Title: Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 5: Unforgiven
Warning: READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE
Slavery
Coercion
Mutilation (referenced)
Torture (non-gore)
Clean floors
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: IDW/G1 (AU)
Characters: Soundwave, Ratbat
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Shibara drew a picture of Brawl petting his personal slave. Soundwave looked too happy in it. Something had to be done about that.
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Pt. 5: Unforgiven
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Soundwave was in much better shape than three weeks ago. The half-extinguished visor glowed fully online again, crushed optic bulbs plucked out and replaced one by one, and the crack down the center of the glass visor had been repaired. His plating, though still not armor-grade or polished to a shine, had a new coat of paint covering the age-worn, abuse-scratched previous coat. The dents had been pulled out of the empty space where his Cassette docks had been. The metal was thinner there, internal plating with its protective glass lid removed. It bent easily, and the sanded-flat spots where equipment had been were especially vulnerable. Anyone out to cause him pain always took a punch there. Now it lay smooth again, dully buffed.
More than anything, the biggest change to his appearance was how he held himself. The half-cringing scurry had relaxed. Perpetual fear had eased, and the boxy blue mech worked with the steady concentration of someone who had tasks to finish, not a slave scrambling under a lash that could fall any moment.
This had worked out so, so much better than he'd dared dream. Soundwave had hatched his plan on a moment's desperate inspiration, but for all its spontaneity, it had turned into a solid arrangement. Brawl had stepped into the role of patron as if made for it, and Soundwave threw himself into personal service in return. He positively showered Brawl with gratitude for taking an interest in him. It was what he'd hoped for when venturing the offer, but there was a vast difference between using his body to buy a few shifts free of abuse and having Brawl officially ask for him as a reward.
Starscream, as far as the inhabitants of the harem could tell, had removed the rest of the Combaticons from the guard roster. Appointing Brawl the head of the harem guard boosted the tank's status among the regular palace guard, since he'd been essentially been given supervision over the entire wing of the palace. He had free hand to pick whomever he wanted for replacement guards to fill the harem shifts. On top of that, Starscream had given him Soundwave as a personal slave. Whether or not anyone else actually wanted the harem's deaf-mute eunuch, the fact that Brawl had him made him a token of high favor.
It'd taken Brawl about two days to figure out the political ramifications of his promotion. That was the night he'd bought the box of optic bulbs and tossed them to Soundwave. The slave had fumbled the catch and would have dropped them if Optimus hadn't scooped them from his hand.
"Are these for Soundwave?" Optimus had asked their guard, courteously keeping his mouth turned toward Soundwave. The boxy blue mech couldn't hear or see what Brawl had said in return, but Optimus had smiled warmly. "Thank you, Brawl. You are very kind."
Soundwave couldn't hear or see what Brawl said in response, but he'd already been trembling in pure gratitude. He didn't have repair privileges. He was only hauled to the Constructicons if someone kicked the scrap out of him. Optimus had to carefully clear his blind side for him and install the tiny optic bulbs, since Soundwave didn't have the manual dexterity to repair himself. He'd bowed before the ex-Prime's trying to communicate his thanks, but he'd thrown himself at Brawl's feet in almost worshipful gratitude. The optic bulbs were an unimaginable gift.
With Brawl as his protector, the ambushes in the halls all but stopped. Soundwave could fulfill his duties without dread filling his every waking moment, knowing that anytime he left the safety of the harem he became a target for torture and abuse. He could barely process the relief from nonstop fear.
Optimus had called Brawl kind. Soundwave considered that an understatement equal to calling himself defeated. It was true…but.
It wasn't kindness without strings, however. In return for protection, the tank wanted to be pampered and taken care of. Soundwave was more than happy to do that. He strove to please the Combaticon however he could. Brawl didn't have to be kind, after all. A slave didn't have a choice about serving whom he was given to, cruel or kind. All he could do was encourage the kindness by going above and beyond mere good behavior.
Serving Brawl wasn't a hardship. He expected Soundwave to not slack off. He demanded the eunuch work more pulling double-duty in the harem as well as serving him, but he didn't tend to raise his hand to the mech for no reason. Between the repairs and the tank's casual defense whenever Soundwave left the harem now, the former communications specialist felt like he was in paradise. After vorns of abuse, even a few changes made slavery seem bearable.
Soundwave paused in his scrubbing and bowed his head, taking a moment to cycle a deep ventilation and reflect on his good fortune. He'd long ago accepted a life of slavery. He was enough of a realist to take what he'd been handed and be content. He was content. As much as a broken mech could be, anyway.
Brawl's shift would end soon. He'd sent the eunuch to his quarters to clean the floor so it would be dry by the time he returned. Soundwave didn't know what he intended once he came back, but the slave intended to offer a massage, maybe more if the tank seemed in the mood. Brawl often was, and Soundwave did nothing to discourage him. A happy tank was a generous tank, and a generous tank sometimes reciprocated.
Soundwave had nearly forgotten what pleasure felt like, much less how an overload did. It was easy to get addicted to the drunken energy flux of a tactile, vibration-based overload pulsing through his systems. He would never dare push Brawl into returning the favor, as it were - he was very well aware of his status as the lowest of the low - but the Combaticon wasn't that bright. A little bit of subtle manipulation could be done even by the lowest of the low. Brawl would never notice.
The door moved at the corner of his restored vision, and Soundwave glanced up almost eagerly.
Three weeks hadn't been enough time. There would never be enough time.
Every micron a humble, debased slave, Soundwave snapped his gaze back to the floor and cowered. Small. He had to be small and broken. He was nothing. He was nobody. He was furniture. He was background noise, a shadow to be ignored. He was beneath notice. He was below contempt.
He was shaking, because he already knew it wouldn't work.
Even with his forehelm to the ground between his arms, Soundwave was hyperaware of Ratbat's presence as small feet strode into the room. There was no benign excuse for the ex-Cassetticon to be here. These were Brawl's quarters. There was no reason for the leader of the Decepticons, the ruler of Cybertron, Soundwave's lord and Master, to come to a Combaticon's quarters.
No reason but him.
He could see just enough of the floor ahead of himself that the feet walking toward him were visible. They approached at a measured, even pace that spoke volumes about his captor, owner, torturer's mood. Ratbat's displeasure loomed larger than his small frame did, and Soundwave cringed into an even tighter huddle trying to hide from it. No. No please, it'd been vorns! He couldn't hear, he couldn't speak, he couldn't communicate. He'd been stripped of his hardware and locked out of his software. Hadn't he been punished enough?
He'd been enslaved and made to regret his entire life. Was there no slagging way to appease this mech?
The mech he'd deceived, forcefully reformatted, and kept in servitude as a Cassette for millions of years during the war. Soundwave already knew the answer.
The feet in front of him came to a halt. He peeked at them before directing his visor back to the floor as he'd been taught. It was respectful. He remembered that full well. The lessons in showing respect to his betters had been ground deep, and humbled as he was, he'd learned them by spark. He'd accepted his place with painful humility. He would obey, he would serve, he would do anything, just please spare him!
The feet just stood there waiting, unaffected by his silent pleas. They were still small, even after Ratbat had upgraded frames. Format changes were harder to undo than do. Soundwave should know. He'd inflicted the initial size downgrade knowing that the humiliation would stick to the former Senator even if the mech somehow escaped him.
Well, Ratbat had escaped. The new leader of Cybertron had turned every micron of humiliation back on him a hundredfold for the insult.
Those feet didn't need to be large to grind down on Soundwave's neck. The ex-communication specialist forced himself forward on his belly, shaking and sick to his tanks. It was a terrible rite, but a familiar one. Ratbat wanted his submission, and it was either proffer it willingly or wish desperately that he had.
So he prostrated himself flat on the floor and nuzzled his face against one small foot, shaking in terror. Submission only made the worst slightly less painful to endure.
Hook and Knock Out had left him a single intact port when they gutted his hardware, and even that was a joke. The port wouldn't work without access authorization and a completion socket built into the tip of the compatible jack. The only ones with the correct codes and compatible jacks were the Constructions - and Ratbat. Soundwave shuddered and whimpered silently as cold metal slipped into the back of his neck.
His software greeted the primary usercode, and everything that Soundwave was opened under it. Every firewall he had was rendered useless. They belonged to his primary user. The owner of his body. His Master. Every piece of software he ran answered to someone else, and that someone else opened him up like a book now, paging through and reading him. Outside commands slid coolly into his mind and did whatever they wanted without his consent, beyond his control, but with his knowledge. Ratbat liked him to know what was being done to him.
A powerful voice rang through his head, overriding all other thought processes. Ratbat spoke, and it hurt. It deafened audios that didn't exist, maxed out a vocalizer that had been surgically removed, slashed nerve sensors across his body, and blinded him. His mind reeled from the assault. He spasmed silently on the floor under the punishing mental slap of each word.
SLAVE.
Yes Master please Master he's been a good slave Master
YOU THINK YOU ARE CLEVER.
No Master he's just a slave Master he's a loyal slave Master please
YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THIS REPRIEVE.
Please be merciful please Master please he works hard he serves Brawl well he does he swears it
YOU BELONG TO ME. NOT TO BRAWL. YOU SERVE ME.
The last thought blasted into his processor, and Soundwave writhed in agony on the floor as Ratbat pressed the inexorable fact of ownership into him in a constriction of software. It felt as if his owner reached into his mind and closed a fist around his brain. Programs shrieked, closing and opening and crashing until feedback had his vents panting sobbing bursts of hot air. His body fought to stay online. All the while, his mind babbled a constant stream of agreement, pleas for forgiveness, and flat-out begging for mercy on a good slave, a sorry slave, his Master's devoted slave. It devolved into gibberish nonsense as pain drove him to the brink of sanity.
When Ratbat finally relented, Soundwave lay at his feet twitching slightly.
BRAWL IS FAVORED BY ME. YOU ARE NOT. NOT YOU. DO NOT FORGET THAT.
N-no Master n-e-e-e
Never Master
He-e is
He is a g-go-od-od slave
Master he s-serves
He serves B-Brawl to ser-r-rve
To serve his Master
Good s-slave
He is g-good-d
YOU GET ABOVE YOURSELF, SLAVE.
The phrasing alone shot horror through Soundwave, knocking his dazed mind back into coherent thought out of sheer panic. Not that, please!
Master
No please no
Master have mercy have pity on a good slave
He wants to serve let him serve he needs to be able to walk carry move
YOU DESERVE TO CRAWL.
No no no nono nononononoooo
YES.
Soundwave cried out, noiseless protest, but the extent of his ability to fight back was to tense his hands into claws on the floor. Inside his head, Ratbat's icy touch paged through the laborious, clumsy work-arounds he'd cobbled together in the millennia since he'd been neutered. One by one, they were thrust to the forefront of his processor. He pleaded, promising anything, anything at all, just tell him what he could do and he'd do it, please. His mind crawled, groveling in a debased, panicked flurry of thoughts bared for Ratbat's enjoyment.
Making sure Soundwave helplessly witnessed every disappearing number, Ratbat deleted bits of the code in a slow torture that went on and on. The manual access to his gyros allowing him to balance on his feet. The actuators in his ankles. The fine motor control in his hip and knee joints so he could shift his weight while walking. Ratbat took away his ability to feel how tightly he closed his hands, and the hydraulic releases in his elbows joints. Without those, he couldn't pick things up, and if he did, his elbows would unlock under the weight.
Ratbat ruthlessly stripped away vorns of effort in a few short minutes, and Soundwave moaned inside his head because he could do nothing to stop it.
HOW USEFUL ARE YOU NOW?
Despair flooded him. His protection from the vengeful mechs hinged on his value to Brawl. Soundwave lay on the floor twitching, and he wasn't even sure he'd be able to crawl from the room. What possible use could the Combaticon have for a slave who couldn't even stand up?
YOU ARE WORTHLESS.
Soundwave dimmed his visor and tried not to think about how vulnerable he'd be during the long, slow trek from harem to dispensary, and then the even slower journey back, sliding refreshment trays along the floor while he hauled himself along in jerky, uncoordinated movements. He remembered how long it would take. He'd done it before, and he knew exactly what abuse would be waiting in the halls for him. Every mech Brawl had turned away in the last three weeks would take the opportunity to punish him. Every single one would be back.
IT IS WHAT YOU DESERVE, SLAVE.
Three weeks of blissful memories would torture him for the next unknown number of vorns in the Pit. Primus spare his spark.
THANK ME, SOUNDWAVE.
The crippled, mute, and deaf slave shivered violently. His hands made a tiny motion on the floor, uncertain and afraid, and his visor blinked back on. Thank him? Thank him for mauling his software and locking him out of repairing the damage? His existence was a sick toy for his owner's amusement, he knew that, but the raw despair delayed obedience for a critical second.
Ratbat scowled down at him, and Soundwave knew because static scored white-hot lashes of burning agony across his processor. The boxy blue mech kicked, twisting up on the floor as he clutched his head and silently suffered.
PERHAPS YOU BELIEVE I HAVE NOT SHOWN MERCY UPON YOU?
No no M-Master please
S-sorry please
I CAN BE A CRUEL MASTER. SHALL I SHOW YOU CRUELTY, SOUNDWAVE?
N-no no-o
Mas-mas-master
Master is-s mercif-ful
He is-s-s gr-grateful for his mer-merciful Master
V-very grateful so so so
So gr-grateful
He d-deser-erves this Master is m-merciful for giv-iving him what he deserves
Please pun-nish
Please punish him
He d-eserves it he does please he's grat-teful
His M-master is merciful please no more
Please
Pity
Pardon
Pl-ease have
WHY SHOULD I?
Soundwave uncurled and inched across the floor to nudge and nuzzle small feet in frantic submission. He knew it was a game. He knew Ratbat wanted to humiliate and bring him lower yet. Making him scrape was nothing but one step in ongoing revenge, and Ratbat inevitably had worse torture lined up. But if it pleased Ratbat even a little, then Soundwave could only play along in hopes of at least appeasing a bit of his anger.
Prostrate inside and out, he begged. He was Ratbat's, mind and body. He was a good slave. Please let him serve.
He'd been a fool to think he could plan for a better life. Brawl couldn't protect him, not from his owner. Not when Ratbat's mastery over him was this complete. It didn't matter what he looked like on the outside, or in whose bed he slept. He was Ratbat's slave, and he could never, ever escape that.
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