The Waiting Game

By: Landray Depth Charge

"Sir, the prisoner in cell 24 is not doing well."

General Willbreaker shifted his horrid red gaze to the officer who had brought him such troubling news. The soldier shrunk back. "Well," the general started with a snooty, self-important air. "That's wondrous to hear, now isn't it? Perhaps he'll start talking."

The yellow and white Autobot shifted uncomfortably. "If…if I may speak freely, sir, a lot of us are uneasy about how the prisoners are treated here." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Especially the Decepticon in cell 24."

It was with a deft and blindingly fast movement that the general had the officer by the throat. "No," he hissed dangerously. "You may not speak freely within my presence, officer Harstice. The Decepticon will talk or he will die, it is that simple. I do not have time for Autobot sentimentality, and I will not show mercy towards him of all Decepticons. He's intelligent and cunning, and I cannot afford him thinking that he will be rewarded for his silence." Willbreaker snarled and tossed the smaller officer into the wall behind him. "Go about your duty, Harstice, and do not bother me with such inferior issues again."

Of all the names a mechanoid could have taken, Willbreaker's suited his personality the best. He was known across the universe as a killer, a bounty hunter, but he worked for no particular side until recently; an Autobot commander below Optimus Prime had come to him with a request that he join them in the war. At first, the neutral had balked at the thought, but the reassurance that he would not be restrained in his tactics had perked his interest. A prisoner of war encampment, they called it. He was to be in charge of gaining information from Decepticon troopers…regardless of the method.

The alienoid jet stalked away from the command center and outside into the dusty blackness that was Paladyre-Fhi. The tiny planet was horrendous; very little gravity, no life, and covered in black dirt that billowed up into great clouds when the sometimes dire winds would kick up. Nobody lived there. Very few even knew it existed. It was the perfect place to set up a secretly scandalous Autobot camp.

General Willbreaker's feet sank into the deep ebony grains as he marched with finality and glee towards the cell building, where the prisoners were kept. Cell 24's occupant had proven to be especially resilient; despite numerous different torment tactics, he still refused to utter even a single word aside from his name and rank, information that Willbreaker and his team already knew. Their most recent approach, however, was taking a severe toll on the Decepticon in question.

The jet found relief from the dust once inside the stark, sparsely decorated metal structure. It was bland and simplistic, no more than one long hallway with cell doors on either side. But at the end of the box hallway itself was the fun area of the prison: the interrogation and solitary confinement rooms. The majority of the barred-in quarters were empty though, due to a large number of the Decepticon prisoners having died within a short span of time. There were still a few surviving, scattered here and there, one in cell 4, another in cell 15, and so on. The captive that General Willbreaker was most concerned about, though, was housed alone, away from anyone else.

Nobody spoke or made any noise as the Autobot commander walked down the hallway. It was silent and destitute, the Decepticons have lost hope. The jet stopped before the glowing energy bars and peered in at the form of the prisoner inside cell number 24. The Decepticon was sitting, leaning back against the corner, but as soon as Willbreaker came into view the prisoner stood. It provided the general with a sick satisfaction to watch as his captive paced frenetically along the rightmost wall, growling like the caged animal he was. It was irritated, nervous behavior; the Decepticon was slowly being reduced to his more primal thinking patterns, which was exactly what Willbreaker wanted; carnal processing stated one thing, and one thing alone: survive.

Mindwarp, his trusted factionless friend, appeared at his right. "He is breaking," the psychologist hissed quietly.

Willbreaker grinned. "How much longer can you resist? Two weeks now without energon…that surely is painful."

"Barricade," the caged one barked impulsively as he paced. "Decepticon science officer and pilot. 473-D3122-0009851."

"And shock-trooper," Willbreaker added. "We know all that. I'm still more interested in what we don't know."

The black, blue, and silver offroader shook his head. "I am just as inclined to indulge my secrets to you now as I was yesterday."

The general tilted his head slightly, an amused look on his face. "That is the first original thing you have said in two weeks. Good. We're advancing."

Barricade ignored him wholly. Over the last few days, he'd been monitoring himself with an almost clinical detachment, noting each fluctuation in his vitals and the frequency in which they occurred. His systems were shutting down one by one, now, starting with the least needed for continued existence. Weapons were gone, radar had died, communications systems had powered down, along with every other systematic capability that Barricade did not need for direct survival. All he had running now was his fluid pumps, his cooling system, his processor, and nerve directories. The Decepticon was running on basics, more like an organic than a robot. And even with all of that power conserved, the last twelve hours had rendered another problem; at times, his fuel pump would skip pulses or stop altogether for several terrifying seconds, forcing him to the floor on more than one occasion.

And the pain.

It will end soon.

Death was staring Barricade in the face, and he was relying on it. He estimated another twelve to fourteen hours before his systems would begin fatal shutdown, and perhaps another two hours after that would render him offline for good. Just sixteen more megacycles. Sixteen more. He wanted it, he needed it, he yearned for his own demise like he'd never desired anything before; the Decepticon prisoner would have taken his own life a week ago had his weapon systems not been disabled by the Autobots after his initial capture.

They were still staring at him. Barricade snarled and only weaved back and forth along the wall with greater regularity, grumbling to himself, feeling trapped and cornered in this tiny cell that they kept him in. Mindwarp..he inwardly shuddered. Barricade hated that 'bot the most. The only reason the high-tech psychologist hadn't just downloaded the contents of his processor was because of the automatic defenses he had erected at the time. As soon as the forcefully excruciating connection had been made, Barricade had activated a protective virus created specifically for that occasion, and Mindwarp had immediately severed the link and backed off. The virus was potent and hard to kill, and the psychologist would not get near his download jacks after that.

Willbreaker had subsequently resorted to typical torture methods. Physical torment, Barricade could handle that with ease. It hurt, he screamed, but never once had he even been a tiny bit inclined to spill what he knew to make it stop. The good Autobot general had realized this shortly and had decided to take the next step: he threw Barricade back into his cage and starved him.

It was all incredibly annoying. Willbreaker wanted what Barricade knew, and he wanted it something fierce given that the usual prisoners who came his way were uninformed soldiers. Not this one. Not the darkly colored offroader. Barricade was one of Megatron's higher officers, and if he managed to wrangle what information the Decepticon had, Willbreaker would be rolling in the dough. There was merely the unfortunate matter he was facing now; Barricade was still not talking, and who knew how much longer he'd last before succumbing either to utter insanity or death. Watching as the aggravated mech continued his obsessive weaving, Willbreaker knew that one or the other was not far off. Time for the starvation tactic to reach the next level.

"I'll tell you what, Barricade," the general cooed almost sweetly. Soothingly. "Let's trade. I'll give you something you want in return for you giving me something I want."

"Smelt you!" he cried in impetuous response, lifting both hands and clawing at the metal wall in frustration and pain. "It's a waiting game now."

Insanity first, then. "Allow me then to tempt you."

It was curiosity alone that compelled the black and cobalt mechanoid to momentarily stop to look at his tormentor. Just a few inches shy of the energy bars, clutched within Willbreaker's hands, was a cube. Energon. Life. Conflicting directives arose and Barricade growled but held steady, staring with wanton malevolence at the slightly glowing pinkish liquid inside the tempered glass container. Every system screamed survival but he deliberated, arching his head back. That cube would be the end of the pain, the beginning of relief from the physical anguish, a cessation in the mind numbing desperation for sustenance that at times had Barricade ripping at the walls in terror. The torture would end and all for the sake of a few words. Information.

Willbreaker was a patient mech; he held the cube up in plain sight, waiting with fortitude for a reaction of any kind. Barricade was also very stubborn, and while he considered the general's offer, he stepped back as though intent on denying him yet again. "Use your reason, Barricade," the faux Autobot crooned. "Agree to it and you can have this. Only agree to it, you don't even have to tell me anything right now."

So simple, so simple, it would be so simple. It registered with vehemence and anger that Willbreaker was dangling the cube in front of his nose as a keeper might wriggle a piece of meat to a predator who couldn't get to it. With a mechanical screech of rage the Decepticon went back to pacing wildly. He wanted it. Agree to it. He could have it if he said – No. Nononono. LIARS. They lie, they cheat, they will not hold true to their part in the bargain if I give them what they want. No. No. No. Frantic thought patterns that consisted of survival directive and Decepticon directive fought with one another. Cessation of pain versus betrayal of his kind. They will starve me regardless. No.

Sixteen megacycles.

The wicked red stare finally focused again on Willbreaker, and with a spine-chilling laugh, he shrugged. "It's a waiting game, now, Willbreaker. A game you will lose."