Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.

Important Note: I started this series of fics before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an A.U. 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB or whatever follows fic.

Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copyrighted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this but wish I could.

XxxX

Full Velocity: Finding Salvation

Chapter 30: Education

Through the fog of awakening, Sira struggled to recall how she wound up in this place. The dimmed lighting blanketed the large room in soft shadows, casting the smattering of objects in a lazy gray. The small table, once tucked off to the side, now blocked the path to the door, and a half-full cube of energon sat sullenly atop. Memories that had leisurely glided their way back to the femme now landed with the force of a crashing jetliner. Rolling over with a piteous moan, she begged the powers of the universe to immediately and, with the utmost haste, end her life.

Nothing happened.

The universe wanted her to live in absolute and nearly terminal humiliation.

The last few days saw her sliding the slippery slope of bitter resentment. Intimidated, fearful, anxious, mad, and a whole list of negative emotions dropped her mental state to the bottom. She ignored her own needs, lashed out at everyone around her, and made a total ass of herself.

Ironhide needed a huge apology since she tried to rip his throat out. Ratchet would likely bolt, weld, tape, glue her to a slab in the med bay, then yell at her until her audios bled. Then there was Optimus; thinking about the Autobot commander pulled another moan from her vocals. Why hadn't he thrown her out yet? She had to be the biggest failure he had ever seen.

Glancing around, Sira realized she had to leave immediately. Optimus could return to his quarters any second, and she did not want to be present. The thought of those piercing optics looking into her soul and judging her with millennials of knowledge – it would be too much. She could not tolerate the deep temblor of his voice as he pointed out her mistakes. And she did not want anyone to catch her slipping out of his quarters. "Shit," Sira told the dust motes. The Autobots might be advanced aliens, but they were social creatures who liked to gossip. Someone seeing her leave would undoubtedly start a fervor of rumors.

Sitting up, Sira swung her legs over the edge of the bunk. A little hop, and she gracefully landed. "What to do? What to do? I could always lie and say I was dropping off a datapad. That's it; just smile and lie. And if they don't believe me, I mean he is single or not bonded, or whatever they fucking call single. Yeah, so I woke up in his bed, big damn deal; we are single adults. And what happened? Nothing happened. Can't people be friends without benefits?"

Reaching for the cube, Sira took a long drink before her mind caught up to her body. The thick, viscous liquid still repulsed her as it slid down the back of her throat. It still smelled like chemicals and salt, and damn if she didn't want it. Pausing, she held the cube optic level and gazed at the contents, swirling and shimmering, the substance contained life-giving energy. This would fuel her new body, becoming her food and drink. Recipes and ingredients would no longer matter to her. Favorite restaurants would no longer comfort her soul, no more Salad Niçoise, no more cheeseburgers, no more wine or coffee or tea, no more cheesecake, no more strawberries. Oh, gods, she could sell her soul for fresh, ripe strawberries. Nope, no more food ever again, just a pink sludge that looked as if a six-year-old girl with copious amounts of glitter created it.

Sira sipped the energon again. Why did they have to drink it? Wouldn't it be easier to "mainline" it or siphon it into a gas tank? Come on; they were highly advanced alien robots; there had to be a better way to refuel.

Knocking back the cube, Sira tried to finish it in as few gulps as possible. Turning, she placed the empty cube in the center of the recharge bunk and returned the table to its original place. Looking at her handy work, she deemed the arrangement acceptable.

"Alrighty, ya whore of Babylon, time to try and sneak out of some dude's bedroom and do the walk of shame." Pivoting, she stepped out the door.

Sira jumped at the sight of a pearl-white mech leaning against the wall. All possibilities of stealthily vacating Optimus's room vanished as Wheeljack waved at her. "Why are you here?" she squeaked.

The engineer squinted his optics in a smile. "I am waiting for you to online." Wheeljack pulled his weight away from the wall.

Blinking rapidly, Sira realized the entire base probably knew - everything. So much for secrecy. "How long have you been waiting?" she groaned.

"Three hours, twenty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds. Earth time. I was instructed to take you to the med bay when you came out of recharge," the mech happily chirped as he opened his arms, showing her the way out of the Prime's office.

She walked past him, trying to hide her embarrassment. "So, you've been waiting all that time for me to get up. You could have sat down or something," Sira commented lightly.

"It would be presumptuous of me to sit at the Prime's desk. I do not rank high enough to assume such a privilege."

Jerking in shock, Sira stared at the engineer. Wheeljack stood for three hours because he didn't rank high enough to sit in a chair. A chair was a chair, whether a gilded throne or a wooden stool. 'Jack should have been comfortable. What kind of society dictates that someone cannot sit down because they are not important enough? Humiliation ignited into the slow burn of indignation; she would have words with Prime later.

She followed Wheeljack towards medical. Turning his helm to look at her, the mech commented conspiratorially, "Did you know you talk to yourself?"

"Yeah, I talk to myself. People tell me it's a sign of mental instability," Sira grumbled, wondering how much he heard.

The Autobot chuckled, returning to watching where he walked. "I've been told the same thing many times." He paused, then stated, "You are correct; Optimus does not have a bondmate."

"What the fuck, 'Jack? I wasn't serious. I mean, I was, but – Oh, just fucking shoot me. " she stammered in the middle of the hallway. "Why were you listening? That was private." She finally fumed.

The mech in front of her shrugged. "It is common knowledge Prime is 'single' as you called it. It is also common knowledge he prefers femmes, and you are a femme."

"Oh my God. Why would I want to know that? What are you getting at? What makes you think I'm even interested? I don't know if you noticed, but I recently became a robot. Romance is not, nor has it ever been, a concern of mine." She rattled out her argument.

The engineer turned to face her and winked. "Oh, look. Here we are," he chirped happily, obviously ignoring her discomfort.

Sira stomped past him, her fists balled in frustrated embarrassment. It did not matter what she said or how she said it; any excuses only made it worse. She headed into Medical, accepting whatever awaited, knowing it would be better than Wheeljack's comments.

The medbay sat empty, well, not entirely empty. Tools and equipment inhabited the area, but the space echoed without the medic or any patients. Sira wondered what the CMO did when not in his natural habitat, harping at people. Glancing towards Wheeljack and his previous hints of sexual shenanigans, she decided she did not need to know.

"Have a seat; Ratchet will return soon. I believe he is checking on Sideswipe, making sure that the new welds hold properly," the mech stated. Then he added, "You look better, fully charged and alert. I have heard Optimus has certain talents." With that, the mech ducked out of the room and left Sira gaping like a fish on dry land.

"You fucking pervert," she hissed at his teasing. Not in the mood to sit, Sira wanted a weapon to hurl at the engineer when he returned. Glancing around the room, she spied the rack of tools on the far wall. The instruments looked to be designed by Rob Zombie or Geiger, all sharp edges and weird angles. More torture devices then implements of healing. She strolled towards the display. Running a finger along the edge of a tool, it bit into her metal, scoring a long gash. She moved to the next item on the board. Odd and vaguely heart-shaped with a box and a single large button on the top. Sharp spades pressing together made the point of the heart. She traced a digit along the line of the tool.

"That is an Armor Separator."

Sira startled at the voice and knocked the device off its peg. It clattered noisily against the floor.

Ratchet stooped to retrieve the tool, then held it up and pressed the button on top. The spades on the bottom sprung open with frightening speed. "It's used to spread the chest plates and expose the spark chamber of a mech in stasis lock or if the release is not functioning." Ratchet hung it on its proper peg.

Stepping backward, she commented, "Looks painful."

"Oh, it probably is," The medic retorted dryly. "As soon as Wheeljack returns, we will start your desperately needed education."

The white mech entered the room as Ratchet spoke his name, and Sira had nothing to throw.

The hours flew by. Sira's head ached from the amount of knowledge her tutors poured into her, yet she wanted more. A dozen questions sprang from every answer they offered. Convoluted turns of inquiry twisted through seemingly unrelated topics. Her tutors offered a crash course in Cybertronian Biology/Sociology/History/Etiquette. She ignored the etiquette portion, only giving cursory responses to move into meatier topics.

Sira knew she was smaller, faster, more agile than most other mechs, but she never realized the cost. Her armor could not take nearly the abuse as the larger mechs due to its thinness; ammunition that would bounce off Optimus could punch a hole in her. Nor could she carry heavy weapons or hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Also, speed burned fuel rapidly, and she lacked a large tank and reserves, forcing her to refuel often. The big mechs, like Optimus, consumed energy at a slower rate, and they had large tanks to hold more energon and go longer between refueling. Like a cheetah, she could outrun most of the mechs but lacked the stamina to keep up that speed for an extended time. It surprised her to learn that Bumblebee and the Twins were in a similar situation, but they could hold more energon in larger tanks. The reason behind all of this, rationing of resources to build her frame. They made her small and light to save on materials for parts.

They scheduled another lesson in two days. It gave Sira time to digest all the information they fed her. At the end, Wheeljack held up his hand. Something resembling a flash drive sat securely lodged between his finger and thumb. "Are you ready to have some fun?" he asked. A mischievous twinkle lit up his optics.

Sira quickly looked at the medic hoping for salvation. The CMO wore a knowing smirk.

Her pump sped up. "Define 'fun,'" she demanded with narrowed optics.

XxxX.

Optimus leaned inside the doorway of the cavernous conference room and watched. Truthfully, he forced himself to watch as Ironhide pushed Sira to her limits. Every blow to the lithe femme rang clearly in the empty room and made his spark ache. If he had his way, he would stop the sparring match.

The pair wove around each other in an intricate dance of aggressor and defendant—a ballet of combat. Ironhide swung, fast and hard, and Sira dodged the blow by ducking. Moving beneath the mech's arms, the femme landed multiple blows on the black armor. Bouncing backward, Sira avoided Ironhide's grasp with feline grace. The warrior advanced, fists up to protect his face. Sira retreated, a mistake.

Optimus stood a little straighter, he wanted to warn Sira, tell her what Ironhide had planned, but she would not learn if he helped.

Ironhide continued to move forward and then backed away. Then repeated the maneuvers in a different direction, a lure as he herded her. Quickly, the old mech cornered Sira. She had nowhere to go, no avenue of escape. From experience, Optimus knew her mistake would earn her several brutal punches.

On cue, Ironhide swung at the smaller frame; his massive fist aiming for her chest. Sira ducked. Ironhide predicted her maneuver and cut low with his other fist. Sira had not duck; she coiled. Springing upward, the femme grabbed Ironhide's arm. Using it as a springboard, she launched herself, not away from him but at him. Landing on the mech's chest, Sira grabbed him by the back of the head and delt several nasty punches to his face with her free fist. Reaching up, Ironhide grabbed Sira. Heaving, he dislodged her and flung her away from him. The femme landed a tangle of arms and legs.

Optimus understood the old warrior's methods even if he did not like them, but Ironhide got results. The veteran produced some of the best Autobot fighters, and he didn't take this responsibility lightly. Prime's entire inner circle received the exact grueling instructions, even he had spent time under Ironhide's tutelage. Optimus had known Ironhide on a personal level long before becoming Prime. They lived in the same residential sector and bought each other rounds of high grade after long shifts. The ex-architect-turned-warrior and his spark mate were the first to pick up weapons against the Decepticons. The Council branded them as vigilantes and criminals, so the pair went into hiding. Shortly after that, they formed the resistance movement. Once Prime, he sought out the duo for advice, risking his Primacy by associating with traitors. Had he only focused his optics then, maybe he could have seen past the deceit, past his own naivety, and seen his brother for what he was?

Prime winced when Ironhide blocked Sira's attack and countered with a vicious blow between her shoulders. The punch felled her, the burnished frame collapsing as she gasped in pain. Sira struggled to stand. Optimus resisted the urge to assist her and turned his focus to the room around him.

Gouges, holes, and long scrapes marred the once pristine finish. He cycled his vents in a sign. The conference room offered space for hand-to-hand combat, but not the abuse. He made a mental note to check available funds and order materials to repair the area. Once the military left, he could resume ordering goods and materials to make their home on Earth bearable without the intense scrutiny and questions. Yesterday, the government officials had declared Tranquility free of the "terrorist threat" and encouraged its citizens to return to normal life. Upon hearing of the military's future withdrawal, Optimus sighed with hesitant relief. He hated being cooped up underground as much as the other mechs.

Hopefully, when the security forces left, the vulturous swarms of news crews would follow. Personally, Optimus held no distinct feelings one way or another about reporters. Cybertron had several news agencies, and they could be your best friend or worst enemy. Before the war, they made him a champion, infallible, daring, and intelligent. During the early stages of conflict, they ridiculed him for his caution and scandalized his private life. He couldn't even talk to a mech or femme in public without wild speculations slathered across the general information channels. When the violence spread and every part of the planet bled, they found fault with his every decision. Not once did he give in to the call to curtail and control the news agencies. The Council did enough of that without his consent or support. He still believed the masses needed unfettered and impartial information, even if it presented their leaders as less than competent.

Also, Optimus had ulterior motives for wanting the reporters, excess military and government officials to leave. Once gone, he planned for the Autobots to search Tranquility themselves. If they found nothing and wasted their time, then so be it. He could power down for recharge, knowing the area free of the Decepticon threat.

A shriek snapped his attention back to teacher and student. Ironhide raised Sira above his head and threw her onto the ledge designed for humans. The femme landed, rolled, and crouched on all fours, green optics aglow with feral anger. The overhead lights reflected off the fiery, red, and copper combination she chose. He had been correct with his earlier assessment; the copper protoform teased alluringly between the seams of her armor. When Prowl and Hound arrived with the refugees, Sira would become very popular.

Ratchet and Wheeljack helped Sira choose an alt mode. It was not an easy task, and would be more problematic if they had to walk around until she found a model she liked and met the specifications for her frame structure. Fortunately, over the last several years, the Autobots had compiled an extensive database of vehicles: cars, trucks, motorcycles, ATVs, planes, helicopters, and even construction equipment. Most of the information they copied from the manufacturer's computers. What they could not get through the Internet, they scanned on the highway and added the specs into the ever-growing database. They hoped to streamline the process of choosing an acceptable altmode for new arrivals.

Some of the vehicles required adjustments to be usable. Not all cars had hardtops, and most mechanoids could not transform into convertibles. Countless hours of redesigning made the topless vehicles functional for the Autobots. Sira had finally settled on one of these modified designs, a Saturn Sky Redline. Optimus assumed the name invoked images of the graceful rings that encircled the sixth planet, but he only thought about the frigid, corrosive, inhospitable conditions most of the gaseous planets offered. Perhaps that was the difference between dreaming of visiting other worlds and setting foot on them.

Sira growled, "I'm done. You've beaten the shit out of me long enough." She remained on the ledge meant for humans, legs beneath her and palms flat on the floor. She cycled heavily to cool her systems.

"Nope, we're not done." Ironhide strolled towards the ledge. "Do you think a 'Con will let you take a break? Stand up and defend yourself!" the black mech barked while his cannons spun furiously.

"Ironhide, I said I'm done!" Sira snapped. She shifted her weight, tightening and coiling.

Optimus watched the exchange silently. He shifted, uncrossing his arms and balancing his stance.

Ironhide made his way to the boundary of the ledge; it floated chest high to the old warrior.

Sira remained motionless; only her optics tracked the mech's approach. She hissed another warning, "Leave. Me. Alone."

Exhausted, sore, probably injured, running on fumes, now Ironhide would push the femme. Would she find the strength to continue fighting, or would she buckle in submission? Optimus had dropped his credits on her to continue fighting; not everyone bet the same. Sira possessed an inner core tougher than any Cybertronian armor, and he admired her for it.

Warm and wild, unseen tendrils brushed the air around him. Optimus almost ignored the sensation, attributing it to air circulation, but his electrical field recognized the familiar heat before his processor. The seconds cost him.

Ironhide jumped forward, partially landing on the ledge, his peds dangling off. At the same time, the warrior reached out and snagged Sira. Pulling both of them backwards, the mech dragged the femme off her perch.

Optimus moved to tell Ironhide to stand down, but the mech had already launched his attack. Ironhide wrapped Sira in what humans called a chokehold, her neck locked in the crook of his elbow. She could not swing or kick.

Panic brightened her optics. "Let go, you frog fucker!" Sira screeched, her hands clawing at the massive forearm.

Ironhide roared in pain and shoved the femme away from him.

Sira landed in a heap and immediately untangled herself. Seeing Ironhide put distance between them, she collapsed on the cool floor.

The veteran warrior turned and stomped past Prime, cradling his arm. Optimus thought he saw a look of satisfaction on his friend's battle-scarred face.

XxxX.

"Of all the asininethings. She is a metal manipulator; you know what she can do. Didn't I tell you not to come crawling to me, but here you are."

He expected Ratchet's tirade. It would not be right if the old ninny didn't yell at him during the repairs. Except, Ironhide could not keep the smile off his features and act appropriately chastised by the medic. "She can still do it, Ratch'. None of us knew if she could, but she can. Though, I had to push her pretty fraggin' far, to get it out of her," excitement rang in his voice.

"I can see that. I thought you said that you expected her to scorch your armor, not stick her hand in a seam and liquify your circuitry. You're lucky she didn't target one of your cannons." The medic continued to work on the injured appendage.

"Yea, I didn't think she would slip past my armor. I should have expected it considering what she tried to do to my neck. She fights dirty, targets weak areas, and I like that. It makes you wonder what she could do after some practice and better training." The warrior smiled at the look of utter horror on Ratchet's face.

XxxX.

Author's Notes: Thank you everyone for the comments and favs. They make my day when I see them in my inbox.

KEZZ 1: Thank you.

d8rkforcen1ght7: I believe you are correct. I have rearranged some of the upcoming chapters to make more sense.