Rating: M Language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore. They vary from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.
Important Note: This series of fics were started before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an AU 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF fic.
Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copy righted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this, but wish I could.
XxxX
Maimed
XxxX
A cool breeze caressed her. Soft wisps brushed along her searing frame, offering minute relief from the oppressive heat that boiled within her chassis. The air pulsed again. It danced soothingly over her frame, until it touched raw, exposed wires and tactile sensors. She whined. The high pitched, pitiful sound barely expressed the torment she suffered.
The air flowed over Velocity again, and pain exploded along conduits and relays, but it helped cool her. Straining against her captors, she had overheated. Attempts to move and fight had raised her temperature, and her damaged intakes had been unable to circulate and vent the heat away from delicate components. Teetering on the verge of a meltdown, she had collapsed, her systems shutting down to protect her processor. With her metal body unresponsive, she laid defenseless among a pack of Decepticons.
The soft breeze continued to waft over her. To-and fro, it rustled the debris around her continuing to slowly drop her core temp and tease her away from a system failure. As the heat abated, Subroutines prioritized system functions to maximize her chance for survival. Her processor sluggishly tried to move her towards consciousness, spur her into action.
She anguished just under the surface of awareness, hiding from the heat and pain. She sought to escape, to disconnect from the physical world. She twisted inward, seeking solace from the misery. She turned towards Optimus, searching their bond for his stalwart presence. She needed his strength, for him to comfort her; instead, his rage tainted their connection. Seething anger reached out for her, his fury a simmering arctic hate more deadly than the enemy that had tortured her frame. She scuttled away from him, weak and fearful of the awful power that radiated from him.
Puffs of air continued to stream over Velocity, and her stressed frame responded. Lubricants thickened and stopped seeping from gears. Metals cooled, reducing the threat of warping or buckling. Expanded joints contracted becoming more flexible. Her body pinged and creaked. With every lowered degree, her systems tried to stabilize and puller her closer to on lining.
Another pathetic whimper warbled from her vocals and she hitched her useless vents, a mechanical sob.
Time slipped by as she floundered in a feverish haze. Her few thoughts faded between hallucinations and dreams. Ghostly images moved across her visual plain, blurry phantoms from her nightmares. They spoke in hideous, garbled noises that hurt her audios. Red optics scrutinized her, only a few feet from her, the hellish, red glow blotting out everything else.
She closed the shutter over her optics, blocking the cold, crimson stare, hiding from the monsters. The darkness welcomed her, and she accepted it. The darkness dulled the pain and cooled the heat. She could almost rest, and the monsters could not find her.
XxxX
Apparently, humans came in two styles: male and female, and only for reproduction purposes. They ranged between a color so light it looked almost white to a shade so dark it resembled black, but all the variations stayed within the brown tones.
Unremarkable and drab. They looked like the dirt their planet is named after.
Their scalps contained follicles that extruded a fibrous protein producing a filament, which could grow to impressive lengths. This "hair", they cut, chemically altered the structure and changed the color, producing almost endless variations of decorative displays.
That will help some, she thought to herself.
While not as homogenous as some biological species she had encountered, she feared that she might mistake one individual for another, and inadvertently offend them or their faction… family… pack… whatever the frag they called their groups.
Paying close attention to organics had never been one of her strengths. For the most part, she preferred to leave them alone. It wasn't that she despised them; she just didn't understand them. The way that they consumed other organisms revolted her. Their weird and messy reproduction disturbed her. How much they could physically change from one deca-cycle to the next startled her. Their bizarre life cycles made her uncomfortable. They were so... Different.
Primus, she needed to get over being squeamish about some soft bodied, little beings, and act like a femme-warrior. They had to have some amazing qualities to offset the negative. Why else would Prime ally himself with them?
She continued to gather as much intelligence as she about the native inhabitants of this world. She sorted through several terabytes of data looking up random subjects, hoping to understand. History offered glimpses into the brutality of the humans' past and present. The variety, viciousness and arrogance of their religions confused her. The way that they raped and wasted their resources angered her. Their science seemed sub-par; their knowledge, primitive; and their actions, selfish and greedy. Snipping 'Cons without a scope sounded loads better than dealing with such a volatile, little race.
Dear Primus, what has Orion gotten us into now?
Her proximity warnings sounded, distracting her from her research.
She severed her uplink to the World Wide Web. More annoyed than worried, she ran a low frequency sensor sweep, double-checking the identity of the intruders: humans, five of them. She sighed; this was the third time in two cycles that the humans had come poking around.
Rerouting power, she paused. Her systems balanced just on the edge of a full activation, ready to bolt if the humans found her hiding place. Voices called from the other side of the thin sheet of metal that separated them from her. A beam of light swept along the concrete, illuminating a thin gap where the seal on the door had eroded.
A tremor ran along her frame as anticipation revved her systems. She did not intend to engage the humans, but she didn't know how they would respond to her presence. She had intercepted both Autobot and Decepticon reports about the damage that human weapons could inflict upon a Cybertronian. While it might take more than a couple of rounds to take her down, she didn't want to risk the damage. If they discovered her, retreating would be the best option for everyone.
More of the voices called, and a conversation occurred. A moment or two later, the light faded away, leaving her in the dark again.
Several astroseconds passed and the rumble of a primitive engine filtered to her audios, its harsh noise diminishing as it moved away from her. Her sensors told her that the humans had moved out of range, and she debated the need to relocate to a new location.
She cycled her vents and relaxed, deciding against it. Though, if need be, this desolate, war-ravaged settlement offered plenty of places for her to hide if she needed to move. Concealed deep within the Autobots' new territory, she felt secure enough to take time and rest, letting tired systems recharge and repair, but she still wanted to remain hidden for now.
She chuckled to herself, sneaking past the Autobots perimeter sensors had been a piece of oil cake. Familiar signals, ingrained over eons offered little challenge. She bypassed and overrode them with ease. The only moment of pump-pounding uncertainty came when she realized that the internal grid had Wheeljack's distinct styling. She slowed down and paid very close attention to the location and coding of each relay. She wouldn't put it past 'Jack to have laced the benign signals with something malicious to prevent tampering or randomly decorated the area with automated weaponry. When dealing with his creations, sever caution always proved the safest method. However, she didn't want to press her luck, and sought out the first building large enough to comfortably conceal her.
Common sense said that she could just announce herself and ask for admittance to the Prime's base, but an unseen hand held her back. Anxiety twisted her spark when she thought about it. Coming forward sounded logical, practical, simple. The Autobots wouldn't deny her; they would even welcome her. But she couldn't do it, not yet. Coming forward held a price and she wasn't sure if the femmes could afford to pay it.
The long, brutal Cybertronian war had dealt her kind the cruelest of blows. They had lost everything, and been driven to the brink of extinction. To survive she and her fighters had to resort to trickery and secrecy, Decepticon tactics. Sneaking and stealing had become their life, hiding like vermin in the refuse. The war had taught her and her femmes how to move about unseen and unheard, avoiding friend and foe alike.
Exposed meant death, guaranteeing crosshairs over her spark chamber. Well, not her perhaps, but the enemy would start hunting the ones she had protected all these vorns. To survive the war, they had to convince an entire planet that they were dead, for no one hunted the dead.
She smiled wryly. The humans had a word that fit all to well, "ghost". The femmes had become ghosts, restless spirits that walked the planet, their presence felt, but rarely seen. .
In addition, what of her sisters-at-arms, her fellow ghost-warriors? They had placed their lives in her hands and had absolute trust in her. So far, she had managed to keep them fueled and functioning on a dieing planet and surrounded by the enemy, death and destruction. The fate of the femmes rested squarely on her shoulders and it was this reason that she hesitated taking the final step to announce her presence.
She knew that the Prime would offer Autobot protection and anything she needed. She knew that he would give them his complete support, as he had done once before, so long ago. But doubts continued to whisper in her processor, accentuated by the echoes of her sisters' screams and the tat-tat-tat of gunfire. Grisly sounds from ages ago that still haunted her, and chilled the energon in her frame. In her memory, she walked along walls washed in split fluids, stepping over the crumbled, sparkless bodies littering the floors, arriving too late. Sacrifices made so that her ghost-warriors could live.
The protection of the great Prime had meant nothing when the Decepticons stormed the femme bailiwick.
This was the reason she waited; she had lost faith in everything but herself.
XxxX
The mech stood alone on the barren hill. He tilted his head upward, luminescent optics fixed on a place far beyond the radiant sky above him.
The star that warmed this little world sank below the horizon line, painting the desert in shades of orange, magenta, and gold. The mech's black and white armor caught the light, washing him in a warn glow. He shone brilliantly, a robotic Colossus straddling dry rock instead of the salty sea in the Port of Rhodes.
He ignored the breathtaking views around him. The splendor of this organic world did not inspire him; it was just another small planet in a galaxy littered with them. The humans wanted to think that their "Earth" was special. It wasn't. This small planet did hold a variety of life, but he could name several other worlds that supported more radical and wildly diverse ecosystems. No, Earth did not hold any special meaning for him, but their future hinged on their alliance with the humans, and that he could not ignore.
Prowl finished encoding the last of his message. Craftfully, he hid the important transcription within an avalanche of useless, mundane data. Autobot Command needed to know of the dire situation on Earth, and that their precarious arrangement had started to degrade.
Inflammatory commentary filled the news outlets, but no one understood the seriousness of the situation. Publicly, several members of Congress had denounced the Prime's actions as proof that "the Transformers" held little respect for American laws or Earth's sovereignty. He didn't feel the need to explain that according to the Galactic Charter a planet needed a single, unified government to claim sovereignty. He also doubted that explaining the facts would stop the detractors and protesters He had a feeling that the truth didn't really matter, and that fear and paranoia ruled over facts and common sense.
The rantings of the iterate natives concerned him, but his worry centered on the Prime. If Optimus fell, he doubted that their small force could withstand a Decepticon onslaught. Without their Prime, their leader, their ideal, the Autobots would lose faith and crumble under a relentless enemy. The war would be lost and the Earth would fall under Decepticon control. He had to keep that from happening, and he couldn't secure Earth with fifteen mechs. They needed reinforcements, extra guns and a show of numbers to dissuade the Decepticons from attacking.
So far, Optimus had resisted the urge to allow more Autobots to come to Earth, deciding to err on the side of caution, and send them back to Cybertron. He repeatedly stressed concern that the humans might view an increase in their numbers as an invasion force, fracturing already strained relations.
Prowl had half a thought to tell the humans to shove their selfish, infantile concerns up their exhaust pipes and accept the reality of their existence: they lacked the technology to defend themselves against a greater enemy, and that the universe wouldn't notice their extinction. Perhaps, the Decepticons could do everyone a favor and lay siege to a city, obliterating it and driving human sentiment towards favoring the Autobots… And Megatron would rise from his watery grave to call a truce.
He cycled his vents and forwarded the message to Teletraan, knowing that the computer would give it priority status. The AI possessed a deep space communications array that most mechs lacked, and could be trusted to not gossip, also a trait rarely found in most mechs. He wondered how long it Ultra Magnus to intercept it, decode everything. But his missive had an ulterior motive. If Optimus did not survive, they couldn't waste time or falter; the reigns of leadership had to pass and quickly. He hoped that they could holdout long enough.
Guilt slowly sank into his spark. Was he betraying a friend? He had run calculation after calculation and the results always came out the same: Velocity would die and the Prime would be compromised... severely compromised. Primus, he was creating contingency plans while Optimus still functioned. Prowl hated employing such dishonesty, but he knew that his tactics might make the difference, not only for the Autobots, but also for the humans.
The Decepticons had them dangling over a smelting pot and did not even realize it - yet.
He turned to glance at the green mech slowly approaching him. Ratchet's optics burned brightly from underneath narrowed shutters.
"Is it necessary to drag me all the way out here?"
Prowl ignored the medic's snide tone. All of them suffered from short fuses and itchy trigger-fingers. He turned back to scan the valley below him. "It is easier to hide our conversations from our enemies that our friends."
"Harrumph," Ratchet grunted.
"How is Optimus?" he asked, without looking back.
The CMO walked around to stand at his left side. Their electrical fields brushed together, a welcome familiarity to ease tensions. "He seems calmer. Ironhide refuses to leave his side."
Prowl nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. "That is good. Few understand the Prime like Ironhide."
"He worries about Optimus." The statement hung heavily in the air; it held all of their under-spoken fears.
The tactician looked at his companion, and blue optics glared at him in return; their light held silent frustration and accusations. Prowl ground his dental plates together, unable to find a delicate way to broach a delicate subject without sounding calloused and unfeeling. Calloused and unfeeling, words used to describe him when others thought that he couldn't hear them, because he refused to waste time dancing around touchy subjects, egos or emotions. "Could the Prime survive a spark separation?"
CMO sagged, shoulders slumping downward, the weight of the ages hanging off him. Sadness dimmed the glow of his optics. Half a breem passed and Prowl waited for the other mech to speak. Finally, Ratchet cycled his vents, and glanced away. "Why would you want Optimus to survive?"
Prowl's optic shutters snapped wide at the question, and he jerked as if slapped. Astroseconds passed before he could speak. "You would allow the Prime to parish?"
The medic took a few steps past Prowl and slowly lowered himself to the ground. He glanced over his shoulder and patted the hillside next to him; dust clouds puffed up and swirled with each movement of his hand.
Prowl stalled. The medic's tired words echoed in his processor, an unfathomable response. He struggled to cover his shock and with still movements, stood beside Ratchet.
"You will strain the oscillating joints in my neck forcing me to stare up at you like that. Sit."
Prowl squatted next to the older mech, one hand one the ground, helping him keep his balance. He followed the medic's gaze to their base in the distance. The lights glowed steadily in the fading day. A strained silence pressed against Prowl, the implications of the medic's comment were too serious to ignore. "You realize that allowing the Prime to terminate is tantamount to treason? You swore an oath to use all of your skills to protect his spark." He couldn't stop the coldness from creeping into his words.
Ratchet continued to stare off into the distance. Only the slow blink of his optic shutters gave any hint of life. His words came slowly, heavily. "My concern is how much of Optimus will be left when Velocity dies. You weren't there when he lost Elita. Few know this, but he had to be restrained and forced into stasis lock for a full diun. Every time we onlined him, he would try to join his mate in the Matrix. Even after he accepted the loss, it took its toll on him. Part of him died with her, he has never fully recovered. He just functions around it.
"I doubt he could go through that again, and it would be cruel to force him to do so. So few of our kind survive a spark separation and he is the only one I know of that has chosen a second mate. We have no way of knowing how her death will affect him in here." The medic tapped his cranial housing with his finger.
Prowl analyzed the CMO's words, his processor spinning in circles as it tried to recalculate. He dealt in statistical variables, contingency plans and tactical strategies, not in matters of the spark. He had failed to figure in the Prime's prior loss and its effect on… everything.
The tactician directed an epitaph at himself.
Ratchet reached put and grabbed him by the arm, startling him out of his thoughts. "We cannot afford to lose the Prime." The medic looked at him, optics narrowed to mere slits. His words, though spoken softly, held an unmistakable challenge. "We need to be doing more the prevent this."
Prowl resisted the urge to glance away. "Lennox and his men have offered to help in anyway possible, but I am hesitant to use them. I feel that we have hampered ourselves by not arriving at their Congressional hearing." He sighed and shook his head. "Our situation with the humans is tenuous, but at the same time, we need their assistance to search large areas.
Ratchet's hand tightened around his arm. "But what are you doing? You never sit idle."
The tactician looked away, his facial plates shifted downward into a deep frown. "I am taking massive gamble."
XxxX
A new sensation rippled through the darkness. A soft pressure on her cheek roused her, teasing her towards wakefulness. She whimpered. She didn't want to leave the deep shadows, out there lurked brutal pain and blinding light.
A touch to her helm. A pressure rested on her head, cradling her. Noises disturbed the silence of her mind, the whine and purr of gears, blended with a smooth, softly spoken voice. She knew that voice, the familiar tone and sultry cadence. She feared it... hated it.
Her soul squirmed, wanting to move away from that soft, velvet coo, but her body didn't respond.
The caresses moved to her chest. A hand pressed against her breastplate, then slipped to her side. The murmur of the voice warped into words. "Her core temperature has dropped significantly, but she is still running hot." Something taped against her helm; the sound of metal dinging against metal reverberated in her audios. "I know you can hear me."
With monumental effort, Velocity creaked open an optic shutter, forcing the lenses to focus. At first, only darkness filled her visual field, but the shadows coalesced into dim shapes. Weak light reflected off polished armor, while the glow of pale blue optics stared down at her. The liquid silver sheen of Hardcore knelt over her and in one of his hands, he held a wedge shaped piece of sheet metal. The mech waved the thin steel over her, stirring the air into a breeze. He moved closer to her, brow arches pressed into a frown, his optics focused on her remaining one, searching, analyzing. He tossed the fan aside, and reached for her. His hand carefully cupped her head, his thumb softly pressing against her cheek. His frown deepened before his brow arches relaxed. A languid smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. The static charge of his energy field faded, replaced by a warm, inviting tingle.
She didn't want him near her, touching her. Fear shivered down her frame, and she tried to lift an arm to shove him away, but she couldn't. Beaten and damaged, she lacked the strength to move, and her arm remained pinned underneath her back.
Velocity looked away. She blinked, struggling to keep her expression neutral, not wanting him to see the despair that had wrapped around her soul.
The Decepticon chuckled. "You will look at me." His fingers tightened, biting painfully into her face. He turned her head, forcing her to look at him and only him. Their chest plates rubbed together with a grinding squeal. His energy field enveloped her weaker one, dominating and conquering it.
Her pump pounded in her chest, fueled by fear and uncertainty. She couldn't defend herself against him. She couldn't even curl into a protective ball. They had defeated her, reduced her, and broken her. She was at their mercy.
A simpering whimper slipped from her vocals.
His electrical field rolled and pushed along hers greedily. He whispered into her audio, "I have never known of Lord Soundwave to end an interrogation so suddenly, and leave the 'Bot's processor intact. He must have discovered some fascinating secrets within your little processor. Later, you will share them with me."
She winced. She had not intended to share anything with Soundwave, and the secrets he had pulled from her mind had been accidental. The Decepticon had been ripping her mind apart, snapping up bits of data and searching for more. She had been terrified and confused, afraid he would learn the truth about her origins. Desperate to save herself, she had made a mistake and let him learn about Optimus. Now, her mistake could be used against the Autobots. She'd rather die than tell the Decepticons anything else.
Mustering all of her strength, she raised her head enough to press her cheek against his. "Fuck you," she whispered, but her words lacked conviction or threat, barely more than a sigh.
The mech froze for a second, his stare boring into her. Then, he carefully guided her head to the ground before releasing it, his smile slowly faded. Hardcore leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "You need to remember that we will be spending a considerable amount of time together as I have been assigned to watch over you; making sure that you remain… semi-functioning." He looked around, as if searching. "Unfortunately, I need to meet with an old friend, and must be gone for a while. Overdrive has agreed to keep his optics on you in my absence. Be a good femme and do not misbehave. Unlike me, he has little patience."
She said nothing to him, and looked away. His threat was clear, and she just didn't have any real fight left in her.
His hand patted her on the side of her face, and she shuttered her optics. The hum of moving gears and the retreating tread of Hardcore's footfalls announced his departure. Lying in the heavy, still darkness, she wallowed in her guilt and misery. She hated herself. Unable to stand against him, she had simply given in. Her soul sank, disgusted at her own actions. She had willingly surrendered to the enemy.
Darkness closed around her, it no longer offered protection or soothing comfort. She hitched her useless vents. The rats around her went silent, but only for a moment. Alone, helpless and suffering she prayed for salvation. She asked any deity, Dark or Light to help her.
Only the rats answered, their scratches and squeaks filled the night.
She wallowed in self-pity. The thick, miry mud of hopelessness pulled her downward into the void of despair. She grieved for herself and the misery she would suffer before her death. She mourned for the ones she would never see again. The darkness closed in around her, pressing against her. Hundreds of little, red, rat eyes stared at her. She felt herself slipping. The constant throb of pain and the near-paralyzing fear wore on her. She could not stand anymore. A frustrated scream rattled from her vocals, and the rats scattered for cover.
The ground shook, announcing the arrival of a massive mech. She barely managed to register his presence before he fell upon her. A hand ground her torso the concrete, while the other one reached for her legs. He glared at her, his optics brimming with malice and hate. "You don't bother me…" He grabbed her leg, pulling at it.
White-hot agony burned from her leg into her mind. She screamed. Static laced her vision, as she writhed in his grasp, unable to escape.
He let go of her leg and immediately, the pain subsided to a dull throb. She lay in shock. Her optic shuttered opened wide and her mouth agape. Tremors shook along her body, and her core temperature inched but a few degrees.
"… and I don't bother you," the mech said as he stood and walked away.
XxxX
The location ping echoed through his processor, rousing Smokescreen from recharge.
He quickly onlined his systems and responded, telling the sender that he was unoccupied, and willing to meet. The sharpshooter propped himself up on his elbows, blinking his optic shutters to remove any dust particles from his optical lenses. With a series of simple signals, he activated the television and turned it to a news channel, but kept the volume low. Then, he turned the lighting up, enough for comfortable sight, but not glaringly bright.
With sluggish movements, he sat up and swung his legs to the floor. He blinked some more and rotated his shoulder a few times. The joint still stung from the abuse it took on the firing range. It had been a long time since he had fired off that many rounds with his sniping rifle.
After a couple of astroseconds, he reached to the shelf above his bunk and retrieved his data pad. Smokescreen turned it on, and randomly opened a program, carefully sitting it on his bunk next to him. He did not want his guest to think that his recharge had been disturbed.
What was it that human expression? He could sleep when he terminated.
He spent the next breem running a fast diagnostic, more to keep from slipping back into recharge, than anything.
A second ping announced the arrival of his visitor. Smokescreen paused, shifting his facial plates so they reflected a warm smile.
He stood and walked the short distance to the door, then tapped the code to unlock it. A final touch on the keypad and the door slid open. Hound stood on the other side, one arm braced against the door jam, fingers rapping impatiently. His brow arches pressed tightly together and his facial plates turned downward in a frown, not the mech's typical expression. Road dirt and insect carapaces clung to Hound's armor, speckling him with organic debris.
Smokescreen stepped back, and bowed slightly ushering the other mech to into his quarters. The sniper appreciated Hound's quiet, gentle presence, sharp processor and lack of arrogance. Even with his head tipped in respect, he took in the numerous repair scars and battle wounds that crisscrossed Hound's armor, each a testament to honor and duty. He admired the tracker's lack of vanity. It wasn't that the mech didn't care about his physical appearance. There were simply more important issues to him.
Hound quickly glanced both ways down the corridor, and the telltale tingle of powerful sensors radiated from the tracker.
A scan, Smokescreen thought to himself, and he wondered why the other mech felt the need for such precautions. A cautious, tense Hound did not bode well.
The sniper continued to smile softly, wanting to put his fellow at ease. "You are lacking your human, or did she run off with Cliffjumper?"
Hound looked at him, his optics full of confusion. A tight, forced smile graced the green mech's features, but unease still radiated from him. The tickle from the energy sweep subsided, and the mech stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. "When I left Miss. Cutter, she had collapsed on a human bunk, offlined and started producing a horrific noise with each breath. I think it damaged my audios." He tapped the side of his head, the strained smile never relaxed.
Smokescreen cocked his head to the side, wondering why Hound continued with the bantering charade, but decided to indulge his friend. "So your new friend snores. Nice to know that before you two bond."
"Ya know Smokes; I expect comments like that from Warpath, the crude glitch, but for you to stoop to such low humor…" Hound's smile widened, relaxing, easing the tension in the air around him.
Smokescreen turned and made his way back to his bunk. With graceful movements, he lowered himself onto it. He scooted back until he reclined against the wall. Then, he pulled up one leg and wrapped his arms around it, while the other one dangled casually off the side of his berth. "You need to be careful around Miss. Cutter." He watched the other mech, doubting that the human woman caused the source of the tracker's apprehension.
Hound crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged his shoulders. "From what I have seen, she is more interested in the males of her species. Everywhere we go, she behaves like a desperate seeker on the prowl for a quick 'facing. Honestly, do you think I would give my spark to a fleshy femme? Not this mech. I want to remain unattached and independent, with the freedom to roam where I want and not have to worry about anyone else." Hound sat on the edge of Smokescreen's bunk, the only place to rest in the tiny room.
"I am only pointing out that the woman seems to have developed an interest in you, and humans have a strange habit of forming emotional attachments to the members of other species and inanimate object."
"Primus, Smokes. I'm not an inanimate object, but 'forming emotional attachments to members of other species.'... Now you even quote Velocity's lessons." His shoulders sagged, and his smile melted into a sad frown. The jovial mood vanished. Hound sighed, and bent over. Resting his arms on his knees, and stared at the floor between his feet.
The silence between them stretched on for several minutes. Smokescreen watched the other mech, waiting patiently for Hound.
The tracker turned his head, looking at Smokescreen. His expression serious, his optics dim and grief filled. "She didn't have a chance. She had three Cons on her, and one of them was a seeker. They cornered her and took her down," Hound's vocals warbled, ripe with anger and disgust. Frustration crackled along his armor.
Smokescreen glanced away, his smooth neutrality fractured, allowing weariness to seep to the surface. He didn't want to talk about Velocity. Talking about that femme would invariable lead to a discussion about the Prime, and he already knew too much.
"Smokes, I need to ask you something. How bad is this gonna' slag the Prime?"
The sniper blinked at the question, and wondered if Hound could read minds. His typically air of self-assurance slipped, he couldn't look at Hound. "Why do think it would affect the Prime?"
Hound shifted, and leaned back, his shoulders clunked against the wall. "I'm not a mindless drone." He held up a hand with one finger raised, the rest curled, tight against his palm. "Prime ordered me to find her before any of us knew something was wrong." He extended another finger. "They spend time alone together." A third finger uncurled. "He shares his quarters with her." A forth finger went up. "He openly admits to preferring femmes." The fifth and opposable digit spread from his palm. "And Velocity hasn't shown any signs of being interested in any of the others."
"You realize that all of these things are purely circumspect on your part? Every point you just made can be easily argued and rendered null and void. I would suggest refraining from spreading gossip and keeping any discussion of the Prime's possible connection to Velocity between you and me."
The tracker's optic shutters narrowed his gaze intense. "What do you know?"
Smokescreen sighed again, giving himself a couple of astroseconds to determine a course of action. Hound had a processor and he knew how to use it. The mech could see through subtle nuances of gestures and words, and he could make connections that weren't always obvious. He had already figured things out, and any attempt to obscure the truth would be meet with disappointment or cold hostility. "I know that if the Decepticons figure any of this out, we will lose more than Velocity" He turned his head back to meet Hound's gaze, making sure that the mech understood his words.
Hound covered his face with both hands. "Slag me," he mumbled into his palms, his voice muffled. He dropped his hands and they thudded against the bunk. "What do we do now? Only bunch of glitched drones would stand around with their digits up their ports."
Smokescreen shifted his weight, crossing his legs in front of him. He turned to face the reclining tracker. "I have an idea, but you will have to talk to Miss. Cutter when she wakes up…"
XxxX
Tools and odd items hung from pegs on the walls and lined the shelves, a random assortment of mismatched items and seemingly useless bits. Unlike Wheeljack's shop, order existed here, scraps and ingots lay, carefully organized; the tools gleamed, cleaned and polished; and the floor free of debris. This was Velocity's workroom, a space she dominated. Ironhide wondered if Optimus intended to stumble into this chamber. Did he still feel the fading energy of her presence here? Did they have special conversations in here? He and Chromia had some of their most meaningful moments at a back table in a dive of an energon bar in Iacon's residential district. He shook his head, clearing away the old memories.
Ironhide watched the Prime, paying close attention to the hum of gears and the creek of metal rubbing against metal. He observed the way that Optimus stared, seemingly oblivious to everything, and how the slightest movement brought the Commander's optics into sharp, hostile focus. He noticed the way the young mech's fingers twitched at odd noises, the cold bite of Prime's energy field and the tense silence hung around the mech.
His spark sank, fear and uncertainty moved like a corrosive sludge in his processor. The ancient warrior ignored the uncomfortable emotions, roughly shoving them aside as unimportant; they wouldn't serve him or anyone else any good. He also ignored the familiar brush along an eons old bond, a welcome, but unneeded distraction.
He continued to stare at his friend and leader, refusing to disturb the fragile calm that had settled around the other mech. Optimus sat on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, knees bent in front of him, serving as rests for his forearms. A dangling hand shivered and the mech cycled his vents.
Prime had scared the lubricant out of all of them. His rage had boiled to the surface, threatened becoming brutal action. Ironhide intentionally placed himself between Optimus and the others, knowing that if the Prime lost control, he had the best chance of slowing him down. But Optimus pulled himself back, but the effort cost him. Once, in the privacy of his quarters, he massive mech collapsed, crumpling into a shaking mass of metal. Only his pleas kept Ironhide from calling Ratchet.
Ironhide silently cursed himself. He hated having to choose between duty and friendship. He cursed Optimus for thinking with his spark and not his processor. He cursed Velocity for worming her way into their lives and he promised a cruel and torturous death to any Decepticon that touched her. He cursed Ratchet for continuously demanding updates.
::Stall your nagging, you rusted-out, old, glitching, waste reclamator!::
::I want an update on the Prime's condition and I want it now!:: The medic snapped back over the internal communications link.
::When something happens, I'll let you know.:: Ironhide closed the link, disconnecting his end, so he didn't have to listen to the CMO rant at him.
Haunted blue optics stared up at him, and he looked away. He shifted his weight, easing the discomfort in his hip. Giving up, he walked to where the Prime sat. Moving stiffly, he lowered his bulk onto the floor, and leaned against the wall. With his legs crossed in front of him, he finally glanced at the over at Optimus.
The Prime had turned his attention to the metal sculpture in the center of the room. His frame heaved as he cycled again. Then, he shuttered his optics and the back of his head thudded against the wall.
Ironhide tensed, every coil in his frame tight with concern. "Prime?"
"I am… functional," the words carried monumental exhaustion, the sound of a mech on the verge of shutdown.
Ironhide started to stand, but a hand on his thigh stayed his movements. "Sit. I will continue to function."
The battle scared, old mech settled into a cross-legged position once again. Time ticked by before the Prime spoke again. His words came slowly, stilted and deep with hopelessness. "She had almost finished with it."
Ironhide frowned; confused, until he focused on the sculpture. He studied Velocity's creation appreciating the fluid lines and gentle curves. He noticed the seamless welds, and tender skill used to shape and mold the alloys. She had taken the likeness of an organic creature and captured it in a metal body. An unsettling tickle ran up his spinal assembly. He looked away, resting his gaze on the safety of the ceiling panels.
He decided that he didn't care for the sculpture.
"How is she?" he finally asked Optimus.
The Prime barely moved. "Terrified, alone and suffering. She has distanced herself from me, but I feel her."
Ironhide nodded. "Can you enter her thoughts like you could Elita?"
Optimus stiffened. "No."
Ironhide paused; no one talked about Elita, especially near Optimus. Those that had knew her still missed her. She had been an inspiration to femme and mech alike. Her calm, serene confidence helped establish the tone of Optimus's reign, and millions had grieved over her assassination.
A deep sigh rattled from the Prime. "I do not have that kind of a connection to Velocity. Her thoughts are... different, and we both have to concentrate for even the slightest link."
Ironhide simply nodded.
A soft whir of gears hinted that the Prime had shifted; Ironhide turned to find Optimus starting at him. "What has Ratchet decided?"
The weapons specialist held his gaze. "His plan is to force you into stasis lock, hoping to minimize the effects of…" He could not bring himself to accept that they might lose Velocity. He liked that annoying little femme. She wasn't afraid to pick a fight with him and happily accepted the consequences. She didn't back down, and she could cause more trouble than her worth. More importantly, she made Optimus happy. The war had eroded away much of Optimus's innocence and enthusiasm, but when he was with Velocity, small glimpses of that young mech shone through.
Prime grunted. "I figured as much."
"Is that why you are hiding in your quarters?"
The Autobot commander remained silent, not answering the question.
Ironhide couldn't blame Optimus, had it been him, he wouldn't be anywhere near the base. Being forced into stasis lock was an unpleasant and sometimes traumatizing experience, not a procedure that any Cybertronian medic took lightly.
Silence stretched between them. He didn't like seeing Optimus like this; it hurt. He wanted to fix the problem, to run in with cannons a blazing, mowing down any 'Con stupid enough to step within his sights. He curled his hand into a massive fist, and punched the floor next to him; the force of the impact shook the walls and rattled Velocity's tools.
Optimus blinked slowly, his expression frighteningly blank, devoid any emotions he might be feeling. "My sentiments, exactly."
Ironhide rose to his feet, frustration and anger forcing him into motion. Waiting patiently had never been a skill he acquired or even understood. He took two short steps towards the Prime, and straddled the great mech's feet. With his hands on his hips, he glared at Optimus. "You need to pull it together. Sitting here on our afts ain't gonna fix the problem. We need to find her and slag every 'con within four thousand dunteks. Get your aft up and act like the fragging fucking Prime."
He turned and headed towards the door, not waiting to see if his words would stir the Prime into action. At the threshold he paused, and let time tick by. He didn't hear Optimus, not one servo or gear humming or grinding to signify movement. Ironhide sighed wearily, and looked over his shoulder. Optimus had not moved, if anything he seemed to sag further, under an invisible weight.
"I am tired. I am tired of the endless war and the death. I am tired of failing."
Ironhide wanted to say something, but only hollow placates came to his vocals, so he muted them.
Optimus continued. "I failed her. I told her that I would keep her safe and look what has happened. Ironhide, I felt Soundwave inside of her mind. We both know what 'Bots are like once he has finished with them."
Ironhide did know. More than once, he had pressed the barrel of a rifle against the spark case and fired, ending the life of a fellow Autobot. Mercy killings to end the suffering of a friend or ally who's mind Soundwave had unraveled. Trying to heal what had been left of shattered sparks proved futile, and with rations tight and resources limited…
He felt cold. Just thinking about that 'Con, chilled the energon in his lines. He never want to see anyone else he cared about reduced to an insane screaming mass of spent metal.
He walked towards Optimus, and squatted in front of his leader. His hip moaned in protest, sending sharp stabs down his leg, but he refused to give into the pain. He took Optimus's hands in his. "For the sake of the others, act like the Prime."
Optimus stared at him, defeat radiating off him. He sighed, and then waved for Ironhide to move back.
Ironhide stood and gave the commander room to stand.
XxxX
One of their kind had killed a dozen people and leveled the Groom Lake Research Facility, setting off a surge of panic that had rippled across the country and given credence to new hate groups. Then, not only had the Autobots missed the congressional hearing addressing that matter, they had taken an unapproved route cross country, to return to their base. In addition, they didn't seem to care, ignoring all summonsing and forms of communications.
Secretary of Defense Miriam Hernandez adjusted her headset, lowering the volume, and then continued reading through the files on her lap. She stared at an image of the Autobot leader. He towered over the people around him. The brief dossier stated that he was "approachable, amiable, rational, and frequently compliant".
She snorted to herself. Optimus Prime had recently shown that he could be anything but compliant.
The blades of the helicopter she rode in sliced the air. The deep "whoomph whoomph" of the rotors drowned out all other sounds, and vibrated the bones inside her body. She hated the helicopter and the suspicious looks from the armed airmen with her, but this was helluva lot faster than charter jet.
Only recently confirmed to her office, she had yet to meet the robotic aliens, and needed to play catch-up. Nothing in her courses at Princeton, her shot political career had prepared her for this. She hadn't even had time to go through the stacks and stacks of material concerning the aliens. And that was just the tip of the iceberg, rumors circulated around the Defense Department that tons, literal tones of material and evidence had disappeared from Sector7 in the last hours of the agency's existence. Fortunately, forty-year-old reports wouldn't offer any insight on the current "situation", so she only had to focus on the most immediate material.
She could have relied upon the former Secretary Keller, but that would be akin to admitting that she wasn't prepared to function as the new SecDef and call the aliens to heel. The US and perhaps the world would judge her on her ability to deal with the aliens and their blatant disregard for the government regulations and sanctions.
Hernandez closed that file and opened another one, a report from General Pittenger. He expressed concern about unknown enemy activity in the area and an attack on one of the Autobots, and a former Sector 7 agent. General Pittenger had proven that he sympathized with the Autobots and that fact alone called his opinion into question. Anyways, if the Decepticons were on the move domestic security forces would have noticed the activity. The government had spend millions beefing up Homeland Security and ensuring that they could keep tabs on all of the massive Cybertronians, identified and unidentified. They assured the President that they had developed new technologies that could accurately locate and pinpoint the electrical field that surrounded the aliens.
Secretary Hernandez closed the files and placed them back in her briefcase. She had absolute faith in the military and DHS and their ability to monitor Decepticon activity. Their reports stated that other than the incident near Las Vegas, the hostile NBEs have kept to themselves, as everyone assumed that they would.
In her assessment, as long as the Autobots stayed on their base, Decepticon activity would remain low, and collateral damage would remain low.
XxxX
The mech came and went, checking on her at irregular intervals, but true to his word, he had left her alone. He did not speak to her, acting as if she was barely worth his notice. She slowly realized that she had nothing to fear from this Decepticon, as long as she remained still and quiet. His lack of interest offered her a reprieve from the terror that had ensnared. Unable to maintain the heightened state, her panic receded. Emotional exhaustion numbed her, leaving her empty and unfeeling.
Her entire frame hurt. A dull pulsating throb ceaselessly tormented her, but for the first time, she could think clearly, rationally. Lying with her arms pinned underneath her; a cold clarity crept over her while she analyzed her situation. Without her captors, she might succumb from her wounds, but if she stayed with them, they would defiantly kill her.
She stared at the ceiling of the rundown building, watching the sky lighten through the holes in the roof. An odd malaise settled over her, there wasn't a god-dammed thing she could do.
Twisting her head around, she searched the area for the Decepticon. She found only the rats, their dark bodies scurrying around a lumpy mass of cloth. Velocity shuttered her optics, letting her other senses pick up information. She listened to the rats; their tiny claws scraping the concrete, high angry squeaks pierced the darkness. Their sharp teeth gnawed on something hard. Odors of stagnant water, rotted meat, and rodent piss wafted around her. She concentrated harder, trying to ignore her agony, and focused that extra sense Cybertronians possessed, the ability to detect subtle electrical fields. She hoped to locate the warm buzz of a living electrical field, even if it would be a Decepticon. Nothing. Not even the cold hum of an active wall socket. She lay in gray dawn, completely removed from any electrical grid.
Velocity listened harder, beyond the rats; she could hear the distant drone of cars. This confused her, but the longer she thought about it the less it mattered. She had been missing for a while, and no one had come for her, the Autobots hadn't rescued her. Her emotionless state protected her from the worms of hurt and betrayal, but calloused logic didn't offer any comfort either. The Autobots hadn't rescued her, because they didn't know where to find her. For all their technological and physical advancements, they needed to know where to search, and the world was big place. She realized that she might not even be in the United States, or even in North America.
She wanted to go home.
Pinned under her; her arms ached, and strained shoulder joints screamed in pain. She struggled with the bonds that kept her arms secured behind her, but she couldn't break them. She considered activating her sword, then dismissed the idea with a cold, bitter bark of laughter. She would only skewer herself with it, giving the Decepticons something to chuckle about over cubes of high grade. Ignoring the pain, she wiggled her fingers, relieved that her hands seemed to still function.
Warm fur tickled her audio horn, and she turned her head. A plump, well-fed rodent sniffed around her, bold and unafraid. His fur glistened with an oily sheen and his beady eyes sparkled with confidence. She decided to ignore the animal; he could do little to harm her.
Her mind kept trying to slip backwards, raw and fresh memories wanted to spill forth. She didn't want them to. She didn't want to think about the slick glowing tentacles, or how they had entered into her. She refused to admit what that Decepticon had done to her, and kept telling herself that it had only been a moment, here and now gone. She worked to convince herself that the real damage for that... encounter had been to the Autobots, Optimus in particular. She ignored the ghostly tendrils, the phantom trails the Decepticon had left. If she thought about something else, she could ignore that she had been opened up and exposed.
The tickle grew into a soft pressure. Tiny claws dug at the armor further along her body. She twitched, wanting to scare the animal away. That simple movement created a searing agony that ripped through her. She hissed, trying not to scream.
The arrogant rat wouldn't give up. His soft body pressed against hers as he slipped into a gap in her side. She whimpered. She didn't want him inside her. Rats were dirt; they carried diseases and filth. Cold dread bubbled up within her. Irrational fear stated to cloud her mind. She had to get the creature out of her.
She shivered; panic crept into her spark, slowly contaminating her mind. It was inside her.
It was inside her.
IT WAS INSIDE HER!
She yelped and thrashed around, trying to dislodge the creature. White-hot agony exploded, every sensor screamed in protest. She gasped uselessly, the data flood overclocked her processor and a brilliant light blinded her. She ignored it all and continued to struggle. She had to get him out of her. She didn't want the rat inside her. She didn't want a Decepticon inside of her. She didn't want anyone near her. She just wanted to be left alone. She didn't want any of this. She just wanted to go home, but her friends hadn't come for her. They hadn't saved her.
She screamed, long and low. The wretched sound carried all of her anger, pain and fear. She kicked out blindly, and her foot contacted with a stack of pallets. They tumbled to the ground with an ear shattering clatter. A fat black rat scampered away from her, his pink tail bouncing along the concrete behind him.
Velocity violently kicked out again, scattering the pallets. She snarled and rolled onto her stomach, pain torturing her and fueling her. She wanted the pain. When her body hurt, she could ignore the pain within her soul. She dug one shoulder into the concrete, bracing herself and pulled one leg under her. She struggled with her other leg, but finally tucked it under her. She reared up, kneeling in the decrepit building.
That was as far as she went. Agony racked her body. She convulsed, losing her balance then collapsed on the ground. Her systems glitched and shutdown, an emergency reboot to keep from over clocking her processor. In a fraction of a second, she went from suffering the worst pain she had ever known to... nothing.
As systems onlined she wondered if she had died. Activating her optics, she glanced around. The area around her was littered with moldy, broken slats of wood, but the rats had disappeared. Her chronometer told her she had only been offline less than a minute, but she wasn't certain she could trust it. She moaned, and rolled onto her side. She couldn't take anymore and what she had just gone through left her exhausted. She wanted to sleep.
Velocity curled into a ball as best she could, and pulled her good leg against her chest, she glanced down at her other one. A thick cable snaked between armored plates and through gears. When she moved, it rubbed against sensors and frayed delicate wires, sending pain shooting along relays. A nasty black resin oozed and dripped wherever the cable had entered her. Trash stuck to the viscous fluid. The Decepticons had maimed her. They had made sure she couldn't walk, run or crawl away, cruelly imprisoning her without bars.
Heavy foot falls thundered around her, and before she could fully reverse her shutdown protocol, a massive hand snatched her off the ground. She blinked, staring optic to optic with Overdrive, his features filled with annoyance as he glared at her.
Panic reasserted itself, burning away the sleepy fog. Realization hit her. "A rat. A rat…" she stammered.
"Mute it," he snarled. Pulling her closer to him, he continued to frown. "You have bothered me. Now, I will bother you."
XxxX
A/N: Thank you to all those that comment, critique, fav and watch my fics or me. I cannot believe that ya'll have stuck it out with me this long, and it might take an ever longer while to finish this fic, but I will finish it. Loves from the humble Author.