Heal
Happy birthday, Ironical Jester!
It was unbearable, walking through these halls each day, each day to be placed down with the worst of worst criminals. Those who touched others' sparks and traitors seemed to be Wasp's only company, and even as the small mech cried out his innocence, he was devoured by those waiting hands. Oh, they were always there, watching, waiting, and then when he came down, he was theirs...
It was easy to overpower him, he supposed, with his slender frame and all. He was inexperienced in the arts of fighting back and even in protecting his spark from those hands. In everyones' optics, he was a traitor, a mech that didn't deserve to be rescued, and maybe they were right. Down here in this abyss, he was starting to believe he was a traitor himself.
Wasp stared up at the larger mechs around him, meekly accepting his energon when it was offered him. It was substandard, far different than the energon in the Towers of Iacon, but it was all that was offered to them. He curled away in the corner, where it was safe, and drank it quickly, too quickly for any scavengers to leap onto his frame and pummel it until he woke up in the infirmary.
Somehow, the guards in this place were almost as bad as the inmates, and Wasp had been forced to go into recharge with the sounds of tortured screams and electric charges resounding throughout the entire prison. The inmates were just as bad: There was no such thing as loyalty, and to survive, Wasp had been forced to act more like the disgraced Decepticons than an actual Autobot. It just wasn't fair, and he hated the feeling of slipping away.
It was all Bumblebee's fault, and his hatred of the yellow and black buffoon was the only thing he could actually cling to so that he was still himself. Wasp had never considered himself a very hating person, but he could make an exception for Bumblebee, especially since the mech had gotten him arrested by Sentinel Minor. All of them were pompous and arrogant slaggers who had just shoved him into the stockades. He hadn't even been able to defend himself to Ultra Magnus, like most were supposed to be able to!
This whole situation reeked of corruption and unfairness, and as Wasp was led back down, escorted by two burly and nameless mechs, he felt a stab of fear run through his spark. Tonight those hands would descend on him once more and his spark would be again violated. And again, and again. For joors and joors he would have to bear their grasping, their licking, their fondling... One had even been so bold as to share spark energy, creating preliminary bonds that were hard to get rid of. It wasn't for enjoyment, though they obviously enjoyed it.
Wasp was weak, and that was why he was treated like this. His frame was small and easily overpowered, and he was willful, which made him a perfect target. "Please, don't send me back down there. They grasp my spark..." he pleaded with one of the stone-faced guards. There was an emotionless look downward before he was tossed into what seemed like the pit, where the hands waited, grasping and tearing at his spark until he overloaded himself into stasis.
Even then, a cheerful male voice continued to warn him of the invasion, and only when it ceased did Wasp allow himself to curl into a desperate recharge.
"You like this, little brat?" it was back to where he had always been, after one of his many escape attempts, only this time it was the prison warden straddling him, a sadistic light in his optics. "I'm sure you do. It happens all the time with your buddies down there, right? Must treat ya right well for you to be so silent and complying..." the mech pulled apart Wasp's chestplates, letting out a low whistle. "Wow. Nice one, eh?" he said, peering at it. "Maybe a little small..."
The mech chuckled, stroking Wasp's cheek with mock affection. The green mech said nothing, knowing that nothing he could say would make a difference. Long ago he had learned that protests were worthless, and that he was too willful to escape the dominating kind. All through it, however, his anger at Bumblebee continued to grow into some sort of rage.
"Aw, not going to say anything?" the mech asked, chuckling once more, this time with more malice. The stroking hand turned into a scraping one, and the sound of metal on metal made Wasp wince. "Yes, wince for me little one..." the mech taunted, his hand ever so slowly approaching Wasp's spark. "I'm sure you know the procedure, but I'm about to blow that all out of the water, so to speak," he chuckled once more, and Wasp idly noted his penchant for chuckling.
First came the questing fingers, at first quite gentle, and then turning much more aggressive. They poked, prodded, and seemed to drain the energy from Wasp's spark. The little moans that he could not help but emit seemed only to please the mech on top of him, and his lips were suddenly forced into a harsh and completely one-sided kiss. Wasp endured the treatment, his optics focused on the other's, and while he could see desire, power, and the beginnings of irritation in them, he knew his own revealed nothing, would never reveal anything to him.
"Say something, brat!" The strike was expected and accepted, and Wasp let his head hang limply to the side. "I said say something!" The prison warden shoved his face into Wasp's, and they stared at each other for a very long moment, the large hand wrapped around the small green mech's spark. Never had Wasp wanted more to be out of the Stockades and back with his creators, back with his toys and his credits. What did Sting and Float think of him now? The only creation they ever had was being used by inmates and guards alike.
"If you don't say something, I will keep you in solitary confinement, where I will be all you see," the first overload flashed over Wasp with those words, but the mech knew that it was not over, not at all. Oh what he would give to see the stars once more, to see freedom. By now those thoughts were somewhat dead, but that lingering hope inside of him would never fade, never. Maybe it was his youthful naivety, or maybe he actually thought that one of his escape attempts would work.
"Fine, don't talk. Just gives me more to do," the warden cried with triumph, lowering his mouth quickly. The glossa flicked around Wasp's spark, tasting every inch of it possible. Overloards came in quick succession, and even though Wasp's energy was flagging, he knew that this was far from over. His panic was starting to overpower him, and he wondered just how long he could last here, in the embrace of someone he was supposed to be able to trust.
"Want to know a little secret, pet?" the mech asked, raising his head from the lifeforce he had just tasted. His glossa ran along his lip components, and then along Wasp's. "I wasn't always an Autobot, and I suppose old habits die hard...
"You should be grateful, pet," he continued on, turning his attentions to every nook and cranny of Wasp's frame, his wires, and even the delicate protoform. "If I hadn't saw you and rescued you from that pit down there, you would have been torn apart and possibly used until you deactivated..." a purr was directed right at Wasp's audio, and the green mech refused to speak, even know. "Now, scream for me!"
There was suddenly pain, overwhelming and devastating, and at last Wasp used his vocal circuits to scream, writhing. He didn't know where the pain was coming from, as his screams were drowning out anything his mainframe was warning him of. Primus, it felt like he was being ripped apart, and he just wanted it to stop, would do anything for it to stop--
A harsh kiss covered his screams, and as pain and overload finally swept him into stasis, he heard the mocking laughter of his tormentor. Then there was nothing but sweet blackness, where he could finally curl up and hope that it was all over.
Solitary confinement wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be, Wasp realized after a long while. He didn't know how long he had been there, or how many times the warden had come to exert his dominance over him, but he was finally alone. Well, not truly alone. There were the most pleasant voices all around him, telling him that he need not fear anymore, he was safe and he would be alright.
One day the opportunity to take their nagging advice and escape actually rose; one of the guards, overenergized, was careless and had left the door unlocked. Wasp staggered up, massaging his throat as his new and unimproved vocal processor ached once more. It was too big to fit into the small space on his frame, but that didn't mean anything to anyone except the voices.
They seemed to disappear as he stumbled out onto the surface of the asteroid, optics taking in the beauty of the stars above him. Primus, never had the sky looked so perfect, and he fell to his knees with relief, beginning to leak from his joy.
Then the alarms sounded from behind him, and he began to run as fast as he could, not pausing for anything, not even his own safety. There was no room for pausing, and even if he stumbled along the rough surface, his frame so damaged and used that it barely functioned, he still somehow made it a fair distance away before collapsing.
He could hear the sounds of mechs closing in fast and nearly deactivated himself. He would never go back into that place, never! He would just be used by everyone, and his spark would be ravaged to the point where there would be nothing left but a grey chassis. Somehow, that just didn't appeal to Wasp, and the mech found the reserves to continue in his escape,
For what seemed like an eternity, Wasp fought the urge to collapse and deactivate slowly and continued, his feet grinding the dirt underneath his feet. There was nothing else he could do but run, and that was what he did. Yet every frame has its limits, and he had reached his vorns ago.
Collapsing onto the ground, he finally felt his systems begin to switch off, one by one. As strong arms lifted him off of the dusty ground, he knew that it was over. It would be back to torture and having his spark tortured, and it would become more frequent now that he had tried to escape. Oh Primus, he would deactivate in there, and never be able to plead and understand why he had never been able to try and protest this heinous lack of justice in front of the Autobot leader.
"Wasp not--" his systems finally pushed him into stasis before he could get the rest of the sentence out, and he was back in that merciful black where nothing could bother him, never.
"You think he's going to come back online, Swindle?" Wasp heard the voice, and registered that it was hard and blunt, and a trill of fear went through him. No, not again, he didn't want to go through it anymore!
"I don't see why he wouldn't, Lockdown. Agreed, he had major injuries, some potentially threatening, but it was nothing that you and I couldn't fix. Look at his frame! Looks like it rolled right off the conveyor belt on a factory. Yes, you couldn't find a shinier and newer frame if you built one yourself!" Dulcet and convincing tones rolled from the second speaker, and Wasp was somewhat comforted by the softness of the voice.
"Must you always try and sell everything you look at?" the first voice, Lockdown, asked in exasperation, and Wasp felt a hand on his forehead. "His circuits have stopped overheating. You're lucky that I learned my way around a mech's internals, or he might have deactivated for all of your salesman talk." The sarcasm in Lockdown's tone was almost light, as if there was a camaraderie between Swindle and he.
"I don't even want to know how you learned that, Lockdown," Swindle exclaimed with a hearty laugh, and Wasp was jolted to life by a firm hand on his chestplates. His optics snapped on with a suddenness that must have startled the two mechs, and they stared at him with curious expressions.
"Look, he has purple optics..." Swindle whispered exaggeratedly, pointing at Wasp's faceplates. The small minibot saw the same color optics as his new ones framed by a friendly, smiling face that stared down at him in open curiosity. Wasp was entranced, until the other, larger mech broke the silence with a rude snort.
"Are you going to buy him from yourself?" Lockdown asked, turning to his computers. "Now, go and play with your new toy elsewhere, Swindle. I'm attempting to hunt down a high-paying bounty, but you're distracting me."
"I apologize, dear friend!" Swindle leaned over Lockdown's shoulder, ignoring the irritated push to stand back. "I must tell you, out of the goodness of my heart, that your keyboard is wearing a little thin. Now, I have a very nice one on me, and it could be yours for the discounted price of oh, say thirty credits?"
"Go away you salesman," Lockdown snarled, and Swindle retreated with a carefully contrived look of wounded pride. Wasp watched the two, fascinated at the ease which accompanied this dance of wills. Swindle peered over Lockdown's shoulder once more, giving Wasp a wink as he pointed out other accessories that seemed to have some defect and tried to sell them to his friend. Lockdown just ignored him, and Swindle retreated, grumbling.
"I'll get you, Lockdown! There's something you want beyond upgrades and credits, and I'll be there when you finally realize it!" Swindle walked over to Wasp, and smiled down, his bouncy attitude not at all damaged by Lockdown's continuous refusals. "Well, hello there! As you have no doubt taken note, that stingy mech over there is Lockdown, and my designation is Swindle. What's yours?"
"Wasp," the green mech answered, glad he didn't have to humiliate himself by uttering a complete sentence with his defective vocal processor. Hs optics too were something he hated, as they had been installed as a reference to his status as a traitor. Purple was the color of the Decepticons, of these two mechs that had... Rescued him? Captured him? He didn't know anymore, and as long as he wasn't back in the prison, he found that he didn't care.
"Nice name," Swindle said, his smile never fading. "Where did you come from, Wasp?" he asked, the image of a polite host, especially with the light in his optics radiating trustworthiness. Still, Wasp felt a healthy sense of caution and heeded it, silent. "Well, Lockdown came from the bowels of Unicron--"
"Where you will end up," Lockdown muttered darkly, sending a glare back at his friend. Swindle flashed him a grin before turning back to Wasp, never losing that congenial air.
"I myself am from the slums of Kaon, where I have promised to never return," he said, idly running a hand along his chin. "Perhaps Lockdown's description of myself as a salesman is not entirely off. Rude and derogatory, yes, but not off..."
"Why is Wasp here?" the green mech interjected, wincing at his strange way of speaking. He winced again at the surprised stares and huddled into himself, burying his head into his knees. Slag, why did that warden have to replace his processor with a defective and ancient one? It was all Bumblebee's fault for what had happened to him, his and the rest of the Autobots...
"Well, Wasp, I found you on the prison comet, half-deactivated," Swindle said slowly, his enthusiasm flagging just a tiny bit. "I figured you could use some help, and so I lent a servo. You're free to leave at any time, I suppose, if you really want to." The voice was gentle and gave Wasp a burst of confidence, especially since Swindle had ignored his defect. Emerging from his protective cocoon, he shook his head.
"Where would Wasp go? Wasp cannot go back to Autobots because Bee-bot branded Wasp as a traitor, and to go back would be to go back to the prison," Wasp slumped, shaking his head. "Wasp can never be an Autobot Elite Guard member again, all because of Bee-bot and Minor-bot!"
"Bee-bot? Minor-bot?" Swindle asked, sending a look to Lockdown. The mismatched mech raised his hand and hook, shaking his head in denial. "Come on, you have to know who they are! You know who everyone is whenever we go to a space port!"
"On the contrary, you know who everyone is, and I merely follow along," Lockdown retaliated, shaking his head. "Besides, you know that I'm terrible with names... With all the bounties that I gather, and all the mechs that pass through here, it's easier to identify them by parts rather than names or faces..."
"Alright, so you were on Earth. Any Autobots there fit his description?" Swindle snapped, dropping his salesman aura for a split astrosecond. It was restored with another wink at the disoriented Wasp, who had been watching the argument with growing awe. How did they even keep up?
"There might have been. All I cared about was the walking EMP generator," Lockdown answered, subdued by Swindle's rare irritation. "I think there was a yellow and black mech though. Small, zippy, and annoying. Easily taken out too..."
"That would be Bee-bot," Wasp said, his hatred coloring and deepening his buzzing tone to levels he didn't even know they could go. "Bee-bot ruined Wasp's life, and Bee-bot will pay with his own life!"
"Violent," Lockdown observed apathetically before turning back to his screen, absorbed in it once more. Swindle shot him a look Lockdown couldn't possibly see before turning back to Wasp, shaking his head in exasperation.
"That's a perfectly normal emotion, Wasp, the need for vengeance. " Swindle helped him stand, handing him an energon cube that seemed to appear of out nowhere. "I'll show you where you're staying, alright?"
"Wasp thanks Sales-bot and Lock-bot," Wasp murmured, flinching slightly from the touch. He couldn't get over the hands snaking over his body, violating his spark and turning something as innocent as overloading into a living nightmare. He was afraid that one of the two would do something like that to him, and walked on his own, trailing behind Swindle.
As he was shown into his room and told the virtues of having such a fine room, he was finally alone. Alone, and perhaps it would be okay to leak now, where no one could see him and no one could laugh at his weaknesses.
Life settled into an easy pattern, and Wasp soon grew used to Lockdown and Swindle, and their frequent arguments. It was a simple matter of tuning them out whenever they went at it, and he would be free of the disorientation that they both brought on. Swindle proved to be a better conversationalist than Lockdown, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to get to know the mismatched mech, he settled down and talked solely to Swindle.
The salesman was fascinating enough, too, which lifted Wasp a little. Swindle had come from the poorest part of Cybertron and had somehow risen his way to the top, becoming one of the most influential business men on Cybertron. The war had only made him richer, and even the peacetime influenced just how much he made. All in all, Swindle was an extraordinarily rich mech who could probably swim in credits.
"It is always nice to talk to someone who understands," Swindle remarked once as the two consumed energon together, and Wasp had to agree. Swindle knew what he was talking about when he talked about the towers, and he knew the joys of having credits spilling from his credits. It was a glorious few orns, and Wasp treasured them dearly. Each passing recharge cycle was greeted with happiness instead of dread, and he felt more and more confident of himself as he grew.
Then came Swindle's first energy burst on his lips, something that was both surprising and welcome as it was unwanted. Wasp pulled away, all of his fears--carefully stored away--came back to the surface, and he nearly collapsed under the memories. They had stopped haunting him, and now it was all coming back...
"Did I do something wrong?" a comely bafflement was in Swindle's optics and on his faceplates, as he stared at Wasp. "I only thought that you might enjoy that..." he trailed off at Wasp's obvious terror, holding up his hands. "Easy Wasp, kid, I didn't think that it would scare you like this..."
"Wasp is sorry..." Wasp submitted, unhappy. He had thought that this was different, and that he was safe here, but he wasn't. Would he ever be safe again? "Wasp will do what Sales-bot wants Wasp to do..."
"Wants..." Swindle lost his upbeat air and became the Decepticon he was for a moment, a picture of snarling anger. "What kind of stockade are the Autobots running now?!" he snarled, calming himself instantly. But Wasp had seen, and Wasp knew that there was an undercurrent of anger in Swindle, despite the friendly aura. Somehow, it was soothing instead of frightening, and Wasp wondered why.
"Sales-bot a Decepticon..." Wasp murmured, and Swindle nodded, the anger still apparent to Wasp. He had seen it, and knew it was there, and could identify it whenever he needed to, whenever he wanted to. It gave him some control, some power, and he had never been more elated. Control was something he hadn't had in a long time, and maybe it was a bit pathetic that he needed even this small scrap, but he clung to it like a sparkling would a thermal blanket. "Warden-bot was an ex-'Con... But Sales-bot always a 'Con."
"Yes, this is true..." Swindle stood and drew the little mech to him, stroking his helm with a tenderness that was entirely foreign to Wasp. "Wasp, whatever happened to you in there will never happen again as long as I'm here... Can you place that trust in me?" Wasp felt his spark quiver and for one mad moment he was sure that there was no way he could accept. He was afraid that if he did, nothing good would come out of it, and he would agree to be a slave once more, forced to bow and scrape...
Then Swindle placed an energy burst on his lips once more, and Wasp's inhibitions were wiped away at the gentleness, and the promise to never hurt him. Never before had he felt so good, so desired. Back in the Stockades, he had just been a toy for everyone to play with, but with Swindle's hands gently caressing his frame...
His armor shifted almost as if it was made for Swindle, and the young mech belatedly realized he should return the gestures, but was stopped by a particularly firm caress along his most sensitive wires, and ended up groaning instead. "Sales-bot..." he moaned, as Swindle took his sweet time with exploring his frame.
"What is my name, Wasp?" Swindle asked, sounding vastly amused, and a little aroused. "Sales-bot? Really. We're going to have to get Lockdown to secure you a new vocal processor..." he caressed Wasp's aft, sliding his hand around it as the green mech was lowered onto the berth on the side. Wasp realized it had been there the whole time, and it had been a silent accusation to his weakness.
"Shh..." Swindle soothed when Wasp wriggled, gently lowering himself down. "Didn't I say nothing like whatever you went through would happen here?" he asked before taking Wasp's mouth with his. Wasp felt a thrill run through his neural net and suddenly his small hands were exploring every port, every inch of Swindle's outer frame, desperate. Swindle allowed this, stopping his own caresses to allow Wasp full access to a still frame.
And access it Wasp did, his hands grasping and running over the smooth lines, needing this release. He had never been allowed to do this, and the release, the freedom, oh Primus it was enough to overload on by itself! He wanted to see Swindle overload though, and continued in his ministrations, trying to slip his fingers underneath the plating.
"Under? Alright..." the tan mech let the platings shift, his optics never leaving Wasp's. Delicate wires were shown, and Wasp reverently let his fingers run along them. Soon it was no longer Swindle and he was no longer Wasp: they were just two entities in a cosmos that cared little for them. It depressed Wasp, but the depression was fleeting as Swindle finally couldn't take staying still anymore and came down.
Both mechs clawed and placed energy bursts on each other, their hands questing and needy. Swindle was an expert at this, and Wasp was a clumsy amateur, but both somehow made it. Emotions ran high and when Swindle slid his glossa around the wires along Wasp's chest platings, the smaller mech overloaded then and there.
"Now, was that so bad?" Swindle asked, nipping Wasp's lower lip, optics dim from the overload. "Did I lie to you, at all?"
Wasp thought for a moment before smiling, hopeful that this might actually work out. "No. Swindle-bot was completely truthful."