A/N: thanks to reviewers subbykkaya and Steelcode for letting me know what you thought of the last chapter!

Now.

I know some of you, at this point, expected nice and fluffy lightness. I'm sorry, that's not what you're getting.

This chapter was originally written as a prompt response for DogtagXD at the 100 reviews prompt fest, and then it just completely took over the story. Which is good, because if not I'd have probably skipped ahead some years and brought this fic to an end. The request was:

I would like to request a ficlet featuring a human and my favorite smooth-talking con man combaticon, Swindle! I would love for it to be from Isobel's perspective since I already love her as an OC, but I'm not picky. It can be a first meeting type scenario, or with a vauge history implied. I would also love for it to contain a subtle theme of changing opinions. Like Swindle to start off despising said human only to realize they aren't really that bad. Or maybe said human to go from thinking that maybe Swindle is alright for a decepticon to 'Nope, I was wrong. That dirt bag would sell out his own teammates for a crisp 5 dollar bill.' Because first impressions aren't always correct, and I find it SO entertaining when they aren't.

I hope this meets your expectations, eeeeven if I haven't quite stayed within the boundaries of the request.

Also, up until now this fic has kept real time - Christmas at Christmas, Valentine's day at Valentine's day. All that is out the window with this. I don't think it'll cause problems.

Let me know what you think.

26: Taken

It's damp. And dark. And cold.

I've never encountered a place more fit to be called ominous in my life.

The bars are metal, spaced too close together for me to squeeze between them. There's no light in here – the little illumination there is spills from a doorway at one end of the vast room. So I can see some things, but not much.

I still figure I see more than I'd like.

Hear more than I'd like, too. Not that there's a lot of sound. But the steady dripping, the occasional slow groaning of metal walls, the dull thumping of footsteps above me or outside the vast room, are all enough to have me on edge. And enough to drive home exactly where I am.

Oh, yeah. I know where I am. My files were thorough. Although I'm a bit fuzzy on how I got here. And why they even bothered. It's not like the 'Cons to take human prisoners.

That's why the cell's so big, after all. It's sized for prisoners the size of Sideswipe. Heck, you could fit Optimus in here without problems, though Skyfire would have to spend the time seated. I'm cassette-sized, I've got plenty of room.

Wondering if they'll remember to feed me, though. And if they even know what humans eat.

At least I'm not injured, though the damp and cold aren't doing me any favors. The slight bump on my head - evidence that I was knocked out – stings a bit, and I might have a mild concussion, but I can live with that. It's not like I'm going to get a full night's sleep in here anyway. And, unfortunately, I've got neither my comm or my gun. I must have lost them at some point – probably the same point that everything else went hazy, somewhere on the way to San Francisco.

Wheeljack won't be happy.

I walk over to the bars, sticking my head out between them. I've already made sure that the bars aren't energized – I guess they don't think that a squishy's worth the energy expenditure. Probably a good thing, or this move would kill me.

There's a guard in front of the doorway.

He's fricking huge. Not just tall, but wide, built like a bloody tank. Even slouching, he's intimidating.

But he's what I've got to work with.

"Hi," I call out.

He turns his head slowly, glowing red visor in a pale face eyeing me disinterestedly. Then he looks away again.

So I try again. "Hi."

No response this time.

Well, this is going to get old really fast.

"I have to say," I begin conversationally, "I'd heard better of Megatron's famous hospitality."

Still nothing. This hulking giant is decidedly unsociable.

I guess I'll have to wait until the watch changes. They have to have those, right? Even Decepticons need their recharge.

So I pull my head back in, and curl up against the berth that I just can't get up on. Might as well make myself as comfortable as I can.

When next I stick my head through the bars, it's a Seeker sitting in front of the doorway. Not one I've read about in my files, though. I'd have remembered seeing one that was mostly red.

Well, time to try again. "Hi."

He sneers at me. That's a form of progress, I suppose. "So the squishy talks. I thought it just whined."

"I'm surprised you thought at all," I snark back.

Brilliant, Isobel. Way to befriend the locals.

The Seeker throws a piece of scrap metal at me. His aim is eerily accurate, and I have to duck my head back inside to avoid having my skull bashed in.

Well, that could have gone better. I don't want to poke my head back out now in case he's still watching for it.

That doesn't mean I'm giving up, though.

"So what's the latest gossip?" I call loudly. "Starscream up to anything interesting these days?"

He snorts, and then I hear the ominous (there's that word again, I swear it's the only one that covers it in here) sound of footsteps coming closer to my cell.

"Why," he hisses, looming menacingly outside the bars, "you volunteering for the experiments?"

I shrug, putting on an air of I'm-totally-not-afraid-if-you-no-sir. "I dunno, is it worth seeing? Or is he just fragging up again?"

I should have kept my mouth shut. Or at least had the foresight to move further away.

He doesn't even use a lot of force. It's almost demeaning. Really, all he does is flick his finger – the only part of him that fits through the bars - against my forehead.

But it still throws me across the cell, landing me up against one leg of the berth where my head snaps painfully into the metal. I wince, feeling the telltale heat of blood flowing down my neck.

I've been coddled by my Autobots for too long. I forget how easily these beings can hurt me.

The Seeker is chuckling at me, a dark, grim sound that I'd give pretty much anything to never hear again. Especially in conjunction with the creak of the cell door opening.

"You know a lot, for a squishy," he rumbles, taking a step inside the cell.

He doesn't close it behind him.

The urge to run is almost overpowering. But even if I got out, I really wouldn't get very far. And I wouldn't know where to go.

"How come you know so much, huh, meatbag?"

I can't get away, either. I'm still up against the leg of the berth, the metal post is thicker than my body. And I'm woozy enough after that hit that it's all I can do to stay on my feet.

This doesn't look too good.

"Maybe I need to squeeze it out of you!" He lunges for me, dark fingers reaching, and I can't help it. I run.

Not that I get far. I don't even get to the cell door. I manage to get out of reach of his hands, but that just means that he kicks me instead.

The pain in my leg as I land is staggering. There will be no more running.

"Shut your trap, fleshie," the Seeker grunts, and I realize I'm howling, tears running down my face.

Yeah, it's partly the pain. And part sheer gut-wrenching terror.

I don't have any smart comebacks now.

"Oi, Thrust! You down here?"

The Seeker pauses, sneers at me. "Later, squishy." Then he walks out, slamming the cell door behind him. I'm left in the dirt, whimpering, listening.

"What?" the Seeker growls.

"You're wanted upstairs," the other voice says. "Starscream's gathering the trines, Megatron's orders. I'm to take over here."

The Seeker – Thrust – just grunts, and then the other door slams.

A new set of footsteps approaches my cell. I flinch back from the bars as much as I can, dragging my left leg behind me.

The mech stopping in front of my cell is shorter, stockier, more garishly colored. His dark face is winking at me. "He's right, you know. Thrust may be dumb as a bag of rusty bolts and worth less, but he's right." He squats down on his heels outside my cell. "You do know a lot more than the average squishy."

I just keep moving backwards as fast as I can shuffle.

"Hey, don't worry. I'm not comin' in there. Way I figure it, we picked you up for a reason. And I don't think it was to be a punching bag. We can use any squishy for that. Here." He puts a brown paper bag, tiny in his hands, down on the floor and slides it through the bars. "Figured it was about time for your refueling."

At those words, I realize I haven't eaten since they brought me here. And I don't know how long ago that was – judging from my stomach, it feels like it must be at least a day. About as long since last I had something to drink.

The Decepticon smiles slightly, one side of his mouth quirking. "I didn' poison it or nothing, you know. You can eat. See it as a free sample, a token of my goodwill, if you like."

That's not exactly reassuring, but I'm starving here. So I start shuffling forward again, slowly, carefully. When I get within reach of the bag, I snatch it and dodge away again.

The yellow and purple mech chuckles at me. Not cruelly, like Thrust did, but like he's seeing something funny in the situation that no one else sees.

The paper bag is full of takeaway boxes. They're still warm. And there are two bottles of water in there.

I down half of one bottle and open the first box eagerly, digging into the fried rice with relish. It's the best thing I've ever tasted.

The mech watches me eat for a while, still with that strange smile on his face. I'm on the third box – chicken with orange sauce – when he speaks again.

"Knew you were hungry. I've got a deal for you. One-time-only offer." He grins widely, falsely, as I look up. "Deal is, I bring you food and water like this every day. And every day, you tell me something I don't know – preferably about how the slag you know so much." He pauses, appraises me. "I listened, you know. I know that you know where you are. You know who rules here. I'm betting you know the entire command staff." He leans forward suddenly. "And that is not common information among squishies."

I look down again. I was expecting to be interrogated, but I thought there would be more pincers and needles and brute force involved. This one hasn't even threatened me. Unless you count the fact that I might not eat or drink tomorrow if I refuse.

Which, when you come right down to it, is a pretty big thing.

I don't think I can say no to this. And he didn't say what I have to divulge. For all I know, I can get away with telling how mad Ironhide got when he tripped over Sideswipe's illegal still. That can hardly count as secret information.

I don't know if they're coming for me. But starving to death – or thirsting to death, which is a very real possibility – won't help any.

"On one condition," I reply, trying to keep the tremors out of my voice. "You tell me your designation."

"There you go again, knowin' more than you should. If you were a normal human, you would have said 'name'. Okay," he chuckles. "I hardly think you're in a position to make demands, but it's not an unreasonable one at that, if we're to be working together. But then you also tell me yours."

I think that through quickly. I have no family, and my record is mostly public up until I started working with the army. I don't think he can harm anyone else using my name.

"That's fair," I agree. "I'm Isobel. Isobel Harrington."

"Pleasure doin' business with you, Isobel. I'm Swindle." He smiles again, gestures to the container on my lap. "Finish your meal before it gets cold."

I do as he says. Not a hard command to obey, really.

When I'm down to licking my fingers to get rid of the last remnants, he speaks again. "So. You know."

I nod. "I know."

"How do you know?"

I hesitate. No point giving away all my aces at once, is there? "Someone told me once."

He grins again. There's something deeply insincere about it, and it gives me the chills. "Nah, see, I don't buy that. You know it too well. Someone didn't just come along once and tell you about Megatron's stronghold and who his lieutenants are. You knew to recognize this place. You knew who to ask about. And you knew how to ask." He raises his index finger at me, wiggles it. "Try again, squishy."

I sigh. "The Autobots told me."

"Ah, see, now we're getting somewhere." He drops his hand again. "Now, why did the Autobots tell you?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," I dare to say. "After you've fed me again."

He shakes his head, that half-smile back on his face. "No, you'll tell me now. The deal was that you tell me something I don't know. I already knew that the Autobots must have told you. Now I want to know why the Autobots told you. And make it good, sweet-cheeks."

"They told me because they thought I needed to know."

"Uh-huh. And why did you need to know?"

I sigh, caving. "So I would know what they were up against. So I would take on the risk with my eyes open." I look at him, an eyebrow raised. "So I could help."

He nods, grinning. "There you go. You're interesting for a squishy, Isobel Harrington. I think this deal will benefit both of us." He stands up. "I'm going to sit back over near the door now, ignoring you. Wouldn't do for ol' Megatron to get a whiff of what we're doing, now, would it? Far as he's concerned, I'm just making sure you refuel, ain't I?"

I nod, catching on, and he winks at me again. "Good squishy." Then he gets up and walks off. I can hear him settling down on the seat near the door with a grunt.

Well, damn. I take a few sips of water from the half-empty bottle, thinking.

I have to come up with a strategy for this. Swindle's cannier than I thought at first, he's not going to be satisfied with dumb stories and pointless jokes. I need to spin this out, Scheherazade-style, make sure I survive long enough for them to come find me.

If they plan to come find me, that is. If they know where I am.

It's a pretty damn big if.

The thought isn't comforting. But I'm not hungry anymore, my mind is still foggy, and I just can't keep my eyes open anymore even though I know I shouldn't sleep with my head like this. So with Swindle still guarding the door, I doze off.

I curl up the empty burger wrapper and look up. Swindle is watching me expectantly.

"All done?"

I nod.

"Good." He smiles that small smile. "Now, yesterday you told me about your job. Today I want to know how you ended up with the Autobots."

It's the third day in the reign of Swindle. My leg still hurts like pit, and I can't walk on it, but my head's better. Best of all, he keeps me fed and watered and the other guards haven't touched me.

Not that I've been provoking them either. I've been sitting still and silent in my cell like a good little mouse.

Keeping him with information without giving away anything crucial turns out to require every bit of mental acuity I possess, though. I managed yesterday, but he seems to know which question to ask and how to phrase them so I can't dodge. And at this point, he's the only thing keeping me alive in here - I piss off Swindle, I have no doubt that that's it. So I can't dodge him too hard either.

At least he always stays outside the cell.

He's still looking at me, waiting for my response. I wipe my fingers and mouth on the napkins that came with the meal, buying some more time.

"I told you that I'm a psychologist with a specialization in post-traumatic stress disorder in soldiers," I begin carefully. He nods – not impatiently, but still urging me to go on. "Well, I've been working on army bases for years now, ever since my brother killed himself after coming home from Iraq."

"He killed himself? When?"

"Oh, about four years ago now." I look up, wait for the customary sympathy, but of course this is a Decepticon. Decepticons don't do the sympathy spiel. Swindle just nods and waits for me to go on.

"Anyway, last year I was transferred to work with N.E.S.T. You know of them?" He nods again. "Well, that's how. I've been sharing a base with the Autobots since then."

"Well, that's reasonable enough." His gaze suddenly sharpens. "Sharing a base, you say. You don't work with them?"

"I'm hired by N.E.S.T. to work with the human soldiers," I reply. All true, just not all the truth. "I don't work for the Autobots."

"So why would they want you to be informed? To help?"

"There are risks that comes from sharing a base with giant robots." I reply, pointing at him. "So I learned some things."

"That's it?"

I can tell he knows that that's not it. But I'm hoping I can feed him something else, get him off the scent.

"The Prime –" no calling him Optimus, not here, I don't want to show how familiar I am with them "- asked me once to assist with interrogation of Decepticon prisoners. I said no." I school myself not to fidget. "That's all."

He smiles that small smile again, and I think I've gotten away with it. For today, at least. "Why did you say no?"

I smile back, as genuinely as I'm able to with my heart beating this fast. "I don't do interrogations. Especially not of giant alien robots."

"Fair enough." He grins, stands back up. "Later, squishy."

Swindle's very careful. He never stays for more than a couple of minutes after I'm done eating, only asking a couple of questions every day. For some reason, I don't think he's giving the information to anyone else, either – this is all to his own benefit.

I crawl back into my corner, flush up against the bed post, and start planning my answers for tomorrow.

On the sixth day, there is no Swindle.

Not that it's that easy to tell the days, here. The light never changes. But I've gotten a feel for how the time passes after six days in this hellhole, and I'm fairly sure he would normally have been here by now. My stomach thinks so, too.

The day's been abnormal all around. There's no guard here at all – not that I'm a flight risk, since I can't walk and can't get through the bars and can't get out of the base either, for that matter, but still. And earlier, there was a lot of stomping and clanging reverberating through the walls. After that, everything's been deathly quiet.

I'm trying to banish the thought that the 'Cons have all fled and just left me here. That's not conducive to my mental health.

No, they're coming back. They have to, this is their base after all.

I curl up in my corner, arms around my one functioning knee, and wait.

The relief when I finally hear noises again, after what seems like at least several hours and definitely half my lifetime, is an exhilarating, physical thing. I don't really care if Swindle's coming back today or not, knowing that I'm not down here all alone and have nothing to look forward to other than thirsting to death slowly is enough for today. It's enough to relax every part of my body so utterly, banishing all the stress and adrenaline, that I'm falling asleep before I know it.

The banging of the brig door opening rouses me again with a start, and for a moment I've forgotten where I am. It comes back to me quickly when the mustard-yellow familiar legs comes into view in front of my cell.

"Sorry, sweet-cheeks, no hot food today," he says, dumping down tiredly in front of the cell bars. "Had to dig something out of my stock."

He tosses me a bottle of water and a cellophane bag that I recognize as a field ration.

"Thanks," I say, ripping open the plastic. The fact that he has a personal stock of human food is interesting – I wonder if I'm the only reason for that.

The meal doesn't taste that awesome, but it's food, and it doesn't require any form of preparation, which is a plus. I look up at him as I chew, for the first time noticing the deplorable state of his plating.

"You look like you've had a run-in with shrapnel." He does – there're dings and scrapes and dents all over him, and his windshield's shattered.

"Nah, Shrapnel was busy attacking Auto-dorks," he grins, clearly expecting me to giggle or something and disappointed when I don't get it. "Not that well-informed, huh. Doesn't matter. No, I had a run-in with Defensor."

I school myself not to react at the name. I'm not thinking about First Aid. I've done my best lately not to think about First Aid, because that will definitely break me. Instead, I've been imagining Jazz breaking into this base, and Sunstreaker bashing Thrust's head in.

Not very charitable thoughts, but there you go. I don't figure that the Seeker necessarily earned any charity from me for a while.

"That's one of the big ones, right?" I say, swallowing. "Now why did you get in the way of him? He seems a bit out of your league."

"Oh, you don't know?" He grins, and this time it's a proud, feral thing. "I'm one of the big ones, too."

I grin. "You're kidding."

He smirks proudly. "That I am not."

"Cool." A little flattery doesn't hurt, does it? "So you've been fighting today?"

"Yeah, Megatron wanted some doohickey or other that the Autobrats were guarding, so we all had to go."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Did you get it? The doohickey?"

He shrugs, a roll of one yellow shoulder. "Who knows? All I know is, everybody was poundin' on everybody, and then we had to retreat. Same way we always do it. Anyway, I seem to remember that I'm the one who's supposed to ask the questions."

That's not the first time I've asked questions. It won't be the last one either, and he knows it. I keep pushing to see how much I can get away with. It's interesting, despite the risk, because Swindle seems to enjoy the talking. Not that he ever volunteers anything of value, I'm sure the Autobots know everything I've managed to get out of him already, but it puts us on a more even footing. And I'm all for that.

I probably pushed enough for now, though, so I curl up the wrapping, cant my head at him. "Go ahead."

"Why are you so interested in us?"

I blink. A personal question – I wasn't expecting that. And for once, not something I have to guard my tongue about.

"Us Cybertronians or us Decepticons?"

"Both."

"Huh. Okay. Well, I'm a sci-fi nut, always have been. So giant alien robots from outer space are just my thing. And I'm interested in what makes people tick – that's why I chose my field – and you guys are a brand new type of people. I don't know anything about you. Decepticon-wise…" I purse my lips, think it over. "I don't know that I have a special interest in Decepticons. But I like learning. And I haven't been able to figure you out yet."

He grins at that. "Yeah, Megatron has that problem with Starscream too."

I chuckle, though I remember Ratchet's opinion on how Megatron tries to 'figure out' Starscream. It's not really that funny.

"What about you?" I ask, deciding to push a little extra today. Swindle seems to be in the mood to tolerate it. "Why are you so interested in me?"

"You as in me Swindle or us Decepticons?"

I snort. "Come on, the 'Cons in general aren't interested in me. But you are, Swindle, or you wouldn't be here."

"Clever girl." He smiles that grin again. "It's 'cause you're interesting, sweet-cheeks." He holds up his hand, ticking off his list as he speaks. "First, you're not scared of me. Which is weird, by the way. Why aren't you scared?"

Not scared? I'm terrified. It takes all I have to keep talking, smiling, joking as if I'm comfortable in the situation, because nothing could be further from the truth.

I shrug, keeping up the act. "Should I be scared?"

"Well, you should at least be nervous," he replies, chuckling. "We're normally not nice to squishies, you know."

I shoot him a half-smile. "Well, I've been accused in the past of lacking a sense of self-preservation."

He nods. "Sounds about right. Two. You actually answer my questions without me forcing you. I don't know if that's because you're dumb or if you're too trusting or what your game is, which fascinates me on a personal level. Three. You were with the Autodorks, but without actually needing to be. And you're not a fighter, you're not in the squishies' army, which means that you have a personal interest in them. I don't care that you're denying it. Four – I have to admit I'm curious to see how far you'll go before you crack completely, how long your sanity lasts down here. And five – it would piss off a lot of 'Cons if I got an advantage out of this, which is actually reason enough for me."

Well, talk about getting more than I asked for. And remembering suddenly that Swindle is every bit as Decepticon as the rest of them. He's just an entrepreneur first.

The last two reasons make me nervous, though I'm not about to tell him that. Six days of Swindle plus the first day without him makes for a week without rescue. I don't think my Autobots have forgotten about me – heck, I know they haven't – but it's starting to look like that fantasy of Jazz breaking his way in here to rescue me is just that. And if this turns into some sick experiment for Swindle to see how far he can push me before I break, it could get very dangerous for me.

Heck, it already is very dangerous for me.

"What kind of advantage?" I ask, because that seems like the most important thing to figure out right now as well as a fairly safe question. I don't want to find out how far he means to push me, I don't know if I can handle his answer to that. "With Megatron?"

He smirks at me, a slow, long leer that somehow makes me feel measured and valued and divvied up for sale. "Nah, sweet-cheeks. An advantage for whenever." He reaches in through the bars, rests a fingertip lightly on my forehead. "So you best keep being useful." Then he gets up and leaves.

And I'm left covered in goosebumps and cold sweat. Because that was a warning and a reminder all rolled into one short sentence. Don't get too friendly. Don't forget who you're dealing with here. Don't forget where you are.

I hop back to sit against the edge of the bed. Once again, I imagine my Autobots storming the base, shooting down the 'Cons that are facing them, breaking down the door to the cell and pulling me out of there.

It's enough to keep the terror at bay for another night.

It's the eleventh day in the reign of Swindle. But the mech standing outside the bars of my cell, red visor eyeing me, the mech whose voice pulled me awake, is not him.

"Hey, squishy," he grates when he notices me looking. "You're not dead."

Well, no. And I'm stomping hard on the strand of thought that says 'not yet'.

A second look at the mech, and I realize why he looks so familiar and yet not. "You're a cassette," I croak.

Twelve days in Decepticon HQ, in the cold, dank, damp air of the brig, has messed me over in more ways than one, and the last couple of days I've woken up with a fever and a throat that feels like someone's pushed a saw down it. I barely managed to swallow the food and water that Swindle brought me yesterday.

The cassette frowns at me. "Yep. And the fact that ya know that means Swindle's right. Ya know a lot more than ya should."

I just shrug. That's relatively painless, at least.

"Now, lucky for you, the boss already knows why ya know much more'n ya should," he continues. "Which means that ya prob'ly won't be interrogated that hard."

"There's no call to interrogate her much, is there?" Swindle's voice says. It's followed by the appearance of familiar mustard yellow and black legs. He drops down, pushes another paper bag through my bars. "Hey, Rumble."

The cassette nods at him. "Hey."

"Eat," Swindle prods, pushing the bag closer with the tip of a finger.

I debate it for a moment. Say no – because I know I won't be able to swallow anything – or give it a try and show them exactly how sick I am?

How much will it cost me to show them? Less than if I just refuse?

It's so hard to think – my brain's all foggy. So I just decide to take a leaf out of Swindle's book and not tell them how crappy I actually feel. I shake my head. Swindle hasn't touched me yet. And Rumble… Well, if he is who I think he is, I'm hoping I've got an ace in the hole.

"No?" Swindle says, sounding confused.

Rumble snorts. "Figures. Even the squishies ya get us are faulty, Swindle. Can ya do anything right?"

"She was fine yesterday," Swindle says, sounding a bit defensive. "You know I don't deal in damaged goods, Rumble. Your boss knows that, too."

Deal? Has Swindle sold me to Soundwave?

I wish I wasn't sick. I'm not feeling remotely up to figuring out what's going on.

So I just ask. What's the worst that could happen, right?

And oh, how I wish I hadn't thought that, because my mind has no problems conjuring up all the bad things that could happen.

"What's up?" I croak, wincing at the pain.

Swindle's optic ridges climb. "What the frag's up with you, Isobel? You sound like you've got rust in your vocalizer or something."

"What, she a pet now, Swindle?" Rumble taunts. "Are ya tamin' her by using her name?"

"Mute it," Swindle replies, leaning closer to the bars and frowning. "I have an interest in my merchandise."

"Well, it so happens that th' boss has an interest in your merchandise too, dumb-aft," Rumble says, grinning. "He wants her upstairs. Now."

I'm really, really hoping that when Rumble says 'boss', he means Soundwave and not Megatron. Because I'm not sure I'll survive coming face to face with the Decepticon leader.

Swindle doesn't look too happy, but he opens the door and enters my cell for the first time.

"Too bad ya can't just subspace her," Rumble says, in a tone that indicates he's probably joking.

"Well, the boss probably wanted her intact, didn't he?" Swindle replies. "Not as a choked-off smear of organic mess he'd have to scrape out of my subspace with a scoop."

"Get her walking, then," Rumble says, canting his head towards the door.

Instead, Swindle bends down towards me. I don't try to crawl away as his hand drops, picking me up carefully. Much as I really don't want to see Soundwave – or Megatron, God forbid – there's really nowhere to crawl to.

"She can't walk. Thrust messed her leg up somehow." Swindle straightens, holding me about the waist like King Kong with Ann Darrow.

"So she is damaged goods, then," Rumble laughs, a braying kind of sound that rubs me completely the wrong way. "Well, we'll see what the boss says."

I try to make sense of where we're going in case I manage to escape, but it doesn't take me long to come to the grim realization that I'm not getting out of here unassisted. The hallways are too long, there are too many doors and elevators with control panels too high up on the walls for me to even contemplate reaching. This place was not built for humans.

It's way too easy to get lost, too. I lose count at the third intersection. After that, I watch the Decepticons instead while trying to look innocuous in Swindle's fist. Not that hard – I can barely keep my eyes open.

Rumble flies in front of us, hovering somehow, always keeping far enough ahead to make it clear that he's setting the pace but close enough to make sure that everyone knows we're following him. Swindle follows him closely, and though he seems to be trying to jostle me as little as possible every step jars in my head. My bad leg, dangling unsupported, feels like it's going to fall off at any moment.

Every time someone passes us in the hallway, I get looks. Sneers. Thrust, when we pass him in the hallway, grins at me in a manner that promises more pain next time we meet.

Most of them, though, just look at me with disgust. Like I'm the dead rat that the cat dragged in and dissected on the living room floor. More than one of them smirks at Swindle, and I hear comments like 'peddling in organics now' and 'wonder what he did to deserve that' and 'never get the squishy out of his joints'. Swindle, when I look up at him, has his trademark business expression fixed in place, with a side order of Mild Suffering and what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this, and he never wavers. He is a Mech with a Task, and everyone better know it. No way he's doing this voluntarily, no sir, and damn that superior who made him do it.

Yeah, these are not Autobots. That's becoming scarily obvious.

And it sinks in, suddenly. That I'm lucky they haven't killed me yet. I'm lucky that Swindle decided to take an interest in me, even if it is for his own gain. If he hadn't, I'd be dead already.

It's been twelve days. Twelve days as a captive with a faction that never keeps humans around, don't know how to care for human prisoners and don't particularly want to.

By all rights, I should be dead.

And so, I finally admit to myself that they're not coming for me. There won't be a Jazz, suddenly standing outside my cell with a grin and a "Ready, sweetspark?". There won't be a Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, shooting their way through the hallways, picking me up with customary grins and saying that they thought I had more sense than this.

There won't be a First Aid waiting eagerly for me outside the base, gathering me up in his arms as soon as I'm free and never letting me go again.

I'm not getting out of here.

I manage to keep the tears at bay, but I know Swindle notices the choking or my heart thrumming like mad, because he's staring at me like I'm some new kind of alien. I just hope he thinks it's because I'm sick. I close my eyes and let my head fall down towards my chest, whimpering.

"Huh," Rumble says. "Better hurry up. Boss can't interrogate a dead squishy."

Ah, there's the confirmation. There's the other shoe. Knew it had to be something.

I let myself go completely limp in Swindle's grasp. Maybe if they think I'm unconscious, they'll let me be for today.

The eleventh day in the reign of Swindle was also the first day in the reign of Soundwave. And where Swindle was a benevolent dictator, Soundwave's an absolute tyrant.

Oh, he doesn't hurt me. Much. Not permanent injuries, anyway.

But I've lost count of the days. I don't get to sleep – he, or one of his symbionts, wakes me up at irregular intervals whenever I manage to fall asleep. I don't eat; every now and then he gives me an energy bar and a glass of water, and that's it. Hungry's a permanent state. At least my throat settled somewhat so I manage to force the stuff down.

And I ache. Everywhere. Soundwave uses some form of shock administrator, a rod of some kind that issues electric current, and he's prone to laying it across where my skin is thinnest – inside of the elbows, back and sides of the neck, the curve of my pelvis and upper thigh, the insides of my wrists, the back of my knees. Strapped down as I am, stripped down as I am, there's not much I can do about it.

"Response: incorrect," Soundwave intones, and I howl as the current licks across my skin. "Subject: will give correct response next time."

Reign of Soundwave, day – oh, I don't even know anymore.

"Subject: will detail Prime's sources in California," the big, blue, cassette master of destruction continues. The rod hovers over my throat threateningly.

"I don't know," I wheeze. "No one tells me anything sensitive."

The rod touches the base of my throat. The touch is gentle, but the effect is not.

"Subject: will explain Prime's knowledge of Decepticon movements," Soundwave states in that monotone that I've come to dread. I steel myself for the inevitable current again, my heart still pounding from the last touch.

So far, I haven't been able to answer a single one of his demands for information. Not one. And he punishes me accordingly every blasted time.

So much for hoping that he'd be favorable towards me because I was kind to Laserbeak. I guess Decepticons don't do favors.

"I don't know," I whimper, and instantly arch against the bonds at the current.

"Huh, she's completely useless," today's cassette complains. It's the red one this time – not Rumble, the other one. "She knows absolutely nothing, does she?"

"Subject: resisting," Soundwave replies, and there's a clatter as he puts the rod away. "Frenzy: remove subject."

The same words, every day, signaling the end of my daily torture. Soundwave turns and leaves, and the cassette – Frenzy – starts undoing my bonds.

"Don't know why ya just don't tell him," he says conversationally. "Would save ya a whole lot of pain."

I don't respond. I learned the first day to not say anything unless Soundwave was in the room. He drove that lesson in hard. And both cassettes use the shock rod if they think they should.

"Come on, squishy," Frenzy says, stepping back and letting me make my way down from the table by myself. He's not patient, even less so than Rumble is, so I scramble down as fast as I manage and limp as best I can over to the cell constructed for me in the corner. It's smaller than the one in the brig, built for a cassette-size – built for me, I wonder – with a pallet in one corner and a hole in the floor leading down to a waste pipe of some sort in the other.

I drop down on the pallet shakily, curling up as much as my stiff knee will let me. Sleep is hard to find, but I close my eyes and try to control the trembling, to relax my frozen muscles and slow my breathing down. It's all I can do now.

As Frenzy leaves, he turns the lights off, leaving me in staggering darkness. That won't last, either – the light is cycled constantly, I never know what I'll open my eyes to or if I'm alone when I do. The only time the light is on with any consistency is when I'm strapped to that table.

If I open my eyes, I look straight at it.

So I don't. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to pretend that I'm back home, running on the dirt track around the base, or on the beach, or eating my lunch outside.

And I pretend that I'm not alone. He's there with me, of course, always looking at me through long eyelashes and smiling, fingers running over my skin lovingly.

I fall asleep hearing his voice in my mind.

"Subject: will describe Blaster's cassettes," Soundwave intones.

I try to slow my frantic breathing enough to just understand what he's saying.

It's the first century of Soundwave's reign, and he's getting to the difficult questions now. I don't want to give away something that the Decepticons don't know, something they can use to hurt the Autobots.

Apparently, I take too long to answer. The deceptively gentle touch to the thin skin over my hipbone burns like hot coals.

"Subject: will describe Blaster's cassettes," Soundwave repeats.

I scream at the touch of the probe. Screaming is better than responding.

Until the tip of the rod rolls slowly, excruciatingly over my stomach, up to my breasts, cresting a nipple.

I shriek, tears flowing down my cheeks, toss my head from side to side. "No, no, no please no, don't, please, please stop, stop!"

"Subject: will respond."

"He's got four," I sob. "Two mechs, a cat, a rhino."

The rod is removed. I gasp, try to catch my breath again, but it hitches in my throat and I can't breathe properly. I just keep gasping for breath without getting any. My vision fades out, there's a loud roaring in my ears, I distantly feel my feet begin to drum against the table.

"Boss!" I can barely hear today's cassette shouting over the roar.

I'm wrenched off the table hard enough to hurt. Something large and heavy hits my back repeatedly until I start coughing. Then I'm left hanging, face down, over a hard, bright, cold edge. It takes me a couple of deep breaths to realize that I'm hanging over Soundwave's thigh, and that his finger was what pounded me in the back.

The roaring in my ears fade gradually, but when I'm placed back on the table I'm too exhausted to open my eyes. My head just flops to the side. I can't move a muscle, even without the restraints.

Soundwave is silent for a moment. Then the rod clatters as it is put down. "Rumble: remove subject."

"Yes, boss."

The door slams shut. Today, though, I can't move. I just can't.

Rumble seems to understand as much. He picks me up, none too gently, and deposit me in my cage. "Later, squishy."

"Subject: will divulge Autobot energon sources."

"I don't know!" I shriek. "They get everything from the army, I don't know!"

It's day something in the reign of Soundwave, and I've given up. I can't fight anymore, I don't have any strength left. Soundwave's rule has left its mark on me. I've lost a lot of weight and can see my ribs and hip bones, my legs won't carry me anymore, I'm constantly trembling and twitching.

I'm pretty sure I'm dying. But I can't seem to summon the energy to care.

"Subject: will detail Autobot alliance with the army."

"I don't know," I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. Not that I can see much, I haven't been able to focus my sight for a while. "I don't know, please, just make it stop."

"Subject: will reveal Autobot security preparations."

"I don't know," I whisper. My lips are dry and cracked, it hurts to move them too much.

There's a clatter as Soundwave puts the rod away and start loosening my bonds. "Rumble: take subject away."

"Okay, boss."

I realize, somewhere in my foggy mind, that this is unusual. Something's off about Soundwave's phrasing, and he's never untied me himself before.

"Rumble: will seek out Combaticon Swindle."

"Yeah, boss, I know the plan. Come on, meatbag."

I'm picked up, head dangling and limbs twitching, and thrown over the cassette's shoulder. My vision's blurry, but I register enough to see that he's not taking me to my cage. Instead, we leave the room.

I fade into the darkness for a while, Rumble's rhythmic step serving to lull me almost to the point of unconsciousness.

"Slag," someone breathes. "What did you do to her!? Do you know how much trouble I went through to keep her decently fed?"

"She's not yours to worry about anymore," Rumble grunts back. "Ya know what to do?"

"Yeah, I know what to do, it's my plan, you little –"

The rest of the words, spoken in that familiar voice, are lost to me as Rumble manhandles me off his shoulder and into another pair of hands.

"The boss is in command, watching," Rumble says. "Move."

"Yeah, yeah," the voice replies from over my head. "Little glitch."

I'm cradled in a metal bowl of sorts, held up against something warm, as the rhythmic stepping continues, lulling me. My eyelids are really heavy – I try to open them, but there's no way.

I don't know how long this goes on for. I'm fading in and out, noticing things every now and then. A doorway. The voice over my head complaining about food costs. The footsteps changing, echoing differently, as we move from room to room.

A blast of freezing air jars me awake, gasping, and I curl up against the hot metal in front of me, clawing at it to get away from the cold.

"Slag," the voice curses. "And you without your isolation, too. Let's hope you can last until the mainland, sweet-cheeks."

The pet name, never really an endearment coming from him, nails it for me. I force my eyes open to see familiar purple and orange plating. "Swindle?" I croak.

"None other," he replies cheerfully. "Now buckle up, the wind's fairly heavy."

It's so cold. And wet. The hot plating in front of me isn't enough, and I'm soon shivering violently, my teeth chattering hard enough that a distant part of me is afraid they'll crack. There's no light, no familiar walls to let me know where we are.

When the cold and wind suddenly stops, it's a relief at first. But Swindle's plating's as cold as the air and does nothing to ease my shivers.

"Hold on for a little longer, sweet-cheeks," he says urgently. "We're almost there."

The footsteps are different. Not stomping over the metal floors, echoing in dank hallways, but thumping over uneven ground, sinking slightly for each step. It makes his gait uneven, and he cradles me closer to compensate.

I'm so cold. My teeth aren't chattering anymore, but my body feels like a lead weight, like I can't move any part of it. My focus narrows to the slight warmth of the plating in front of me and the gently, thudding rhythm of his footsteps, somehow in beat with my heart.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

"Halt, Decepticon."

The thumping footsteps stop.

"Hey, easy," Swindle says placatingly. "I've kept my side of the bargain."

"Oh, yeah? We'll see," the other voice replies gruffly. It sounds familiar, somehow. "C'mon."

We're moving again, and suddenly the footsteps are loud, echoing around me. I'd open my eyes if I could manage.

"That her?" the gruff voice asks.

"Yeah," Swindle replies, and then he lifts me away from the heat. I whimper weakly, reaching for the warm plating, as the quiet is broken by loud hissing and curses.

"What didya do, ya glitch?" someone snarls, and I know that voice. Oh, I know that voice.

I can't keep the tears back. "Jazz?"

"Yeah, it's me, sweetspark," he murmurs, and warm hands pick me out of Swindle's cold fingers. "Primus, look what they did to you."

"I didn't do this," Swindle huffs. "I wouldn't."

That has me chuckling weakly. "Oh, Swindle, I knew you cared."

"Cared? Nah, not on your life, sweet-cheeks," he says, and I can hear the trademarked grin. It's enough to make me manage to open my eyes, finding the tall yellow and purple blur. "I don't do things out of the goodness of my spark. This is all business."

"All right, give her here," someone says, and Jazz places me carefully onto a warm, soft surface. The heat is nice. "Primus, there's nothing left of her." Warm humanoid fingers probe my knee, my scalp, my ribs. "She's had a few bumps to the head, but they're older injuries. So's the knee, but she may need surgery if she's going to walk on it again. Posterial breaks to at least three ribs, possible bruising to the spine as well. Also, she's half frozen to death as well as running a serious temperature. Open your eyes for me, sparklet."

I open them, look up at the blur I know to be Ratchet's holoform. There's a bright light shining into my eyes. "Delayed pupillary response, possibly because of head trauma but more likely because of her diet. Or lack of it. Slag it, did you have to starve her?"

"I did no such thing," Swindle objects. "I kept her fed. Not my fault if the highers-up didn't."

"It's true," I murmur, my voice brittle. "Swindle fed me. He's nice."

There's a distinct snort from the Swindle-colored blur.

"Then who did this?" Jazz says, and he sounds pissed.

"Soundwave," Swindle replies, and I flinch. "He took her away from me after a while, and I didn't get her back until today."

"Soundwave," Jazz repeats, and it sounds like a curse. "Why?"

"Why else?" the Decepticon shrugs. "Information. Dunno why he bothered, I managed the same thing with food. Now, about my payment…"

"Yeah, that's right," someone sneers, and I realize that there are more Autobots here than I'd thought. "Your payment."

"Payment?" I echo weakly. Ratchet takes hold of my arm, inserting a needle of some sort.

Swindle grins, widely enough that I can see it. "Yeah, sweet-cheeks, you didn't think I did this out of the kindness of my spark, did you? Braved Soundwave, faced the wrath of Megatron, risk my own plating just to get you out?" He snorts. "I wouldn't do that for my own team, even. "

"He wouldn't," Ratchet confirms dryly. "He's tried to sell them before."

"I got paid three times over for this – your information, Soundwave's favors and now the credits," Swindle smirks. "Everybody's been kind enough to make it worth my while."

A large, red shape moves over to him and hands over a bag that's clinking softly.

"Here, Decepticreep," Sideswipe sneers. "Now get outta here."

"Pleasure doing business with you," Swindle grins cheekily. "Bye, sweet-cheeks." He turns, walking away.

And suddenly I'm surrounded by 'bots, despite Ratchet's best efforts. He's snarling at them as he works.

"No, Sideswipe, that's – slag it, Jazz, don't – Ironhide! Move!"

"Will she be okay, Ratchet?" someone asks breathlessly. I force my eyes open to find Bluestreak's optics staring at me nervously, very close to my face.

"Blue, you were supposed to watch the 'Con until he was out of sight," Ironhide says sternly.

"He is," the gunner argues, "I had my sights on him until he flew back over the ocean, and in this weather I can't really see him very well at all, even with that color scheme and why do you think they're that color, Ironhide, because it's certainly not for camouflage, and- "

I tune him out, close my eyes again. Focus on Ratchet. Cool, steady hands moving across my ribs, following the path of angry red skin I know is left behind after the shock probe earlier. Moving on to my neck, probing at the glands behind my jaw and lifting my eyelids gently, tugging at my jaw to open my mouth and examining the inside of my lip. Then another needle in my arm, before moving back up to my head, cradling my cheek and probing my head gently.

"She'll live," he pronounces firmly, but quietly. "We need to get her to med bay, though. She's lost a lot of weight, is dehydrated, we need to get her body temperature normalized. And I'd like a human medic to take a look at that knee."

Even with my eyes closed, I notice the way the others relax at that. But as the Autobots move into action, the sounds of transformation echoing around me, I manage to find Ratchet's hand and tug at his fingers weakly.

"Sparklet?" he says, and I more sense than see him leaning down over me.

"Am I really safe?" I whisper. The thought's been bothering me ever since I heard Ironhide's voice challenging Swindle. I've dreamed of this too many times to trust it now.

"Yes, Isobel, you're really safe," Ratchet murmurs, with a timbre to his voice that I've never heard before. "You're back where you belong." A gentle hand to my forehead, another squeezing my fingers. "Rest, sparklet. We're taking you home."

At that I finally relax, loosening muscles I didn't even know were taut. My head rolls to the side as Ratchet shifts me into his alt mode and covers me with a thick blanket, and I drift off to the first real sleep I've had since before the reign of Swindle.

I'm safe.