Warning, This Story May Contain The Following:
Violence\Gore, Physical\Verbal Abuse, Torture, Mental\Emotional Trauma, Angst, Alcohol, Addiction, Psychotic Thoughts or Actions, Schizophrenic Tendencies
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Disclaimer: I own this history and the messed up fragger tearing Blitzwing apart. I do not own Blitzwing, though he is my chosen victim~
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Searching Memory-Banks…
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Begin
I watch this… Torturer… With my denta grinding together almost audibly; the digits of my right arm flexing before curling tightly into fists. My optics burn from the tears that run from them, causing my vision to be blurry, and this Cybertronian's shape to be distorted.
I can only watch with widening optics as they take my now-severed arm and pull it upward with as much force as physically possible. I hear it, a tank-wrenching snap as the arm breaks away from the dactylin. My tanks feel ready to upturn, and I cannot hold back a gag as Energon spatters in all directions.
I… I can't feel that particular action now that the arm is removed, but Primus… I can see and hear it… If there was any Energon in my tanks, I know, I fragging know I would have purged…
I can only speak a single word, choking it out past sobs and gags that I try and fail to hold them back. "Why..?" When I hear my voice, I can't help a grimace; it sounds so weak, so… Terrified…
The Cybertronian tosses the severed limb to the ground, but picks up the dactylin that had been broken off of the arm so forcefully at the wrist. Suddenly, another snap rings throughout the room. And then another—a third—a fourth—a fifth. For the youngling, it does not immediately register as to what that particular sound is.
When it does, his bright red optics shut tight, and he bares his denta, withholding yet another bout of gagging. The digits… They had snapped the digits of that severed dactyl one at a time, each in differing ways. One bent backward; another crushed at the knuckles; the third, twisted until the joints gave way; and the forth… The forth pulled right off the dactylin.
The sound of metal-on-metal soon follows, accompanied by a pained cry, as the dactylin is striking him upon the helm with enough force that it dents inward and draws a small trickle of Energon. The youngling mech… He cannot spare any more of the vital substance. His optics remain upon the Cybertronian, but they slowly dim down, flickering, as he is on the verge of a forced stasis.
They retrieve an Energon-drip after watching the youngling for a few short moments that seem to draw out for centuries. The long, thin needle is pierced into the mech's neck-cabling; it draws a grateful moan from him as Energon begins trickling into his intake, and then down into his tanks. "We can't have you offlining before the procedure, can we runt?" He can hear the voice—a dry, humorless laugh following it thereafter. Soon, complete silence falls over the dimly-lit room; this nameless youngling would be allowed to get badly-needed fuel into his systems before the mech or femme before him would continue with their work.
Dark shadows dance throughout the room joyously; whispering to the little mech, asking him to follow them into the blackness that surrounds him. But, he simply closes his bright red optics—why would he obey their wishes? Why would he fall to their level? He does not know who he is; but, he can feel in his spark, that it is not him. But what was?
Thoughts are ultimately cut short when the other begins to move, picking up a long, thin, pointed tool, and then slowly circling the slightly-inclined berth that the youngling lay trapped upon. The strange new tool is being slowly rotated within their digits when the mech opens his optics once more—only to immediately have them widening and coming to bright settings. What would the use of this new tool be..?
When that tool is suddenly driven down into my knee, the digits of my remaining servo immediately dig into the rusted metal beneath me. I let out a cry between clenched denta as it is driven into my knee again and again; breaking gears, snapping wires, each time being driven in at a different angle. I can barely hear their voice as I cry out in agony. "Why?" I can faintly hear them asking. "You're gonna be part of something special, dear. Well…" They pause, drawing the tool out of my leg for the umpteenth time, examining the Energon dripping from its end, tormenting me with their silence. "If you can survive at least. But first, you need to know pain, to be torn apart—a circuit at a time—so that you will submit to order and not back down from a fight. If you survive this little… Procedure, you will be built into something amazing, runt. Something never before created—successfully, that is." That purring-growl of a voice is followed by yet another cracking sound, accompanied by so much more pain within my knee.
They… They had driven their fisted servo down over my kneepad… that sound I'd heard… I-it was my kneepad breaking and denting inward, crushing the protoform beneath, damaging the gears even further. Th-the tool had still been in my knee; it drives all the way through. I can hear it scraping against the berth beneath me as it pierces through all the way…
I groan as the tool gets removed from my knee, and tense up as it is pierced into my shin; splitting the armor, and the protoform beneath…
Sure, you want me to tell you that after a while, I just got used to the pain, right? You're so fragging wrong… If anything, it just began to hurt more, and more, the more my armor was broken, my protoform split, wires severed, and gears shattered…
Both legs are given the exact same treatment; each stab drawing screams and groans from the shackled subject. By the time work is ceased, the youngling vents are shaky and ragged; coolant stains his cheek-plates from where it had run from his optics.
Click—scre-eeeech. The audio-grating sound fills the room as the bonds upon the mech's ankles are both loosened, and then removed completely after a few moments of being toyed with. He gives a shallow groan as the lower halves of his legs are removed, and placed out of his sightline.
Each time he attempts to struggle, a powerful shock is sent into his neck-cabling with an Energon-prod; bringing his voice to glitch out for a few moments any time he would speak directly after. Curses and threats eventually become a common thing from the mech as the procedure drags on through the cycles; limbs that had been ripped away so sparklesslessly are replaced as painfully as possible—the movements only careful when the nameless youngling behaves.
He can only watch as these limbs—pieced together from multiple mechs and femmes whom had fallen upon the battlefield—are pieced together, and then attached to the youngling's frame. Wires are soldered together, circuits attached, pain receptors repaired. The mech gives growls through clenched denta as, each time a new limb is finished with its attachment, a powerful shock is sent into the limb, causing it to spasm violently in reflex-tests.
"I'll ri-iiiiiiiip out your sp-sp-spark!" The mech screams out of anger, struggling against his bonds; tugging at them, attempting futilely to pull free of them. His voice glitches out as he speaks; the shocks that had continuously been sent into his neck since first awakening in this lab had his vocalizer malfunctioning with every scream, every shout, every curse and threat. But, there is so much fear evident within his optic.
I… I feel so much rage; it just doesn't seem like me. Curses spew from my malfunctioning vocoder, and I refuse to give in to the shadows begging for me to join them. They tease from the edges of the light with their freedom; but if I fell to them, would I truly be free?
No, I wouldn't!
Each shout brings the youngling to tug against his bonds and cause tools—from solders, to scalpels, to even talons—to cause more damages to limbs as the Cybertronian attempts the attachments. None of the attachments are done with a great deal of care—only enough to actually get the limbs attached to the youngling's frame successfully. Shocks of electricity are sent into the joints of any newly-places limbs, causing them to spasm violently in these reflex-tests.
His pain receptors are all fully active the entire time; each solder brings him to groan as it feels like it burns his protoform, each splice of the artificial limb to his own frame causing agony as soon as the receptors become connected, and the finishing welds and repairs only made after the fact.
The youngling whimpers, he groans, he screams, as pain courses through his mangled frame as each attachment is made, each shock tears throughout his circuits. His voice is continuously interrupted by static, skipping, and it even repeats—his nanites are unable to repair it as it fries itself with each electrical shock sent into his neck.
None of these attachments are painless—not one.
But… It soon comes that I can't even scream as each slice and tear of my protoform, each singing and burning sensation upon it cause me to attempt the sound, but my voice is just strictly static, now…
The… Scientist—that's all I know to call him—her—them—seems to take notice. I can see the glint of a scalpel as it is picked up; the shadows immediately flee from anywhere that the light reflects off of it. I shut my optics tightly—I… I don't want to know what would be happening now…
That gleaming metal feels like it's been put over flames when I feel it meet my neck, cutting through in one direction, and then another to make a wide, jagged ,X' upon it. I cry out, my voice glitching on and off to distort the sound strangely; I can feel their digits meeting my neck. Those long, unforgiving claws, they… They are inserted into the new gash now within my neck. It feels like I'm being choked—I can't get any successful vents into my systems; and oh, how badly I need it within this seemingly-baking room. Maybe it's just hot to me because of the tools used, but I feel the need to vent, or else my systems will heat up far more than they should.
Energon—so bright, a beautiful shade of blue in the darkness of the room—splutters from my mouth as those cruel digits curl around something. I don't know what the frag it is!
At least… Not until they pull that component free, and my cries, coughs, every sound to come from my mouth fall silent. It's then that it instantly hits me as to what that component was, my crimson optics widening as I realize it. My vocoder. My vocoder… I watch, now in complete silence as my vocoder, dripping Energon, wires sparking from where it had been pulled free from my systems, is set upon a nearby table holding so many different medical tools. Some of which I know the damage they can cause, others having yet to be used.
Once more, I close my optics tightly; and I pray. I pray to Primus. I pray to whoever my creators may be. I pray for anyone.
Just end it! Stop my spark! Tear it out of my chest! Make a slipup and cut through a major line so that I leak out and offline from Energon-loss! Anything! Anything, fraggit!
Release me from this torture, this pain! I don't care if that release is from offlining; I just want out of here!
