossa had been silenced at the mere suggestion of it - she definitely remembered now. Every after-convulsion felt like a betrayal of her body, a self-inflicted punishment for her processor's stupid pride and the situations it dragged her into.

Primus, this had better be worth it.

The spilled Energon had spread to their location, gathering in a pool around his pedes and slicking her lower half. With a defeated groan she rolled over onto her side, mentally reaching out for that burning animosity to give courage back to her spark and strength back to her limbs. The prod was nothing, she tried to tell herself. Nothing in comparison to what could be if she held on. She'd suffered this much. She had come this far. The starvation, the beatings, the degradation. None of it was going to matter anymore. She was not going to let life turn her ordeal into another one of its grand jokes.

The mech was still eyeing her up, searching for gaps in her plating that would really pack a punch. The sadistic glee in his optics sickened her, almost as much as his ugly faceplate. She swallowed thickly as she planted a hand in the puddle of Energon, bracing herself against the floor.

This was going to hurt, she knew. But not for her.

She waited for the telltale grunt he always released before attacking, before rolling clear of the attack in an unsightly flurry of limbs. The prod was rammed into the Energon puddle that had collected beneath him, Sync just managing to evade getting caught in the crossfire as the current conducted through the substance and hit him twice as hard. A pained roar, followed by a sharp thud, alerted her to the fact that he had fallen. Unfortunately, there was no time to indulge in her victory. Gloating would have to come later.

Recovering quickly she hoisted herself onto her pedes, clumsily stepping around his twitching form and snatching up the prod that had fallen to the floor. She practically fell out of the cell in her haste to be clear of the bars - another roar alerting her to the fact that he was beginning to catch up with what was taking place. She slammed the door shut, hearing the satisfying "click" of the lock, and stumbled backwards just in time to evade his grasping hands, fans whirring maniacally at the physical exertion that had been demanded of her Energon-deprived systems. Despite her blatant exhaustion, she still managed a grin.

Holy slag. She had actually done it.

"You little glitch! Get back here!"

Sync chortled at such a suggestion, shaking her head at the mech in pure disappointment. Honestly, the naivety of these creatures.

She stabbed the prod between the bars, indulging in his echoing cries of pain for the most precious of nanokliks. Oh, it felt good to be on the opposite end again. That anger - that pure lust for vengeance - seeped through her circuits and gave new life to her fast-wearing systems. She was actually standing on the other side of the cell again. She actually held some semblance of power. Now she just had to make sure she kept a hold of it.

The guard hadn't even hit the ground before she was sprinting down the gloomy passageway, clearing past the dead-eyed shells and motionless husks that were struggling to comprehend the reality of what they had just witnessed. She didn't have time to think about them. Freeing each individual Autobot would take too much time - time that would end up bringing in the next patrol, and she doubted half of them would even attempt to defend themselves against the guards. No, if they wanted out, they'd have to find that motivation within themselves. Sync could not waste her opportunity. There were no Autobots anymore.

There were no loyalties.

She slammed the control panel with more force than required, impatiently waiting for the creaky exit doors to pry themselves apart again. They had not even reached halfway before she running towards the elevator, guided by the memory of her many trips to the Med. Bay. She threw the doors open and hit the highest floor available on the interface. She had a faint memory of the entrance being somewhere near the upper levels, though she had no hope of recalling its specific location before the guards were onto her. It was only a matter of kliks before the fuming 'Con swallowed his pride and alerted someone of the situation.

The elevator doors barely had a chance to open before she had burst out of them, jamming the prod into the controls to render the machinery useless. That would at least buy her a few more nanokliks, and she took the opportunity to survey her new surroundings. This was the part she didn't know quite so well.

And by that, she meant "no experience whatsoever."

A quick glance around failed to yield much information - the walls were an offset white, almost blinding when combined with the lighting that illuminated every square inch of the long corridor she was standing in. The hallway extended in both directions, and it was already apparent that it led to many other twists and turns. Frag it. She'd really overestimated her ability to navigate a place she'd never actually explored.

There wasn't time to give it much more thought, however, or lament her lack of foresight. The sudden activation of alarms had her on the move again, picking a random direction and sprinting as fast as she could without tripping over her own pedes. Her helm was on a constant swivel, desperately searching for any indication of an exit as yells reverberated throughout the halls. Far too disoriented to deduce where they were coming from, she just ran. Ran and prayed to Primus that a miracle blessed her sometime soon.

Left. Right. Left. Oops, other left. Forwards. A group of figures materialised at the end of the corridor, and she took another hard turn to evade them. She didn't get far before she reached a pair of locked doors, a string of curses leaving her vocaliser. It was a dead-end. Of course it was a dead-end. Without a second thought for sensibilities, she kicked the obtrusive structure, more profanities being lashed out by her glossa.

The door opened.

The room beyond was vast yet dimly-lit, comprised of various platforms that contained stacks upon stacks of Energon. Sync stared, dumbfounded (and somewhat unamused), but didn't think twice about entering when she heard sounds of pursuit. The dived inside the containment unit, waiting for the doors to close with an echoing clang before frying the control panel with the prod again. At the very least, it would slow them down. And she needed as much time as fate could muster to consider her options.

She turned away from the doors to survey the chamber she had wound up in, her tanks giving an ungodly grumble at the amount of refined Energon just waiting to be consumed. Her fans were already working overtime, vents sounding especially noisy in the empty room as they worked hard to cool down her heating systems. In fact, it came as no surprise that her legs chose that moment to finally give out beneath her. Her weight crashed down onto one knee, body having to be propped up by an additional supporting hand. Skipping Energon definitely hadn't come free of repercussions. Exhausted as she was, she almost completely missed the additional presence in the room.

Almost.

Her optics fell to the corner closest to the control panel, easily identifying the small silhouette that had fluttered across the corner of her gaze when she'd first entered. Despite her blatantly weakened position she raised the prod in its direction - an obvious threat to whatever (or whoever) had let her through the doors.

"Come here."

Laced with static, the demand didn't sound half as intimidating as she'd have liked - and apparently not nearly intimidating enough to spur the little cretin into action. The figure remained perfectly still, asides from the smallest of head tilts as it regarded her with its large, red optics. With a frustrated growl she forced her legs to pick herself off the floor, wobbling towards the stubbornly motionless form with as much dignity as she could muster. It did not flinch from her outreached hand. Rather, it offered no resistance as she grabbed hold of its shoulder and harshly yanked it into the light, revealing a faceplate that was... not quite what she had anticipated.

She quickly withdrew her hand as if she had been stung, unable to disguise her shock. A bot that could not have been any older than a youngling gazed back up at her, its armour similar to the reflective, unmarred silver that often identified the youth of a newborn. Guilt suddenly punched her in the chestplate as she realised she was brandishing an Energon prod at a creature so young, and hastily lowered it. What in the name of Primus was a mere child doing in a place like this? She had her suspicions, certainly, but quickly decided that wasn't a question she wanted to ponder too hard.

"What are you doing here?"

The small mech blinked at her innocently, then raised an undersized digit towards the panel beside the door. Not exactly what she'd asked, but the meaning was clear enough. He'd been saving her... at least, that's what he claimed. As much as she hated to admit it, too many stellar cycles spent avoiding Decepticons had made her suspicious of most bots she met. Though not ungrateful for the help, her spark was being pulled in two directions: a very convincing voice that warned her to be on alert, whilst another screamed profanities at her for even considering offlining a youngling. He had, afterall, just saved her. She at least owed him the benefit of the doubt.

A resounding boom shook the entire chamber, effectively distracting Sync's attention from the young bot. Unintelligible shouting could be heard from the other side of the door, a clear indication that the Decepticons had arrived and had apparently begun firing on their latest obstacle.

She cursed under her breath, brandishing the Energon prod at the mech threateningly. As much as it made her feel like an asshole, she couldn't take any chances. The child merely stared at her, seemingly unpertubed by the explosions occurring outside the door.

"Is there another way out of here?"

The small bot nodded quickly, not even waiting for her position as it began climbing up the platforms towards a metallic pillar that lay at the center of the room. She followed in close pursuit, risking two steps at a time and vaguely wondering how something so little moved so fragging fast. Another boom almost caused her to lose her balance, but she managed to recover and glance up just in time to see hatchling standing beside another control panel attached to the pillar. What was it d-?

There was no time for an objection to even begin forming in her vocaliser. Its tiny hand activated the device, filling the room with an awful groan of metal. The obscene sound drowned out the commotion in the hallway, the pillar splitting into two sheets that slowly peeled away from the structure. A transparent cylinder lay within, complete with a holographic display and circular floor that he didn't hesitate to step onto. It looked expectantly at Sync as another round was unleashed on the doors - clearly waiting for her to enter alongside.

A delivery pod. She should've known.

Indecision rooted her to the ground as she eyed up the structure, every fibre in her being warning her that the situation was odd and she shouldn't follow through with it. A Decepticon youngling just happened to show up in the middle of nowhere and provide a convenient way out of her current conundrum? Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the lack of Energon had finally gotten to her processor, and she was actually sitting back in her cell imagining this entire bizzare scenario. Or maybe it was all real - and she should stop questioning the logic behind Decepticons' structural choices and get her aft into gear. Her hesitation could truly cost her.

She glanced back at the doors, wondering what could possibly be worse than facing the guards and being forced back into her cell. She was never going to get an opportunity like this again. Freedom was at the tip of her digits, if only she knew how to lunge forwards and grab it. To face the certain evil that was trying to break in, or follow the uncertain evil that had assisted her thus far? The 'Con wasn't much bigger than a standard hatchling. Even if it tried to turn on her, she knew there'd be no question of who had the upper hand; even in her current state.

Another shot actually managed to blast a hole through the door, and it was enough for her to make up her mind. She may not have been spoiled for options - but she'd take any chance she could if it meant escaping the Hell Cells. Without a second thought she slipped into the elevator, the platform quickly beginning to ascend at the little bot's direction. Good progress, at least. If the Hell Cells were underground, then the higher floors were where the exit had to be. Worse comes to worst, she could always just throw herself out of a window. Nothing would stop her from finding a way out.

Especially not something that was barely taller than her knee.

"Who are you?" Sync demanded, cutting off her train of thought and glaring down at the little creature.

If the miniature Decepticon sensed her hostility, he made no indication of it. Her demands were met with an innocent blink, tilting its ridiculously undersized helm in a motion that would've almost been cute if it weren't for the ugly red optics.

Great. Had the Decepticons ripped out its vocaliser, too, as some kind of cruel joke?

"Look," she snarled, brandishing the prod at it menacingly. "I didn't come all this way just to get screwed over by some toy-sized robot. So either you're here to help me, or we're going to find out how many volts that little body can take before you pop. Got it, Mini-Con?"

Most bots would've at least flinched at such an instrument being thrust into their faceplates. If not out of fear, then simply out of respect for the damage it could do. It didn't take much experience to know that Energon prods were downright nasty. In fact, in many cases, Transformers did not even need to experience its bite first-hand to know that it was not a toy to be taken lightly.

And yet, despite the entire spectrum of suitable emotions laying at the youngling's fingertips, he gazed up at her with brazen amusement. Sync's optics narrowed at the strange little creature, digits tightening around the weapon as she humoured the temptation to prove that her threat was not idle. Fortunately for him, a nod of comprehension was eventually given, which was enough to temporarily quell her anger.

"Good." She lowered the prod, yet her stance remained stiff.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, the doors creaking open to reveal their destination. Another hallway spread out before her, brightly lit like the rest of the institute and void of any windows. The sound of sirens was distant, now: almost inaudible, muffled many floors below them. Sync gripped the edge of the pod's doors to assist with stepping out, trying not to lean too much of her weight against it and betray the extent of her vulnerability. Maybe it was the optics. Maybe it was the convenience of his timing. But she didn't trust the little robot at all.

The elevator disappeared back into the floor, giving her an unobstructed view of their surroundings. They weren't in a hallway at all, she realised, but rather a star-shaped intersection that extended with five paths in each direction. Great. More obscure decisions. She did so love not knowing where the frag she was.

The Autobot jumped as she felt a small hand squeezing her digits, meeting the gaze of the mini-bot as it stared up at her earnestly and gave another firm squeeze - a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, she finally registered. Ugh. Figuring she didn't have much choice in the matter anyway, she allowed herself to be led further onto the platform, stopping once they'd reached the centre and looking skywards.

Thick screens hung above each path, angled downwards to be better-viewed by those on the ground. Some screens were relatively empty: nothing but lonely corridors, marked by the occasional passing figure. Others were a little more active: guards milling about, or smaller, easily-identified medics going about their duties. It didn't take her long to discern that the screens were live feeds of the areas that surrounded each pathway - an easy way for her to monitor what she was about to walk into and where to go. To know when trouble was coming... or plan a route to escape.

The surprised look she shot Mini-Con - her incredulity that it was actually being helpful - was probably a lot more offensive than she intended it to be.

The youngling's amusement only seemed to grow, however, beckoning her to follow down one of the less-busy paths. Sync hesitated, glancing at the screen above the selected track - relatively empty, asides from one guard standing outside a lonely door. One fully energised and armed guard, that was. There was no way she felt confident that she could take him on her own; not without causing a massive commotion and drawing unwanted attention.

"I can't take him," she admitted bitterly, though it pained her to confess such things to a... suspiciously helpful Decepticon. "There has to be another way."

The mini-bot's optics narrowed, gesturing to the other monitors in a manner that wordlessly asked, do you see another way? They were definitely busier than the one that the little bot had chosen - that much was obvious. And unlike the patrols in the Hell Cells, their movements were completely random. Normal (bloodthirsty, abhorrent, obnoxious...) Transformers going about their various duties, following patterns that weren't fixed or synchronised. There would be no way to sneak past. No way to predict when someone was going to come around the corner.

The youngling's hallway, on the other hand, was almost completely devoid of wandering life.

The bot gestured to her again: urgently now. She glanced at the monitor to her left to see guards heading in their direction, and knew her time to make a decision had definitely expired. As much as she wanted to leave the creepy look-a-like behind and be done with it, she knew she needed his help. And not just with finding a way out of this place.

With a frustrated sigh she relented, holding the prod close to her chassis as she quickly followed its lead - the weapon now more of a source of comfort than protection. She'd only managed a rough mental sketch of the layout they were heading down, yet her companion traversed down the twisting halls with ease. Unnerving ease. Her suspicious optics never left the bot as they forged onwards, watching closely for any sign of impending fuckery.

As the pair drew closer to the occupied corridor, their steps became increasingly lighter and tentative, doing their best to conceal their approach. A million scenarios were running through her processor, trying to deduce the best strategy for fighting her way around such an advantaged opponent. There was no choice except a confrontation. But maybe if she managed to sneak up on him, find a way to immobilise and disarm him using the Energon prod... though the 'sneaking up' part was going to be troublesome in such a narrow space.

The knot that had formed in Sync's chestplate tightened as the youngling paused at a corner, red optics glancing at her expectantly.

"What is it?"

No response. What a shocking surprise.

She moved past him and peered around the edge, instantly recognising the odd shape of the guarded door. And yet the corridor was... empty?

The click of a loaded gun seemed to reverberate throughout the hallway. Sync's spark fell into her fuel tanks as she felt something cold press against the side of her helm, instantly recognising her crucial mistake of not watching her own back. Frag. So much for sneaking up on him.

Before she could reassess any strategies, the halls were filled with thunderous shouts and the clank of heavy pedesteps. Soldiers took mere nanokliks to pile into the available space, forming a tight circle around the duo with their weapons trained exclusively on Sync. An infuriated growl was released from her throat as a new realisation occurred to her: the fragging cameras. It was such a stupid oversight on her behalf - one she wouldn't have made if she hadn't been so desperate to escape.

That desperation hadn't quite left her yet. She twirled the prod in her hands with a snarl, more than prepared to fight despite her condition, completely ignoring the increased pressure of the barrel against her head. It wasn't as if she could get herself into any deeper slag - and she'd be damned if she was ready to give up the fight just yet. She hadn't had a chance to make any reckless decisions, however, before she felt the weapon wrenched from her grasp with surprising ferocity.

Mini-Con met her confused frown with a cold grin, its optics narrowed in contemptuous amusement. Suddenly, he didn't look quite as young as she'd originally assumed. Her Energon (or, at least, what was left of it) ran cold in her circuits as she was treated to a front row view of its armour beginning to shift and unfold from itself, revealing a very different identity underneath. Shimmering, glass-like feathers emerged in the form of two large wings, whilst the rest of the chassis twisted and bent away. The Energon prod was transferred from its small servos into a pair of vicious talons, and a long neck presented a bird-like helm that she swore to be smirking.

"Get on your knees," ordered one of the taller mechs, unphased by the transformation.

No. No, no, no, no! The metallic black and silver bird took to the skies, carrying her last means of defence well out of reach. Sync's fists clenched, the fury hitting her like a tidal wave as the reality of what was happening settled in. It was a trick. A trap. Anger welcomed a surge of energy back into her limbs, surveying the surrounding bots with a vicious glare. She had fought so hard. She had struggled more than they could imagine. They were not going to steal this from her!

"On your knees!"

Sync obeyed no such order.

The guard closest to her made the mistake of shifting his stance, removing the weapon he'd pressed against her helm to grab her shoulder struts and force her onto her knees. Launching herself at the opportunity she spun around to confront his ugly visage, servo closing around the barrel of his gun and shoving it towards the ceiling. His natural instinct to fire rained a cascade of sparks onto them as his commander screamed a warning not to kill her - though Sync doubted he would be listening in the heat of battle. The pair wrestled for control, before Sync suddenly released and aimed a hard punch towards his helm.

It wasn't enough to seriously harm him. That much she had predicted. It was, however, successfully off-balancing him for a precious few nanokliks. She lunged forwards to grab the weapon from his slackened hold, but a hard kick to her abdomen sent her crashing to the floor instead. His teammates had decided to step in.

There was no chance to recover after that. Hands quickly grabbed onto her, yanking her onto her front and digging a knee into her back to pin her there. She continued to randomly hit, kick, and bite any appendage that was stupid enough to get within range, but it wasn't enough to fend off her attackers. Her faceplate was firmly pressed into the ground and hands caught behind her back, her thrashing becoming more deranged as the familiar sight of stasis cuffs flashed in her peripheral vision. Like Pit-!

The device clamped around her wrists, immediately dampening her sensors and inhibiting the registration of any commands sent from her processor. Her chassis inevitably sagged against the floor, though her mind remained acutely and painfully aware of the going-ons around her. She'd blown her chance. She'd failed. And she had been so close...

Rough servos hauled her into a standing position, the world spinning sharply with the movement before coming back into focus again. Was she going directly back to the Hell Cells? Or did they have something special planned out for her - a way to make an example of her to the rest of her kind? She was disappointed to find that her spark half hoped for the latter. Deactivation might just be a far kinder ending to her story than any other she could imagine for herself.

Two mechs balanced her weight between them, their grips unnecessarily tight and intentionally uncomfortable around her arms. Not that it would matter soon. Repetitive warning signs about her rapidly decreasing Energon levels became harder to ignore as she lay limp between them, her vision beginning to glitch and blur the forms that surrounded her. It was evident that she wasn't going to last in consciousness much longer.

Just before her systems entered emergency shut-down, however, her optics caught the familiar orange-red of the avian form that hovered above. Even with her failing networks its amusement could not have been more blatant - evidenced with a smug wink it sent in her direction before departing with her prod. One last surge of hatred coursed through her circuity, wanting nothing more than to tear the insolent creature into pieces, before her body finally gave up; cutting off her sensory feeds and silencing her processor.

Life had a twisted sense of humour, indeed.

Phew, first chapter done and dusted. Let me know what you guys think! x