Immunity
Tracks, Prowl, Jazz
He hadn't seen much of the battle—not like the other Autobots—he'd kept to the side; admittedly, he'd been more concerned about the sort of damage that would hurt his finish. Besides, he'd been corralled early on by the enemy—they didn't seem intent at ALL on doing him any damage.
Of course, and rightly so, his beauty had granted him a certain—immunity…
Tracks had lost sight of Jazz and several of the others at the beginning—best he could hope for, was that they were free, and would launch a rescue…
***
Time passed, and while Tracks was a pampered prisoner, his ultimate fate was revealed to him when he went to the highest bidder. No surprise, and at least better than his fellow prisoner, Prowl's treatment…
"…He's being auctioned off for spare parts," the dealer had revealed, the tactician tossed and locked into a junk heap, left to rust the whole stint of their capture. It was doubtful he'd even been given rations. "What's Tracks looking like?"
"They'll never believe he's not factory fresh," while the assessment was certainly no surprise, and would have ordinarily filled the Corvette with pride, it was a bit hollow for Prowl's impending doom…
"…Lock and load 'em…"
"…Prowl," Tracks called from his protective casing. The tactician was merely tied to the walls, shifting painfully from the shipping turbulence—he hadn't seemed to be valuable enough to waste the expensive packing. Prowl's head lifted like a badly wielded puppet, his gaze distant, unfocused. But now, Tracks had a better view of his fellow bots' damages, and it made him wince.
The black and white was missing both rear tires, his roof and his window shield was completely gone. His paint was chipped, faded. Prowl had been terribly mistreated during his captivity. Tracks found himself moved to pity.
"He'll find us, Prowl—he'll find you," Tracks tried, he truly did. "Jazz will find—"
Prowl settled sadly into his miserable heap, his spark dimming. "They took him early in the battle, Tracks, and sold him long ago…"
After that, there was really nothing more to say, they travelled in silence, until the deafening roar, and the blinding light.
Prowl was the first to be removed from his place, Tracks yelling, "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" But it was to no avail. The Datsun tried to give a consoling glance back before he was transported to his fate, the Corvette left—to ponder his own…
Not long.
It was almost a relief when Tracks was pulled out of his mental purgatory, strapped to a wall—he was alone, no other Autobots with him.
Sunny would have had a field day, to see him spread eagle to the point of his seams separating-
Tracks let out a surprised gasp when a soft, moist cloth ran across his hood…
-Sunstreaker usually LOVED torturing his prey in bondage, though it was doubtful the lambo would enjoy the pleasure Tracks was experiencing now. But still, it didn't cloud the prevalent thought-
"W—where—Prowl?"
No answer, but the Corvette picked up the sounds of a drill, painful grinding, and a wail seized in Tracks' vocalizer—he bucked against his new owner's ministrations. Though it was doubtful the creature would know an overload from physical ecstasy as opposed to one from emotional agony.
The blue bot was being moved again to probably his new prison, he caught sight of something.
The tools—cutters, grinders…
Pieces of a familiar chassis…
The wail became in impotent gesture of mourning—but it was the only thing Tracks could manage as good bye while realizing his immunity was just meant—he was going to spend eternity—alone…
***
"…Hey, hey! Watch how you transform Pretty Boy there-I could hear the stress on the plastic from across the room!"
"I had to make sure he was clean, and that he worked, didn't I?"
"I only asked you to get him out of the BOX—I couldn't take the tape off—and look how long it TOOK you—I've already k-balled that old junker."
"Where?"
"Over there on the shelf. The end result is drying. I had to do some serious grinding to get the parts in working order, make them the right size, but it all looks really good-gorilla glue, some primer, paint and sealer—a lot of TLC—"
"I mean, where do you want Pretty Boy then?"
"On the shelf, over there."
"Yeah, sure—and that model wasn't a 'junker'—not 30 bucks for a window shield, a roof and two tires out of the kit—what was it—Tomy or Tyco?"
"Hasegawa I think."
"Well, I admit—the old thing doesn't look like 'Pretty Boy', but he really does shine now—you did a good job at fixing him up from a kids' junk drawer sold on eBay."
"Considering how hard it was to FIND the bugger, it was worth having to pay for Tracks, so at least Jazz has his Prowl at last…"