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Pt. 55: "noncon"

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Whatever the consequences might be in the future, the present was clear enough: the Neutrals holding them prisoner had all the power, and they were drunk on it. They tortured their captives for the mere pleasure of finding what made them scream the loudest. They weren't trying to dig out information. If the pain was for interrogation, the prisoners might have hunkered down in stubborn silence, finding a grim resolution to endure in the noble cause of protecting what they knew. Even Starscream didn't crack under interrogation, after all. Withstanding pain for a purpose was bearable.

Agony for the sake of amusement wasn't as easy to sit there and take. There was no angle to catch and nothing to bargain over. There was no point to the beatings but further suffering. There was no reason to stay silent, nothing to protect, and oddly enough, that weakened the Decepticons' resolve. If they weren't being kept alive for information, it took the hope for survival right out of them.

The guards threw what was left of Thrust back into the low cage they used as a cell after the jet ceased garbling pleas. They liked their begging coherent, it seemed.

The guards took their time selecting the next victim. Forced to their knees by the height of the bars, the battered Decepticons inside the cage avoided optic contact. Usually someone would be too proud or foolish to keep their helm turned away, but Thrust's screams had gone on a particularly long time, and the flash of stripped wires spitting electricity had been quite violent. Even Hook bowed his head, lips pressed into a mulish frown as he averted his visor.

They hauled him out anyway. He managed to kick one of them in the face, stasis cuffs or not.

The kicked mech rubbed his jaw, scowling, and a chill shot down the surgeon's backstruts as a wicked smirk replaced the scowl. "Put him on the table."

Hook struggled, but they stretched him out flat on his face, hips hanging off the end and crane arm crawling in involuntary fear. There wasn't much question what they had planned for him, positioning him this way. "My team will crush every one of you," he hissed in quiet anger. The cuffs sapped his energy, but hatred gave him the strength to heave as someone slapped his aft. "You're dead mechs walking."

The mech he'd kicked walked into sight carrying a spike and mallet, and the chill became a solid freeze. Hook stiffened, vocalizer buzzing white noise and visor wary. Crawling fear turned over into terror as the mech nodded to a fellow Neutral. These mechs had nothing to lose. Every bit of enjoyment they wrang from the captured Decepticons was just a last vengeance to savor. Hook curled his hands into fists, but there was no strength in his cables. The Neutrals flattened his hands to the table with pathetic ease.

"This is how it's going to be," the kicked mech said as he positioned the spike over the back of Hook's right hand. "You're going to scream for us, one way or another. Got it?"

Hook wanted to look away, but he couldn't. "Burn in the Pit."

The mallet came down.

Three holes in, and he opened his panels. He didn't have anything to protect but himself, and he couldn't take the pain for his own sake.

And yes, he did scream for them.


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