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0 0 Part Eleven 0 0
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It was charming, Overlord thought. The results of every project had their own appeal, but this particular labor was bearing plentiful fruit. He watched the little rotary cheeping like a wounded technimal, and he stood back to enjoy the meek chirps of a broken spirit. Nothing was quite as intoxicating as that moment when a spark marched to the tune of his whims, and this one was just beginning to do so, one choked supplication at a time. A heady rush of power filled him at how readily they were coming, too.
Overlord was indeed the best at what he did.
"Sorry? You are sorry, Vortex?" Oh, did he relish when his victims brightened at the thought that they might have said the right thing. Said the magic words that would please him, because it ground in just that much deeper that they were aware it was now their highest goal in life.
It was even more entertaining to listen to the copter grovel. Not for the words - they were just 'sir' and 'please' strung together in varied combinations - but to hear that superimposed over the Combaticon's EM field was like the taste of hundred vorn old high-grade. Every single word was highlighted with dense hatred, every pause backlit by a marvelous flash of humiliation. The longer he made the 'copter repeat himself, the harder the little flier grit his teeth and the more he lost control of his EM field.
Because rage and humiliation were not all that there was to that pretty EM field. The longer Overlord drew this out, the more it fought free of Vortex's battered pride to strain toward him. He felt the rotary's need winning, pushing aside the hate, and that satisfied him greatly. He had seeded that desperation, patiently fed it and kept it strong. Now it was rooted straight into the 'copter's mind, and soon it would grow and bloom into a beautiful, disciplined obedience.
Perfect obedience.
Overlord knew that the Combaticon was still fighting the conditioning. Even though the mecha already responded well to direct and implied orders, there was only a hint of surrender in that EM field. Resignation lay like a corrosive scum over Vortex's circuitry, but that wasn't enough. Given his position in the Decepticon ranks, the interrogator had more tools than most available to fight or bend around Overlord's work. The triple-changer assumed that Vortex would use them all. He hoped the rotary would. Understanding what was being done to him spiced the Combaticon's whole experience with humiliation, rather than the usual numb confusion Overlord's other subjects tasted.
However, obedience grudgingly given was as easy to lose as it was to obtain. Any Decepticon officer with a big gun could make their underlings follow orders, but unless they put more into it than just barking loud enough, most of those officers would have a bleeding hole in their backs as soon as they turned around. Decent officers made sure that their units had reason not to scrap them at the first opportunity. Troops who wanted their superior alive and in charge tended to make sure that state of affairs remained in place. That usually happened either because of the perks resulting from working under such an officer, or because of the repercussions from the hole in said officer's back being not quite deep enough to create a job opening.
Perfect obedience came about through exploring those repercussions until mecha knew to the exact, sickening, frightening, and excruciating detail what would happen if they disobeyed. Even if the officer was disarmed, unconscious, and helpless, perfect obedience ensured that his grunts would drag his statis-locked body off to a medic. That was the power of conditioning.
There was also loyalty, but that was something no sane Decepticon in any kind of rank relied on. Assuming a unit was loyal only meant the troops were good actors. An officer who trusted loyalty above intensive training didn't stay an officer for long.
The towering triple-changer rubbed the bubble he was holding a tad bit harder, making it squeak almost inaudibly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as Vortex's engines hitched. The rotary mecha's pleas came in a steady murmur now, and he was totally enthralled by the tiny plastic air pocket in Overlord's fingers. From time to time, the optic sensors behind that visor of red glass flickered as Vortex stole glances at the officer's face.
Overlord savored the starved longing in the electromagnetic field trying to clamp itself around its owner and failing miserably. Vortex's coding would drive him to cling to Overlord no matter what he himself wanted, and the triple-changer's power plant thrummed gloating pleasure for the pathetically needy EM field reaching toward him.
Perfect obedience didn't require loyalty. It didn't require a concrete incentive or a corporal punishment of any kind. If Overlord had to raise a hand to coerce the 'copter physically, then it wasn't perfect obedience. No, what Overlord was training into this cheeping, clicking Combaticon was the core-deep conditioning for action/reaction, cause and response.
The end result would be that disobedience would become the scariest thing in the universe; the repercussions would inescapable because Vortex himself would mete out the punishment. By the time Overlord finished with him, the 'copter would fall apart at the mere idea of not doing what he was told. Even surrounded by his gestalt, Vortex would be unable to stop how his support structure code turned on him, lashing his mind like whips of self-flagellation. Absolute compliance would be ingrained into him as a self-sufficient reason. Obedience would be the only safe refuge for his conditioned mind, which would need no actual reward but a comparatively blissful state of complete certainty. Orders would be obeyed because they simply had to be done.
No questions, doubts, or personal motives would be attached to that obedience. Perfect obedience.
A smile graced Overlord's lips, and the Combaticon snapped so rigid he started vibrating inside his plastic bindings with the tension. The larger Decepticon gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Vortex's engine keened. The pleading rose in pitch and turned revoltingly grateful. Self-hatred rolled under the words like waves along an ocean of submission.
Overlord contemplated the quivering mecha for a moment, anticipation making his optics flare briefly brighter. Vortex blinked up at him, trying to interpret that flare as good or bad, trying to guess what would happen next, and the triple-changer almost laughed. Just thinking about the screaming to come made his engines turn over with pleasure, and his project startled at the sound. Nerves had the little 'copter twitching.
That only increased Overlord's enjoyment of the whole situation, and his smile stretched wide. He raised his other hand and gently smoothed the plastic sheet he was holding back onto the roll.
"Today," Overlord said, and Vortex froze, so rigid he didn't even vibrate. Even his engine stuttered to a halt. Overlord stared down into the Combaticon's visor, now so bright it burned white around the edges. He wondered, amused, if the helicopter's fuel pump might have stopped as well. "This," he continued, grazing the edge of the plastic bubble-blanket with a single finger, "is enough for you." The wrapping now only reached up to the the smaller mecha's chest, but that was enough to keep him still.
Not even a shudder ran through the paralyzed frame this time as Overlord turned and strode toward the door, stopping only to lean the roll of plastic against the wall. Then he left the room with the perpetually unlocked door without a look back.
A soft sound of disbelief followed him out. It morphed quickly into panicked words trying to call him back. That became a prolonged shriek as it hit Vortex that he wasn't coming back. That Vortex was being left to face the consequences of disobedience, something that had become the Combaticon's private nightmare.
Yes, there was still a long way to go before this pet project was done with. But once it was, submission would be so hard-coded into Vortex's processor that the Combaticon wouldn't be able to tell the moment he stopped obeying for the sake of a plastic reward. The bubblewrap was a cute method of transference, but soon Vortex would bend to Overlord's whims sheerly for obedience sake. Disobedience...well, disobedience soon wouldn't be an option, in Vortex's mind.
The officer paused when he heard the retching sound of a tank being purged amidst the wailing. The helicopter's body had already reached that point, it seemed, and was punishing the mecha. The mind would soon follow.
Not yet, but soon.
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