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"The Ties That Bind"
by Yellow_Ideya & DragonDancer5150
Chapter 11 – Pride and Pleading
Only a life lived for others is worth living. – Albert Einstein
Wheeljack cycled air in harsh, painful intakes, the right side of his mouthplates as well as the components behind cracked, creased, and knocked slightly out of alignment. He twisted his wrists experimentally in the binders they'd been locked into behind him, pulling back painfully on both shoulders – one wrenched, the other scraped at the slightest movement by crumpled superstructure plating. The rifle shot he'd taken in the garden that had shorn his arm open still burned like acid, and its twin in his patched leg ached terribly. The pain from the damage to his sensitive vocal flange was nearly blinding by itself and made speaking difficult, what with the energy that got passed into damaged relays when he did.
His spark had lurched when he glanced and saw that Ratchet was no longer at his side, but . . . no, it really was for the best. He didn't want Ratchet here, didn't want him captured, maybe killed, almost certainly hurt. More hurt. And he had told Ratchet to run.
I never shoulda led 'im here. Never shoulda let 'im argue with me, just made 'im take the map file an' get the slag outta dodge! Now he could only pray that Ratchet would somehow manage to escape. Please, Primus, if you really exist...It was too late for him – and the thought frightened him to no end – but he could at least reserve hope for the medic.
Then, even that last hope was crushed. His captor was just starting to drag on him to get him moving – where, he didn't dare contemplate – when he heard a familiar cry and a body hit the floor. Another strike and that body scraped down the hall to fetch into a wall by him. His optics flared in shock and dismay. "Ratchet!"
On reflex, he started to go to his friend, not even thinking in that instant about the fact that he was manacled and could do nothing. New spikes of pain flashed through his systems, causing a few to overload and his optics to flicker as they tried to reboot – his captor had caught his wounded arm, fingers deliberately curling into the wound for purchase and to get his attention. "Hold still!" the Decepticon snarled in his audio. Wheeljack's legs buckled at the new levels of pain, his captor forced to catch and support him.
Engineer and medic – their optics met for an instant as Ratchet visibly fought to regain his senses, and Wheeljack's spark shrank in his laser core. W-we're not gonna make it. Primus have mercy, we're not gonna make it! Primus, please!
Suddenly, Ratchet was scrambling to his feet and diving at Skystalker. The sharp cracks of rifle shots echoed off the walls, and the medic's body lurched unnaturally, black and hot pink fluid flying in a sickening spray. He went down a second time.
"No! Ratchet! RATCHET!" Wheeljack ignored the agony of his broken flange as he screamed his friend's name, the cries coming out in broken sobs, horrified and desperately denying that he'd just watched them offline the only person he had left. He tugged on his captor's grip, heedless of the fingers dug into his injury. The 'Con clung to him with ridiculous ease, his strength far greater than the wounded engineer's. Skystalker stepped up and backhanded him again with a warning to stop struggling 'or else'. The younger engineer found himself suddenly terrified at finding out what "or else" was, and he obeyed, optics locked on Ratchet.
"Little nursebot thinks he's a soldier. Isn't that cute?" taunted the first Decepticon to round the corner from the way Ratchet had come. Smirking, he planted a foot onto – into – Ratchet's chest, and Wheeljack whimpered pitiably at the crunch of plexiglass.
The second Decepticon looked to Skystalker. "This all there is?"
Skystalker nodded dispassionately as Ratchet was determined still to be alive and hauled to his feet. "Gutcruncher only reported the two, and their descriptions fit these two." He turned an ugly smirk on Wheeljack again. "Don't know who your buddy is, 'Jack, but I recognized you right away. You're kind of . . . distinctive, you know? Come back for one of your toys, did you? I always knew you were at least a little insane – 'Mad Jack' and all that – but never would have taken you for suicidal."
Wheeljack ignored the all-too-familiar jabs, attention on the soldiers holding Ratchet. "P-please . . . please, let 'im go. He hasn't done anythin'! If you're here for the converter, I-I can show ya where it is. Ratch doesn't have anythin' ta do with that. Please! Please, don't hurt 'im!"
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Ratchet was particularly aware that he had gone offline for a brief moment, the pain of being shot in the back knocking his systems into a hard reboot. When he came to, he was flat on his back and his systems were struggling to operate under the weight bearing down on his chest. He pawed ineffectually at the foot that was doing a good job of digging shattered plexiglass into sensitive components, but the owner just ground his heel down painfully before removing it to haul the dazed medic to his feet.
His back felt like someone had dug a hole in his plating with a rusty trowel – probably because there was a hole there now – and the pain was fogging up his head, but he still managed to situate his feet under himself and remain upright. Warnings scrolled across his vision: energy levels dropping, several vital systems compromised, redundant backups rushing to come online and stem the impending flood of emergency shutdowns. At least Skystalker seemed more interested in talking for the moment, giving Ratchet the time his auto repair system needed to take care of the most pressing matters.
He slouched limply in the Decepticon's grip, listening to the former student belittle Wheeljack and setting his jaw against the (futile) urge to do something about it. It was sickening to think that someone could aspire to the intellectual heights that this institution promised only to turn their back on all of it and fall in with arena scrap-stompers like the Decepticons.
At the sound of Wheeljack's voice, Ratchet lifted his head and fixed pale optics first on his friend, then on Skystalker, a wry, static-filled chuckle rattling around in his chest. Well, if that wasn't ironic. "Little late for that, wouldn't you say?" he commented bitterly. He wasn't upset at Wheeljack – after all, it had been Ratchet's own decision to come along, and they'd both known that something like this was always a possibility. "But seeing as we're all going to the same place, don't see why we can't all go together." He was too tired, too hurt, and too sick of it all to bother trying to plead with mechs who were clearly devoid of anything resembling a spark. "It'll be a party." He spat a mouthful of energon at Skystalker's feet . . . and quietly redirected his ARS to the busted line providing it.
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"I-I . . . I'm sorry!" The pathetic apology – Wheeljack's voice was thin and pitched even in his own audios – came out as a reflexive response to Ratchet's first comment. The medic didn't mean that directed at him, and later he might realize that, but he was used to being blamed and berated for things, and besides, this time it was his fault, at least as far as he was concerned. He hadn't tried hard enough to protect his new friend, and now that friend was paying for it, and for his folly in coming here at all.
"SHUT UP!" Skystalker roared at the younger engineer, raising his hand again. Wheeljack gasped and cringed, several systems redlining with stress as he braced for the blow. The Decepticon snorted and let his hand fall, patting the side of Wheeljack's face in a mock-friendly manner. "Some of the boys had told me they'd been continuing your training. Looks like they've done pretty good. Might even make a good lab assistant out of you yet."
Translation: "lackey", "go-for" . . . if for Decepticons? "Slave".
N-no . . . please no . . .
Skystalker held his wide, frightened optics a moment longer, then turned his attention to Ratchet. His look was predatory and sure of his position. "And where you figure we're all going, eh, nursie-bot? The Great Pit? The End of Days?" He pulled a heavy blaster pistol and put it to the side of Ratchet's throat, angled up into the underside of his jaw. "Personally? I'm not planning to head there any time soon. But if you want to go on ahead of me and prepare me a place..." His optics narrowed as his gaze bore into Ratchet's. "You really that ready to die, nursie-bot?"
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Despite his wounds, exhaustion, and current state of containment, Ratchet still had to struggle to remain silent in the face of Skystalker's treatment of Wheeljack. Beyond the urge to defend the mech he was calling friend now, the medic had long held a dislike for bullies, and Skystalker seemed to be doing everything in his power to earn the title down to the letter.
The returning spark of anger was enough to add some clarity of focus to Ratchet's thoughts. He stared back into the Decepticon's red optics, even as his head was wedged up by the barrel of the mech's weapon, refusing to let go of the last scraps of freedom and principle he had left. He'd never backed down to a bully before and he wasn't going to start now. Or at least, he was exhausted enough to fool himself into thinking so.
"Actually," he croaked, optics narrowing, "I was figuring the converter we're all here for, but if you really want me to get a head start on letting Primus know what a stand-up mech you are, you're gonna need to angle your gun more to the right." Gallows humor, the older medics called it – something of an acquired taste among those who dealt with life and death on an academic level. Ratchet had taken to it with startling swiftness early on.
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WHAT THE SMELT, YA IDIOT, DON'T PROVOKE 'IM!
Wheeljack didn't dare voice the mental cry aloud, though anyone looking at him could have read it well enough on his faceplaces, in the wide apertures of his optics.
"You've got guts, nursie-bot." Skystalker's voice purred with threat. "I'll give you that mu-" His head turned a bit just then, attention inverting as a hand went absently to the side of his helm. Wheeljack guessed he was receiving a private comm. Snapping back out of the very brief distraction, Skystalker studied Ratchet for a klik, then stepped back, put away his gun, and looked at Wheeljack. The younger engineer shrank back into his guard at the nasty smirk on his face. "I'd heard you were on the team that built the converter. I knew you had potential, even for a dirt digger." His optics narrowed again, his tone low and dangerous. "Except apparently, it's not working – one of your teammates jacked it up. So now you get to come with us, and you'd better be able to fix that piece of slag, or I'll be introducing you to the nearest smelting pool personally." Wheeljack whimpered, cowering in spite of himself – no no no no please no please no PLEASE!– and Skystalker hesitated long enough apparently to enjoy the younger engineer's terror before turning on his heel and motioning for the guards to follow.
The one holding Ratchet spoke up just then. "Sir, what about this one?"
Skystalker gave the medic a contemptuous glance over his shoulder and shrugged. "Kill him." He continued walking, calling over his shoulder with a wave. "Give my regards to Primus, Nursie!"
"NO!" The condemnation of his friend galvanized Wheeljack into action again at last, overcoming his terror for himself to dare speak up; that was often how it worked for him. Once more, he was babbling without much consideration – and no care – for what he was saying. If he just kept talking, usually he managed to come up with something that'd work. "Y-you can't do that! He's important! I need him! I- . . . h-he's my lab assistant! I'll need him ta work on the converter!"
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There was an indomitable sense of pride that was keeping Ratchet from cowering under Skystalker's threats. It wasn't that he had any particular urge to irritate the Decepticon to the point of finality – just that he was fairly convinced that either way was going to end poorly so he might as well go out spitting in the other's optic. At least that provided some small sense of satisfaction.
He kept his optics fixed on Skystalker up until the point when he pulled away, allowing Ratchet's optics to meet Wheeljack's. He tried not to look as tired and hurt as he felt, but anything else that might have been conveyed was cut off when Skystalker finished whatever internal conversation he'd been holding.
"Kill him."
Panic flooded Ratchet's systems despite the defiance he'd been clinging to, and he wiggled desperately in his captor's grip, Wheeljack's sudden verbal flailing filtering in somewhere around everything else clamoring for attention in his processor. The Decepticon holding him gave him a sharp yank, rattling the medic enough to cease his squirming while the one 'Con still unoccupied looked between the two beat-up students.
"He's a med-bot," the soldier sneered, as if the idea that Wheeljack had somehow missed this fact was a great offense to the universe.
Emboldened by any chance to save his life, even as slim as it was, Ratchet immediately interjected. "Frag off, why else do you think I'd drag my skidplates all the way here if he didn't need my help?"
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"YES I KNOW HE'S A MED-BOT!" Even Wheeljack had his limits, but then he winced at his own snapping tone . . . and made himself plow on before he lost what nerve he'd managed to regain. "W-was a med-bot, that is. Was a med-bot!" He also managed to keep from glancing at Ratchet in apology – if Ratchet could read it, the others could too, and would instantly know he was lying. If they couldn't tell already. "T-transferred over ta Engineerin' just this term. Guess they never got around ta the reformat, huh?" At this point, he didlook over at Ratchet, a plea to play along hidden under the pretense of checking if he got it right.
Skystalker had paused in his walk and turned back, glaring impatiently. "Insane, suicidal . . . and apparently masochistic – " He closed the distance back to Wheeljack in just a few strides and clamped a hand on the slagged flange, squeezing and eliciting a strangled, sobbing cry as he used it to yank the younger engineer's head closer so he could growl in his face. " – because you must reallylike the punishment, 'Jack." He threw a nasty grin over at Ratchet. "How many times you have to patch this kid back up after my boys were done with him, huh?" He let go, shoving Wheeljack's head back into his captor's chest. "You know better than to lie to me, 'Jack. You really that stupid? Because you better not think I am."
"S-sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-" Wheeljack drew harsh, sobbing cycles of air as he tried to regather his senses and his courage. H-he did . . . he didknow better . . . but if he didn't try now, they'd kill Ratchet! He'd learned since the first time he'd crossed the members of the elitist "Imagineering Club" that it was just best if he kept his vocalizer silent, did what they told him, let them do to him what they were going to, and got it over with. If he obeyed and didn't resist, they'd leave him alone for the most part. But now...
"O-okay . . . y-yeah, h-he's a medical intern - I'm sorry! - b-but . . . c-c'mon, Skystalker . . . " He couldn't make himself look the other in the optic as he spoke. "Y-you know my memory. I'd forget ta rechargeif my power cells didn't threaten involuntary stasis on me! R-ratchet's got good memory banks. We met in the med-bay, hung out in the cafeteria, g-got ta talkin' . . . he remembers stuff I can never seem to! S-so he's...s-so he's got a lotta my notes on things, e-even if he doesn't necessarily get what I was talkin' about. He remembers a-an' I put the data ta use!" Finally, he dragged his gaze up to Skystalker's once more. "P-please..."
Skystalker glared down at the smaller mech, but then his gaze darted to the side a bit again for an instant. He refocused on Wheeljack . . . backhanded him one more time for good measure, then looked up to his guards. "They're here. We're out of time." He darted a glance at Ratchet, then turned again on his heel and stalked down the hall at an angry pace. "Bring them both. We'll sort this out later."
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For his part, Ratchet was looking particularly irritated and cranky which could be taken any way one wanted and didn't do much to hurt Wheeljack's story. He nodded sharply when the other mech looked at him for 'confirmation' but otherwise said or did little else, mostly because by then, Skystalker was back to harassing Wheeljack, and Ratchet had to keep his mouth shut or he'd be giving the Decepticon lip that would probably end up getting him killed after all.
He glared heatedly at Skystalker, jaw set and hands clenching from where they were twisted up behind his back. It was hard not to tell Wheeljack to quit apologizing to that glitch-ridden piece of scrap; he was the last mech anyone needed to be groveling to, especially someone like Wheeljack. It jabbed painfully at everything Ratchet had held to in his life, and it was all he could do to keep from snapping out about it.
Good mechs didn't beg; they didn't bow and scrape; they held their heads up and refused to be shoved down. If there was anything that Ratchet was getting out of this ordeal, it was that: the slow clarification that this was not how it was supposed to be.
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Wheeljack normally didn't beg. Or anyway, not aloud. Normally, he didn't have anyone worth begging for. Normally, it was just him, and he rarely begged for himself – not out of pride but because he knew it did no good. If anything, it usually made things worse, encouraged greater cruelty. But when it was another who was on the line, he couldn't keep silent, no matter how futile. Even if it got him in more trouble than he already was, if he could take whatever would have otherwise been directed at another, at least they didn't have to suffer too, or suffered less.
And he could take it, whatever it was. He didn't give himself a choice; he just took it. He managed. Somehow. That was how he always did things in life – he challenged himself, figured out how to make it work, and did it. Somehow. And if that meant allowing himself to be demeaned, berated, and abused now, it was just part of the price he had to pay to get where he knew he wanted to be.
Of course . . . that was all going out the window now, wasn't it? Now, it seemed as if his mind would only process a very limited vocabulary of concepts: 'Decepticons', 'cruel', 'evil', 'captured' . . .
'Slave'.
N-no . . . no, please, no!