Author's Note – I don't normally continue a fic that was originally intended to be a stand-alone, but in the case of this one, I already felt there was more story to tell and I wanted to tell it. I just didn't know if it was something anyone else wanted to read. Granted, reader wishes don't normally dictate what I write – I write for myself first and foremost, and if others enjoy it too, that's awesome – but in this case, the story had such a great response, both here and on LJ . . . well, who am I not to oblige? XD
Since the first chapter is really short – having originally been written for "tf_speedwriting" which only allows for 120 minutes per prompt/fic – all subsequent chapters will be as well, to keep a consistent format. Though a chaptered fic, this won't be written in the same style as my other chaptered fics: less detail, more of a "snapshot" feel. Still, I hope people enjoy it.
Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.
"Sparks are Cheap"
by DragonDancer5150
Chapter 2 – Dread
This isn't happenin'.
The place stank of corrosion and dried cydraulic fluid. Wheeljack shifted and winced at the cold slither of chain against the back of his pelvis, a short length of links between the cuffs locked too tightly around his wrists. More chain connected manacles around his ankles. He hated chain, always had. Damned unnatural metal that moved with a limp, strutless fluidity nothing made of metal ever should. It made an ominous hissing, ringing noise every time he moved, grating on his simmering terror.
This isn't happenin'. Please tell me this isn't happenin'!
He'd been deposited in a small cage behind the superintendents' offices, aggravating a shoulder wound as he landed on his side. He'd been in this cage before. Twice before, after two failed escape attempts. Three times really had been the charm.
Or . . . not, since he was now three times in this little cage too. And soon enough, thrice to the whipping post. A sob escaped him at that thought.
Please . . . please no, please no, please no, PLEASE!
He curled up where he lay, trembling hard. He knew what was coming. He'd survive it . . . but that was the problem – they'd make sure he survived. Three solar cycles they'd make him endure, plus whatever fun his fellow slaves decided to have on him in that interim. He sobbed harder, curled up tighter as if by sheer force of fear and will – and the barricade of his knees against his chest – he could keep anyone from accessing his spark chamber.
He'd always known what would happen if he were ever recaptured and dragged back down here. He would have preferred to be killed – or even captured – by Decepticons. At least if they captured him, he'd have a chance of seeing home again – not this forsaken pit but the home that he wanted and that wanted him, where he had friends whom he loved and who cared about him. Here, he was nothing more than hard labor and a plaything. Here, there was nothing for him but constant exhaustion, degradation, and pain.
In the central cavern was where the "town" was located, the command and support center for the mining operation. Master's home was here, as well as the superintendents' homes and offices, the cafeteria, and the barracks of the slaves. And rising like a grand sentry from the middle of it all, a great stone column dominated a central plaza, a platform built around its base. He'd been brought in during the wee hours of the morning, and most of the lights had been dimmed or shut off. But even in the darkness as he was dragged past the terrible structure, he'd been able to make out the manacles bolted to its face, and the dark stains of old energon and cydraulic fluid splashed across it from past victims, himself included. Soon, the first alarm would sound, calling the workers to morning fuel, and then another to the start of the work day. The midday break alarm would sound, and the one to end the break, and then finally the one to end the shift. That was the alarm he dreaded now more than anything. Because then . . .
Then his personal hell would begin again in earnest.
