Chapter 7: Refurbed Intelligence Equipment
Leftenant-Colonel Feldspar, long-time war veteran and current commander of the secret Targa-7 Decepticon military base, was currently being tortured for information. Or at least, his captors were attempting to do so.
"Well, I just don't know," Feldspar admitted with a shrug. His arms were bound together behind his back by old-fashioned clamps, and his feet were bound to the splayed feet of a rolling office chair. "The DX edition of the Torturetron 550 was inexpensive for a reason..."
Scunge, one of the henchmen in charge of the torture session, was still fiddling around with a handful of coloured cables attached to a small, innocuous black box with several switches and coloured lights on it. The sleek-looking box notably had the word TORTURETRON 550 labelled on its side in flashy Cybertronian letters.
"What? Whaddya say that for?" Scunge asked, frowning over at the large Colonel.
"Well, it's just that... oh, nevermind," Feldspar sighed dramatically. He pretended to look more interested in the condition of his tank tread-shoulders. He had taken a few hits prior to being captured, but he had taken out a few of them, too.
"Boss, I think he's trying to wiggle out of it," Scunge muttered.
He shot a look up at the tall Decepticon standing aside with his arms crossed. This particular individual was painted a slight off-white and purple, with black and blue armour detail. At his back, his jutting wings were blue-striped and enormous. The Decepticon sigil was worn with obvious pride in the middle of his chest.
"Oh, is he...?" the big mech grunted.
A distant explosion gently rocked the floor, and the panels underfoot shuddered. The men, affectionately called the Goons, were likely still running around pillaging the station. The white-and-purple mech stepped over Scunge's attempts to fix the Torturetron, towards where Colonel Feldspar was being held.
"He'd better get to talking now before this thing gets fixed," the large mech went on. He eyeballed the unusually calm Lt-Colonel with a suspicious squint, and casually just strolled around him. "Not that we're known for mercy, but as they say, traitors are the worst kind of scum."
Feldspar just stared up at him, carefully. "I didn't realize hypocrisy was one of your lesser-known skills, Octane."
"Hypowhat?" Octane snorted at him. "Whatever you've heard, it's all lies." He grinned sideways at the Lt-Colonel.
Feldspar merely kept his glaring gaze on him. "You're a bleeding snitch and a coward," he went on critically, breaking off his gaze as Octane strolled along behind him now. "How did you manage to organize all of... this?"
For emphasis, Feldspar cast his gaze all around. In the spare office, most of the other furniture had been pushed to the walls, leaving only the data terminals bolted to the floor. In the cleared-off space near the back of the room, Feldspar's chair had been set up strategically in the centre of a handy spotlight. There were no other people in the room besides the present three.
"What, you don't think I'm able to orchestrate large-scale fuel raids by myself?" Octane scoffed, with a hand placed dramatically over his chest plate.
"I'm surprised you're able to use large-scale words," Feldspar replied dryly.
"Like 'orchestrate?'" Scunge supplied helpfully.
Octane aimed a sharp, nasty kick at the back of his henchman, who yelped and winced, rubbing his backside.
"It takes a lot of work to do what I do," Octane sniffed haughtily, as he resumed his strolling. "I don't reveal my hand until the last nano-klik."
"Waaait a cycle..." Feldspar narrowed his optics at the tall, imposing Decepticon. Then his optics went wide. "I don't believe it. Primus...!" he suddenly blurted out with a laugh. "I can't believe you had the lugnuts to trust that little-"
"You'd better believe it!" Octane huffed indignantly. "I will always be one step ahead of you-"
"No, I mean you managed to buy off my own spy," Feldspar sneered. "What, did you offer him my portion of the skim in exchange for throwing me over? Is that it?"
"Are you kidding?" Octane looked outraged. "Me, rely on the services of your own-"
"Boss, it's working!" Scunge suddenly piped up.
Octane turned and glanced down at the Torturetron, which now hummed to life. The lights on its surface glittered with silent malice.
"Good. Prep him, now," Octane ordered, irritably.
"Now wait just a klik," Feldspar snarled, leaning forward in his bonds, which were tight enough to restrict him from achieving even that. "As I was saying, that's the DX model. You realize that thing is just as likely to kill me as actually torture me." He lofted a brow ridge.
Octane swung his gaze over towards Scunge, who had now stood back up with an electrical power drill in one hand. "The DX models were always a bit ticky," he admitted with a shrug.
"Now how are you supposed to torture me if I die in five cycles hooked up to that thing? How is that going to look in your report, you cheap, lying bastard?" Feldspar when on, with a sarcastic scowl.
"Megatron won't care about minor details," Octane said with a dismissive gesture, just as the door at the back of the room swished open. He ignored it. "Scunge, hurry it up-"
"You!" Feldspar suddenly snarled, casting his gaze towards the opening door. "YOU were supposed to-"
"Surprise!" Turbogear announced with a huge grin on his face. He held his hands up in the air in a gesture of mock-surrender. "Yes, it was me all along, sorry, old chap! I do apologize for the delay."
Octane just smiled at the sight of his conspirator. "Good timing. I was just about to begin the interrogation of your former employer."
"Oh, now how could I miss that?" Turbogear jogged the rest of the way until he could stand in the same pool of light that shone down over Octane and his henchman, Scunge. "Colonel, you're looking well," he added, with a nod.
"And you're looking for a royal aft-kicking when I get out of here," Feldspar warned him in a low tone. "Turbo! Where the Pit have you been? And why do you look like that? How could you side with this stupid sack of bolts? Whatever he's offering you is pure slag-"
"What are you talking about, old bean? This is Octane here!" Turbogear laughed, and he leaned over to give the big Decepticon a chummy punch in the shoulder. "A capital fellow!"
Feldspar just stared at him in disbelief. "You've gone spare," he mumbled darkly.
"Don't listen to him," Turbogear sniffed, as he patted Octane on the arm. "The Leftenant-Colonel is a former POW, sir. There's little that terrifies him into admission that he has not already experienced once before. He'll know true suffering once we're through with him. Oh, what's this..."
Turbogear leaned aside and peered over at Scunge, who was still sorting out the various cables and attachments on the sleek black box on the floor.
"Oh, it's a Torturetron!" Turbogear beamed. "I haven't seen one of these in ages! Oh my, it's a DX." Immediately he frowned and rubbed his chin thoughfully.
"What? What's wrong with the 550 DX?" Scunge asked, looking as puzzled as he did before.
"Well, I'm highly dubious of your decision to use the DX model," Turbogear said, still gazing down critically at the box. "Not only is the device known for being manufactured with defects, but they are potentially fatal ones, too. I must insist on some higher grade of torture if you're to submit any kind of report to Megatron about this afterwards."
"You see? Even he knows about the DX," Feldspar growled somewhere in the background.
The look on Octane's face was becoming more and more bemused the longer Turbogear spoke, until he finally let out a bark of laughter. "You Targan Decepticons amaze me," he chortled. He then sighed and waved a hand. "Scunge, drill him."
A moment later, the thin, painful screech of drilled metal overshadowed by Feldspar's screams of agony could be heard echoing down every single corridor in the north wing.
Turbogear uncovered his audios as soon as Feldspar's expression went lax. By then, Scunge had hooked up the various adapters and electrodes to the Lt-Colonel's electronic brain, and was now fiddling with various settings on the Torturetron 550.
"Well, that was fun," Turbogear winced. "Guess I'd better get going now, aha..."
But before he could turn around, Octane's hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. "Leaving so soon?" the large mech rumbled. "We've barely begun."
"Well, I don't want to miss out on the looting," Turbogear replied casually, with a somewhat misgiving look.
"There will be plenty for you once we harvest everything here at the plant," Octane assured him with a heavy pat. "Once I tell Megatron about how Feldspar was skimming off profits and making side deals with Autobot suppliers, I'll make sure there's a place for you by Megatron's side."
"Because you have clout with him, I know, you've told me," Turbogear murmured, trying his best not to sound as weak-kneed as he felt. "No, really, I've got... stuff do to."
"You'll miss the interrogation!" Octane protested.
Stalling for time, Turbogear weighed his hands up and down for a moment. "What... exactly are you interrogating him for, anyway? I mean... yes, the only thing I wasn't able to get from him were the encryption codes he'd been using to communicate with the Autobots, but... who cares? We blow up the joint, load up the goods and all's well and done, am I right?"
"See, now this is why I'm the brains of this operation," Octane sighed, as he gave Turbogear's shoulder another heavy pat. "You have no idea just how important the data you've supplied me with really is."
"I... don't?" Turbogear masked his hesitation with a wooden expression.
"Of course not. See," Octane began, as he swept a hand out towards Feldspar's motionless form slouched in his chair, "The Leftenant-Colonel here not only was a treacherous doublecrosser-"
"Aren't we all?" Turbogear seemed confused, as he pointed back and forth between himself and Octane.
Octane ignored that as he continued. "-but he was also an Autobot sympathizer. Don't you see? Once I get a confession from him, Megatron won't be as pissed to find out that we've blown up one of his secret energon refineries! It will all be Feldspar's fault!"
It was now Turbogear's turn to stare dully at him. "What," he said flatly.
"It's genius, I know. You wouldn't understand," Octane sighed.
Turbogear turned and swept Octane's hand off his shoulder. "Now wait just a cycle," he growled, resisting the urge to thrust a stern finger up between them. "Who said anything about blowing anything up? I thought we were just going to grab the codes and sack the place! Not... erase it!"
"What do you think all the shooting was for," Octane said blandly.
"You said your men wanted to blow off some steam!"
"So?"
"I said you could off some of the personnel! Not destroy the refinery!" Turbogear stabbed a finger off towards the doorway, which also happened to be facing the direction of the H-energon processing facility outside of the administration domes.
Octane made an all-suffering sigh and rolled his optics. "They'll just build a new one. And then we'll sack that one later, too."
"That's - no! That wasn't the deal!" Turbogear's wings began quivering now.
Octane had had enough. Suddenly his hand snapped out and grabbed Turbogear by the shoulder-wing, and he jerked him forward.
"Actually, the deal was to have my medic reformat you into a triplechanger like me," he growled into Turbogear's astonished face. "No percentages, no nothing. You've got what you came for. Now you can do as I say, or you can leave before I send Pylon and Whetstone after you."
Turbogear didn't dare blink. "Hokay then," he said brightly, with a grin. "Anything you say, boss."
With a smirk, Octane shoved him away. "Now help me figure out what these codes are," he rumbled warningly.
Turbogear stumbled back a few steps and caught himself. His new wings had hitched up in anger and alarm, but he otherwise did not bother to express his displeasure any further. His schedule had gone from tight to pear-shaped.
"Right," he said stiffly. "On with the show, then...!"
