Warnings: Mental torture, non-consensual orgasm, isolation.
Sam did not protest as Thundercracker picked him up. The Seeker pressed him against his chassis with a restraining servo as he turned and strode purposefully down the corridor. As they walked, Sam focused his attention inwards, only to realize that he had been corralled back within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and quiet, without a trace of Megatron's presence. A deep grimace pulled at his mouth, as apprehension settled heavily into the pit of his stomach. Megatron had been furious, the kind of controlled anger that simmered rather than burned itself out. Sam knew with certainty that time would not abate the fire of the warlord's wrath in the least.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only the space of ten minutes, Thundercracker walked into the large, empty hangar that had been the focal point of Sam's nightmares for weeks. As the doors hissed shut behind them, Sam's stomach cramped with anxiety. Thundercracker walked forward until he reached the deep groove lined in the floor and then he crouched, setting him down without a word. As Sam stepped back, the transparent energy barrier flickered into existence between them, and he flinched in response.
To his surprise, Thundercracker did not move from his crouched position. The blue and silver Seeker regarded him for a long while, arms resting on his knee struts, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Eventually, he ex-vented quietly.
"It will be a severe punishment, Sam, but you will survive it." Thundercracker said, sympathy in his voice as he urged, "Plead for mercy and he may be lenient."
Sam laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No, he won't."
Thundercracker's expression became inscrutable, but not before Sam saw the note of reluctant agreement in his optics. Sam shivered, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. The Seeker hesitated, as though wrestling with himself, before he spoke again.
"Megatron is a strict and demanding commander, but he is not without reason. He will not allow permanent harm to come to you."
Sam smiled faintly, "That's not as comforting as you might think."
"Hang in there, Sam." Thundercracker said. The Seeker stared down at him a moment longer before turning to leave. Without thinking, Sam stepped towards the energy barrier and called out after him.
"Wait." Sam said, a sharp note of desperation in his voice, "Did you see him? Did you see Bumblebee?"
Thundercracker paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, "I did. Your bonded fought well."
His words caused indefinable emotion to lodge itself in Sam's chest. He swallowed hard, before managing to ask, "Did he say anything?"
"No." Thundercracker replied, a note of dry humor in his voice, "His canons did all of the speaking for him."
The blue and silver Seeker turned and walked away without another word. Sam watched him go, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders curled forward. After the hangar doors slid shut behind him, Sam slowly made his way over to the familiar spot against the bulkhead, settling down on the floor.
There was nothing left to do but wait.
Sam was not sure how long he sat there, shivering against the wall with his stomach twisting itself in knots. Despite the warmer clothing that he wore, Sam was numb wherever he pressed against the floor—his body heat long since leached away by the cold metal. Although he felt leaden with exhaustion, sleep remained elusive, kept at bay by his aching body and tumultuous emotions. He struggled not to dwell on his inevitable confrontation with the Decepticon leader, well aware that he could sense his emotions.
By the time that Megatron finally stepped into the hangar, Sam's fear had been replaced by grim resignation. He watched, quiet and still from his spot against the wall, as the warlord deactivated the energy barrier. Although his earlier rage was no longer obvious, Megatron's countenance was dark and foreboding. He stared down at Sam for a long while, narrowed optics burning in the dim light of the hangar.
"You would have killed him." Megatron said at last. It was a statement, not a question, but Sam replied regardless.
"Yes."
"I would not have thought you capable, boy." Megatron rumbled lowly, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up, "To attack an unarmed, injured mechanoid without provocation."
Sam shivered from head to toe. Megatron had not referred to him as 'boy' since he had flayed Sam's mind open for Soundwave when he had first arrived on the Nemesis. The warlord had used the same moniker at the warehouse in New Jersey and on the rooftop in Mission City, both times that he had tried to kill him. When Sam did not reply, Megatron crouched in front of him, his helm tilting in derisive contemplation.
"Tell me, what would Optimus Prime think of that?"
Sam could not hide his flinch at the warlord's taunt. His eyes dropped down to his hands, which twisted in his lap. The skin of his fingers was raw from his obsessive worrying of the flesh against the fabric of his pants. A heartbeat passed before Megatron slammed his clenched servo against the floor directly beside Sam's legs. Sam jumped in surprise, his heart lodging itself in his throat.
"I asked you a question." Megatron growled.
Sam's eyes flicked up to the warlord's face, which was uncomfortably close to his own. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, before he could answer.
"He would be disappointed."
"Indeed. I doubt that Prime, paragon of virtue that he is, would approve of cold blooded murder." Megaton's silky voice hardened as he continued, "It is the nature of Decepticons—not Autobots—to employ such tactics."
Sam swallowed against the sourness that suddenly flooded his mouth, well aware of what the warlord was implying. He wanted to swear at him, to deny the insinuation with every bit of vitriol in his body, but he didn't dare. His eyes fell back to his hands lying clenched in his lap. He noted with a distant curiosity that the skin of his knuckles was chapped and bleeding.
"I had thought, perhaps idealistically, that you understood the nature of your bondage after our last conversation. I can see now that I was mistaken. You clearly require more than words to fully appreciate your new station."
Sam's eyes snapped up to Megatron's face, panic flooding through him in an instant. The warlord's tone was contemplative, almost kind, and it set off warning bells in Sam's mind. He shifted forward, as though to scramble to his feet, but the warlord slammed him back against the wall with a large servo. Sam cried out in surprise and pain as thick digits curled around his body, pinning him in place.
"I will make this very simple for you." Megatron said, "If you acted as an Autobot sympathizer, then you will be punished accordingly. If, however, you acknowledge my sovereignty over you, then I shall be merciful. After all, you are only a newspark."
Sam stared up at the warlord, fear and denial warring for control over his mental faculties. He could not acknowledge Megatron's lordship over him—or rather, could not do so and mean it—but he quailed at the prospect of the torture that would result from his failure to do so. He hesitated, unsure what to say, when Megatron's expression turned calculating.
"Perhaps you require a demonstration." The warlord said, and Sam could hear the restrained anger in his tone. He leaned forward until the warm air from his intakes ghosted over Sam's face, "Which is it, boy? Are you an Autobot sympathizer?"
Sam screamed, a choked, strangled sound, as liquid agony poured through his synapses—
"Or do you acknowledge me as your lord and Master?"
The pain was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, replaced by a buoyant lightness. The sensation filled his mind, pleasant and soothing, and Sam gasped desperately in response. The rapid change from agony to bliss left him disoriented and lightheaded, and he blinked up at Megatron as he tried to organize his thoughts. Before he could speak, however, Megatron's presence filled his mind again, turning sharp. Sam cried out in surprise, struggling against Megatron's servo as the pain worsened.
"I must admit to some degree of pride in you." Megatron murmured, as though to himself, "You are a fast learner."
As he spoke, Megatron sunk his mental fingers deep into Sam's mind—just as Sam had done to Blitzwing earlier that day. Sam braced himself, hands flat against the cold floor, but the pain that exploded through him was unlike anything that he had experienced before. It ate away at him, corrosive as acid, sinking into the deepest recesses of his mind. Sam shrieked, bucking against the servo that held him in place. He could feel his ribs protesting against the strain, could feel the bruises blooming across his hips and shoulders, but it was nothing—nothing—compared to the fire that subsumed his mind.
Sam knew that he was begging, pleading with the warlord for mercy, but Megatron gave no quarter. His mental fingers pressed deeper still, twisting until Sam was sure that he would die from the pain—until he was sure that he wanted to die, rather than endure another moment. He did not know for how long he suffered, writhing and fighting against the servo that held him down, but eventually he broke.
Somehow, through the agony that filled his mind, he managed to gather himself enough to beg, "Mercy, please, Master!"
All at once, the pain melted away, replaced with the familiar lightness and warmth of before. He came back to himself slowly, only to realize that Megatron had withdrawn his servo. Sam lay against the cold floor of the hangar, shaking violently and soaked in sweat. He curled in on himself, distantly aware of the way his shoulders shook with the force of his crying. Megatron hushed him, a sound that made Sam's skin crawl, as the warlord stroked down his back with the tips of his tensors.
"Be still, little one. You've done well." Megatron rumbled, and then his voice turned considerate, "And good behavior should be rewarded."
Sam did not have the time to ponder the implications of his words before the warmth in his mind deepened abruptly. He gasped, going rigid as pleasure rushed through him in an instant. It lit up his nerve endings, suffusing his body with a familiar heat that pooled low in his belly.
"Wh—what… stop it." Sam gasped, pushing onto his knees and elbows. Megatron shifted and Sam could not prevent the whimper that choked from his throat as arousal washed over him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning back against his heels as his head fell between his arms.
"You do not give the orders on this ship." Megatron reminded him mildly, and then Sam was rocked with another wave of stimulation. The sensation was far more intense than before, causing the muscles of his lower abdomen to tighten pleasurably in response.
"Please don't." He pleaded, desperately, as his hands clutched against the floor. Burning need suffused through him, body and mind, making it difficult to think. He struggled to maintain his sense of self, his revulsion at what was happening to him, in the wake of the sensation that flooded through his body. Sam choked on a moan, his hips twitching forward involuntarily, as that pleasure focused on his most sensitive anatomy.
He couldn't speak to beg—wasn't sure what it was that he would beg for, even if he could—so he shuddered through the sensations, enduring them in silence except for his occasional gasps and whimpers. After a moment, Megatron's presence brightened across their bond, and then the stimulation intensified—
Sam cried out sharply as he came, colliding against the floor as his arms gave out beneath him. He panted wildly, struggling to get air into his starving lungs as he shook with the force of his orgasm. It was a long time before Sam's higher cognitive function came back to him, and when it did, he became aware of Megatron's intense scrutiny through their bond. After an agonizing moment, Sam slanted his eyes open, looking up at the Decepticon leader. Megatron's expression was openly intrigued, something like curious contemplation visible in his optics. Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the sight, shame and powerlessness combining to make his stomach lurch threateningly.
Megatron brushed gently across his mind, an unusually comforting gesture from the warlord.
"There is no shame in accepting what your Master offers." Megatron reassured him kindly.
Abruptly, all of the fight left Sam's body. He fell back against the floor of the hangar, cringing at the feeling of the tacky, wet mess in his pants. He laid there quietly, focusing on his breathing, until his heartrate returned to something resembling normal. He purposefully kept his mind blank, refusing to contemplate the implications of this new form of punishment.
"That was not a punishment, little one." Megatron admonished, "That was a reminder."
Sam's eyes snapped open as he turned to look up at the Decepticon leader.
"What?"
"I am your Master." Megatron rumbled, and there was something hard in his tone, "Body and mind. Never again forget that you belong to me."
Sam stared up at him in horrified silence, unable to articulate a response. He could feel Megatron's dark satisfaction across their bond and, after a moment, the warlord leaned towards him.
"You are correct that there will be punishment. After all, you would have deprived me of my triple-changer. Even during peacetime, such treason would be punishable by death."
Fear slammed through Sam with the force of a sledgehammer. He pushed up onto his elbows, making to sit up, before Megatron reached out to place a restraining servo against his back. The warlord continued talking, not waiting for Sam's response.
"It is evident that you require time to reflect on both your transgressions and on your changed circumstances. Thus, time you shall have: one year for each of Blitzwing's alt modes."
"What?" Sam gasped, fear flashing into panic in an instant, "No, Megatron, please—"
"Perhaps, after this time of reflection, you will think twice before raising a hand against me."
Before Sam could formulate a reply, Megatron's presence was inside his mind. The warlord pressed forward, batting away Sam's desperate attempts at a firewall. There was a sudden uncomfortable push-pull sensation, and then the hangar telescoped away as Sam was dragged down into stasis.
For a long while, Sam drifted.
His consciousness ebbed and flowed, but awareness remained elusive. He had no concept of self, no understanding of where he was or what had happened. Instead he floated, suspended, in the perfect darkness of stasis.
Eventually, something like recognition filtered through his mind. He knew this place. The quiet stillness of its depths and the thrumming of its shallows, awash with faraway sounds and sensations. He shifted, uncertain and confused.
Where was the presence?
He cast his mind outwards, searching for the familiar warmth that had been his constant companion in the darkness, but he found nothing. No presence, no soothing pulses of comfort and calm. He shifted again, uncertainty and confusion coalescing into the first stirrings of fear. Gathering himself with great effort, he moved closer to the shallows—there was a vague sense of rising up—but despite the occasional brush of sensation, there was nothing. No one.
He was entirely alone.
As his fear sharpened, he began to struggle within the dimensionless space. No matter how he twisted and shifted, he could not move beyond the confines of the darkness. Eventually, he exhausted himself into stillness. He stayed like that, drained and weak, until his awareness faded away again.
Thus began a hellish cycle. He would awake, confused and disoriented, until understanding returned. Fear and desperation came next, as he struggled to find purchase in the empty void within which he found himself. His awareness would persist, for shorter or for longer periods, depending on the extent of his panicked thrashing. Then his consciousness would fade away, slowly but surely, until his strength returned.
Suddenly, he felt a shift in the darkness. He turned, frantic and hopeful in equal measures, but the familiar presence did not appear. Instead, the void lurched confusingly around him and then fell away.
Sam blinked awake, immediately wincing as bright light lanced across his corneas. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, raising an unsteady hand to scrub at his face. He felt exhausted, his whole body as weak and uncoordinated as it had been when he had first on-lined. After a long moment, he forced his watering eyes open and took in his surroundings. The room was large and well lit, with half a dozen empty berths arranged in even increments along opposite walls. Unfamiliar machinery was located irregularly around the space, alien-looking and intimidating. With mounting confusion, Sam craned his head to look down at himself. He was lying on the berth furthest from the large doors at the opposite end of the hangar. A swath of soft, silver-gray metalmesh had been drawn up his chest and tucked around his sides.
"Back with me, kid?"
Sam startled in surprise, turning his head to see Knock Out standing a short distance away. After a long moment, he realized that he must be in the Nemesis' medical bay. He frowned, confused and disoriented. How had he gotten here?
Knock Out's faceplates twisted in a grimace.
"What do you remember?" He asked, addressing Sam's thoughts.
Sam's frown deepened. He remembered panic and despair, but the memory was distant—dreamlike.
"Not a dream, stasis." Knock Out corrected, staring down at him with clinical focus, "How do you feel?"
"Tired." Sam rasped after a moment's reflection.
"I'm not surprised. You've been under for fifteen days."
Sam stiffened with alarm, his heart quickening into double-time in an instant, "What?"
Knock Out's expression softened minutely, edged with something like sympathy, "Do you remember what happened before stasis?"
He hesitated a long moment before he slowly shook his head. The last thing that Sam remembered was looking at the mountains with Ravage. Knock Out hummed quietly in response, his helm tilted in consideration.
"Memory lapses after stasis aren't common among mechanoids, except as the result of injury. Has this happened to you before?"
"I was… confused, after I first on-lined." Sam said slowly. He had only vague memories of waking up after Ripcord's attack—brief glimpses of fear and disorientation, and through it all, Ratchet's soothing presence.
"Maybe the effect will fade in time, maybe it won't." Knock Out said thoughtfully, "I doubt it will cause you any long-term harm."
Sam glanced back at the medic, anxiety blooming sharply in his gut, "What happened, Knock Out?"
The medic hesitated before something like resolve settled across his features.
"That doesn't matter right now." Knock Out said firmly, "You need to eat something. Although stasis reduces your need for rest and fuel, it does not eliminate it entirely."
Sam did not have the chance to reply before Knock Out helped him into a sitting position. The effort left him feeling wrung out and exhausted, and he slumped forward to rest his arms against his legs. Knock Out took the opportunity to wrap another piece of metalmesh over his shoulders, and Sam used one hand to clasp the edges of the material together. It was only then that he realized that he wasn't wearing any clothing.
Knock Out subspaced a familiar-looking brown package and bottle of water. He handed the rations to Sam, gesturing for him to eat. All at once, Sam realized that he was ravenous, his stomach panging painfully at the sight of the food. With trembling hands, he tore the top off the pre-packaged meal and started to eat with his fingers. Knock Out stood a short distance away, watching Sam closely with his arms folded loosely over his chassis. When he finished the meal, he uncapped the bottle of water and took a long drink.
"Can you eat any more?" Knock Out asked.
He glanced at the medic in surprise; he had never been given more than one MRE for any meal.
"I'm not hungry." He replied at last.
Knock Out stared at him for a long time, something inscrutable in his optics. Eventually the medic came to stand beside his berth, reaching out to press a servo gently against Sam's torso. Sam let himself be guided to lay back against the metal surface. He blinked up at Knock Out in surprise as the medic adjusted the metalmesh so that it covered his legs.
"I want you to close your eyes, Sam."
"What? Why?"
Knock Out rested his servos on the berth beside Sam, his slender digits just pressing against his ribs.
"It will make it easier for you."
Sam opened his mouth to protest, confused by the strange request, when Knock Out brushed lightly across his mind. The touch was soft and sympathetic, gently urging him to comply. Sam shifted uncertainly but he eventually acquiesced. Knock Out's mental presence took on an apologetic edge, and then he pressed into Sam's mind. Before Sam could protest or pull away, the medic had him back within the void of stasis, secured beneath medical grade blocks.
The darkness within which he found himself remained unchanged—quiet and still. He drifted comfortably until his awareness built to the point that he realized that he was alone. Familiar fear clutched at him, chasing away the remnants of calm that had shrouded his mind. He twisted, calling out wordlessly in the darkness for the familiar presence.
Silence answered him.
Just as it had before, his consciousness ebbed and flowed in predictable cycles. After many iterations of consciousness and unconsciousness, fear and calm, he slowly achieved self-awareness. As Sam came to understand who and where he was, emotions crashed into him fast and sharp—terror, confusion, desperation, hopelessness.
It was only then that Sam learned the true meaning of panic.
Ratchet frowned as he came to stand beside Prime, taking in their inhospitable surroundings. It was raining heavily, although very little precipitation made it through the thick canopy of the Amazonian rainforest. The foliage of the upper reaches of the forest was dense, filtering much of the light from the ground. The undergrowth was thinner here, mostly tangled shrubs and bushes.
A flash of movement caused him to glance up, just in time to see the brilliant plumage of a scarlet macaw before it winged into the tree cover.
"God damned, pit-spawned mosquitos." Master Sergeant Bobby Epps swore, slapping at the back of his neck. Ratchet glanced down at him, quirking a brow ridge in response. The soldier tossed him a grimace from where he stood next to Ironhide and Will Lennox.
"Be thankful you guys don't have to deal with this shit."
"You're fully inoculated." Ratchet reassured him, ignoring the twist of Epps' mouth. He glanced around the small clearing, noting as Bumblebee and Cliffjumper took their positions at the rear of their formation.
/Be on your guard. These are the coordinates./ Prime commanded over the tacnet. A flurry of nonverbal acknowledgements pinged across Ratchet's visual display as the rest of the Autobots confirmed their positions.
Four days ago, an anonymous letter had arrived in the mail, addressed to Optimus Prime. That in and of itself had been unusual, but the letter had contained only a set of coordinates—latitude and longitude in degrees, minutes, and seconds—as well as a date and time. To compound the mystery, the letter had been signed with the Cybertronian glyph for Prime. Optimus had convened his senior staff to discuss the unusual message, which seemed to have three possible explanations: it was either another trap set by the Decepticons, an elaborate prank, or someone was trying to contact them discretely.
By that evening, Prime had given the orders to prepare for departure to Brazil.
/West-southwest is clear./ Sunstreaker reported.
/East-northeast is clear./ Sideswipe added, a moment later.
"Optimus Prime."
The reaction among both Autobots and humans alike was instantaneous—safeties clicked off, canons charged, battle masks engaged. There, stepping out of the dense underbrush at the other side of the clearing, was a bulky purple mechanoid. The stranger approached their assembled group, his posture tense but non-threatening, coming to a stop a short distance away from their leader. Ratchet's optics narrowed at the Decepticon insignia that was plainly soldered onto the mechanoid's chassis.
Prime inclined his helm a fraction of an inch in greeting.
"What is your designation?" Optimus rumbled. As he spoke, Ironhide flanked the Decepticon on his left as Sunstreaker circled him on the right. The purple mechanoid glanced at the approaching soldiers, raising his servos in a universal sign of surrender.
"I am unarmed." He said calmly, directing his words towards Ironhide and Sunkstreaker, before looking back to Prime, "My designation is Ambulon."
Ironhide stepped up to the Decepticon, grabbing his servos and pinning them behind him, before kicking his legs out from under him. The mechanoid landed hard on his knees with a loud grunt. Prime directed a dignified and quelling look at Ironhide, who stepped back and trained his canon at their prisoner. Abruptly, Prowl's calm voice washed over the tacnet.
/Decepticon, designation: Ambulon. Field medic and researcher. Weapons armament, minimal. Alt mode: leg./
/Leg?/ Sideswipe asked, equal parts disbelieving and aghast.
"Ambulon. What is the meaning of this subterfuge?"
The Decepticon looked up at Prime for a long time, as though trying to get the measure of him. Eventually, he spoke.
"I know where they've taken the boy. I can help you rescue him."
Ratchet's spark twisted in its casing, anger and hope waring for supremacy within his processors. The reaction among his compatriots was similar—surprise, disbelief, rage. It was a testament to Prime's unflappable calm that he did not react beyond the slight narrowing of his optics.
"Why would you share this information with us?" Optimus asked.
Ambulon hesitated for a long moment before he hedged, "We have no wish to see him come to harm."
Bumblebee stepped forward, rage all over his face, before Cliffjumper caught him with a restraining servo. Ambulon glanced towards him, something like recognition brightening his optics.
"I know you, scout." The Decepticon murmured, sympathy in his voice, "Your bonded dreams of you often."
Bumblebee's optics widened in pained surprise before narrowing in anger. He made to approach the Decepticon again, but a pointed look from Optimus had him returning, reluctantly, to his position.
"What do you want in exchange for this information?" Ironhide asked suspiciously, "You're sure as the Pit not giving it to us out of the goodness of your spark."
Ambulon inclined his helm minutely, "Clemency. For myself and my bonded."
"You turning paint, Decepticon?" Ironhide scoffed loudly, "Why should we trust you?"
"You don't have any other choice, not if you want to see him again."
The words were said so plainly and with such conviction that it made Ratchet's spark clench once again.
"If the information that you provide leads to Sam's return, then I will meet your conditions." Optimus rumbled, "But we will need proof of your claims."
Ambulon nodded, as though expecting this request. He tapped the side of his helm in warning and then Ratchet received a notification of a pending data transfer. He narrowed his optics as he reviewed the file's parameters. It was small, too small to contain a virus, and it was flagged as a memory datum. After a quick scan, he pinged the Autobot leader.
/I can find no evidence that the file contains malware. It should be safe to open./
Optimus inclined his helm slightly in permission, and Ratchet accessed the file.
The memory filed opened on the bridge of an unfamiliar warship—the Nemesis, Ratchet surmised. Then his spark lurched as the sight of Sam, curled up against a work terminal a short distance away from whoever was recording the file. The boy looked well enough, paler than usual and sporting a wound on his cheek, but otherwise much the same as he had looked before his capture.
Except, of course, for the naked animosity on his face. Sam glared at something just outside of Ratchet's field of vision, his body rigid with anger. Suddenly, his face twisted in discomfort and his eyes squeezed shut.
As Ratchet watched, Megatron lumbered into view as he approached the boy.
"If you feel the need to be reminded of your station, I am happy to do so." The Decepticon leader growled, causing Ratchet's fuel pump to quicken in anger, "But acting out will not end favorably for you."
After a moment, Sam forced his eyes open, glaring up at the warlord.
"Don't touch me."
Immediately, Sam cried out in pain, his hands flying to the sides of his head. Megatron crouched down in front of him, partially blocking Sam from Ratchet's view.
"You do not command me. I will not remind you again."
The ichor of the warlord's tone made Sam flinch in response, his eyes falling to the floor in front of him as his posture became unassuming and inoffensive.
After a long moment, Megatron rumbled lowly, "Now thank me for my patience."
Sam's eyes flew open, blazing like a demon's.
"Never." He spat, his entire body tensing with anger.
As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam cried out again in pain, writhing against the floor as Megatron watched on. Eventually, Sam's struggles quieted, the sound of his harsh breathing loud in the relative quiet of the bridge.
"Thank me for my patience." Megatron repeated, dangerously.
Sam did not reply. His eyes fluttered shut, lying against the deck of the bridge, resigned. It was not long before Megatron's optics narrowed in fury, and then Sam began screaming in earnest. He thrashed in agony, hands pressed against the sides of his head—
Ratchet abruptly found himself back within the privacy of his own processors as the file ended. He reeled with what he had just seen. To abuse a Creator bond to inflict suffering on a newspark was beyond perverse, beyond condemnation—it went against every line of his base programming.
Judging by the way that Prime had gone very still, his servos clenched into fists, he shared Ratchet's sentiments.
"Where is he?" Optimus demanded, his tone uncharacteristically sharp.
"They are in Chile, above the Andes mountain range." Ambulon said, before warning, "Do not think to assault the Nemesis directly. She is fully functional and carries a substantial armament."
"What would you suggest?" Prime asked at last, his voice calm and collected once again.
"My bonded is stationed on the ship. If you can provide me with the access codes to your ground bridge, then we can bring him to you."
Ratchet glanced at Optimus just in time to see the note of sharp consideration brighten his optics.