Title: Backstage: Stage Hands
Warnings: Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: G1
Characters: Combaticons, Decepticons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): "My relationship to you can only be defined as masochistic."
[* * * * *]
Punishment detail for regular Decepticon warriors was disgraceful, and often painful. For a Decepticon prisoner, that was everyday life. So when Shrapnel put a Combaticon on report, that Combaticon knew to feel regret long before Kickback even started. Because Kickback made prisoner punishment details…special.
Onslaught already regretted this. But groveling and scraping under Kickback's personalized torment was a symptom of the disease, and the Combaticons would never be cured of it unless Onslaught did something about the situation. Involuntary loyalty to Megatron had been enough of a punishment for their rebellion, he felt. It took away any option of repeating their defiance.
Oh no, but that couldn't be enough. The Combaticons had to be an example. Shockwave was reactivating other prisoners back on Cybertron, and the Combaticons weren't enough of an example on their knees before Megatron. They'd nearly destroyed the Supreme Commander. They'd nearly given away the vast plot deceiving the Autobots, and wasted the time and energy spent on Earth to allow other conquests to continue. Megatron wanted them to pay for what they'd done.
When summoned, the Combaticons crawled into the Decepticon leader's presence in gratitude for being spared. When dismissed, they thanked him for his mercy in not mindwiping them. Their voices were flat and forced, but if he could, Onslaught would add more words. After months of servitude, he was ready to beg.
He'd thought it temporary when they'd first been returned to Earth by Shockwave. Probation had been something to endure, because it was due punishment before release. The Elite Decepticons regarded them as little more than trash, footsoldiers of the lowest rank, but they had value. The Combaticons were a combiner team now. Bruticus magnified already their impressive individual abilities into an awesome battlefield force. Onslaught had been certain their worth would be recognized and utilized properly. There was so much the Combaticons could do for the Decepticons!
Onslaught's strategic mind had recognized Megatron's master plan when given time, and he could contribute to the warlord's unfolding conquests offworld. Vortex topped the list of Decepticon interrogators, a valuable skill no matter the planet. Blast Off would be a welcome addition to any strike team for planetary scouting or precision orbital strikes. Brawl's brute force seemed simple at first, but his firepower was top of the line and searingly powerful with the aid of his gestalt linkups, now. Swindle already was borrowed by the Constructicons for special requisitions, and the main Decepticon divisions on Cybertron would have probably fought over who got the opportunistic trader…if he wasn't on probation.
If they weren't all on probation. Permanently. Until Megatron finally finished on Earth and sent them back to scrub floors in Shockwave's tower, or mindwiped them, or sent them to the front lines to die as shock troops, of no more worth than the lowest-ranked soldier. That was bad. What was worse was that they couldn't do anything about it.
Maybe Autobot prisoners got time off for good behavior, but the Combaticons slaved away at their assigned duties for the privilege of repairs by a competent repairmech after battles. Sometimes the Constructicons deigned to go against Megatron's explicit disapproval and implicit orders; they'd repair the Combaticons if the Insecticons thought their behavior adequate, or if Swindle acquired something of particular interest to the Engineering division. However, the Constructicons made it excruciatingly clear what they thought of repairing prison scum while they did so. Such repairs always were accompanied by Scrapper doing a mandatory check of the loyalty programming. He made them recite rules and regulations and propaganda until Brawl was confused by what was coming out of his own mind and Blast Off's vocalizer scraped hoarse with unaccustomed speech.
Swindle fought pitched battles on the intergalactic market to earn them that particularly mortifying privilege, but most of the time, the Combaticons limped back to base and did their best to repair each other. They submitted to the chains around their limbs and orders given by Insecticons half as small as them because Decepticons didn't have choices like 'Behave or we'll take your extra rations away.' They got choices like 'Do what you're told when you're told how you're told…or else.'
They were an example to the entire Decepticon faction, and they weren't going to end well. There would be no end to the probationary period, Onslaught had realized. They would be pitilessly degraded and pushed aside until they were known only as the combiner team more useful as maintenance mechs than as warriors. They'd rust under the Insecticon's harsh routine in that wasteland prison-base. If they were very lucky, Megatron would let them return to Cybertron as maintenance mechs.
Onslaught had a tactician's mind. One thing to be said for probation: it gave that mind time to think. He'd pored over strategies as he mindlessly cleaned walls and polished equipment. He'd searched for a way out, exchanging snatches of thought with the other Combaticons in furtive planning sessions while they shamed themselves in front of the Autobots or passed in the base corridors. The Combaticons would not be…allowed…to overthrow Megatron. They'd viciously fight against anyone else who tried, in fact. The other Decepticons interacted with them only on missions, and strictly according to what Megatron's plan laid out. No real communication happened during those times; they were always on stage for Autobot spies.
The Autobots thought the other Decepticons despised the Combaticons. They weren't far off the mark on that. Prisoners, especially prisoners so thoroughly subjugated, were beneath notice to warriors. The Elite of the Decepticons in particular. The Combaticons had no allies and absolutely no hope for a future there.
Which left Onslaught dredging the barrel of wishful thinking. He came up with a wisp of possibility. The others were as desperate as he and asked few questions. The less they knew, the more ignorance they could claim when it came down to explaining why exactly they were distracting their probation officers. As it was, Onslaught knew he was going to get it the moment the Insecticons realized their fifth prisoner had slipped his leash. The timetables Shrapnel laid down were exact for a reason, and Onslaught would be overdue for return from the Victory in approximately half an hour. After that, every minute overdue lengthened punishment detail exponentially.
He paid the bribe to Thundercracker without protest, knowing the blue Seeker could refuse or even report him for this. Explaining why he was here right here, right now, and where he'd gotten even the couple cubes of energon to pay with would be an exercise in public humiliation. Vortex and Brawl had skimped their already-strict rations for weeks to pay for this, but it would all be worth it if this worked.
Thundercracker eyed askance the poor grade of energon but shrugged acceptance. Energon was energon; holding this over Onslaught's head was the real bribe. It ensured Bruticus would pay extra attention to any Autobots shooting up Thundercracker's tailfins the next time the gestalt went into battle. The blue Seeker leaned against the wall, optics dimming. Encrypted communications went back and forth, and Onslaught grew more and more tense.
Swindle had skimmed and simpered for weeks to buy little trinkets and gifts, and he'd paid the Cassetticons to deliver them to the Air Commander's office. That, too, was being held over the Combaticons as a whole. The Air Commander automatically turned down any request for audience from the Combaticons, and he didn't even acknowledge communication attempts. Hence, buttering him up with presents, and then bribing his trinemate to ask for them.
Tactics. The tactics of weak, disgraced prisoners, but tactics nonetheless.
Onslaught's shattered sense of self-worth winced and tried to pull together the longer this drew out. Minutes ticked off, ever closer to the time limit looming over him, and he knew what Kickback would do to him. Every second added that much more time onto the flight back, and the total time would be multiplied by whatever aggravation Shrapnel felt at being tricked by the other four Combaticons.
It was going to be very, very bad. Kickback could turn one duty shift into a time measurement of complete condemnation. Two reduced Swindle into offering anything, anything at all, so long as it appeased the Insecticon. Three sent Vortex into laughter fits that poorly covered his screaming, and Blast Off shook silently through missions for days afterward. No one but Onslaught had earned four shifts punishment detail, and he'd staunchly refused to reveal details even after waking nightmares kept his entire team from recharge because of the gestalt link.
Onslaught regretted even starting this train of thought. The Insecticon probation officer would make him regret living by the time he was through. Perhaps it would be better to cut his losses, creep back to the Combaticon base, and claim weather damage delayed him. It wouldn't spare him punishment, but Kickback might show a bit of leniency. Maybe. If Onslaught groveled a little, which was a bitter thought in and of itself.
Thundercracker's optics suddenly lit a bright red, and Onslaught snapped out of his black thoughts. "He'll see you," the jet sneered, "although only he knows why. Remember this, Combaticon!" Onslaught bent his head, silently accepting the debt heaped on his team's backs. Thundercracker eyed him a moment more, then turned on a thruster and walked off down the corridor. A mutter that might have been "Prison dregs" drifted back through his wake, but Onslaught was used to the insults.
It was really only insulting if it weren't true, after all.
He gathered his courage, slamming mental doors on all the reasons why this was such a bad idea, and faced the door. He pinged *"Sir?"* at the same time he tapped the access panel. Politeness never hurt, and it was a cheap submission he felt no shame in proffering. Starscream outranked him, if nothing else.
The door opened in answer, and Onslaught paused a moment on the threshold. Open doors weren't necessarily an invitation to enter. The Air Commander could, in all probability, simply want to deliver a dismissal order to his face before closing the door again. "Sir?" he asked again.
"Come in."
He stepped inside, feeling a traitorous surge of gratitude flare near his core. It ran, sick and dizzy, up against the last seconds of the time limit running out. Hope and dread collided in his chest, but it was too late to go back. He braced to attention. "Sir."
Starscream didn't immediately look up. He was working on something on the inbuilt terminal at the desk, peering intently if not with much interest at the screen. Onslaught could read mechs, and the trepidation dragging on his spark slicked an extra dollop of icy anxiety down internal systems. This wasn't the elaborate façade of a Decepticon playing power games. Starscream genuinely cared more about what he was working on than the Combaticon waiting for his attention. Power games weren't much fun unless the other player had some power, and Onslaught had none.
The time kept going, now running up, and what could he do about it? What could this jet do about it?
Why, of all Decepticons, Starscream?
He was undeniably a good-looking mech, if looks meant much in the middle of civil war. The red and blue was flashy, and the white added a nice contrast. He wouldn't be Onslaught's first choice for berth play, but he'd certainly look twice at the Seeker's aft. An excellent flyer, and quick, but the flight ranks had plenty of fast flyers. He had the rank to hold Megatron's audio, but so did Skywarp and Thundercracker and half the Elite Decepticons on Earth. Proximity alone ensured that, which prompted the vicious infighting back on Cybertron to fill any slots that opened on the Earth team. He wasn't even in the Onslaught's direct chain of command during fights, although of course he'd obey any orders given. If Onslaught had wanted that bit of connection with the jet, he'd have sent Blast Off or Vortex in his place.
No, Starscream had looks, and he had ability, and he had the power, but he had far more than that. He was the Air Commander. He held the air ranks in a manner no other flyer could possibly hope to mimic. He had some connection that Megatron valued above all others with similar looks and ability and powerbases.
Most important to Onslaught, however, was the peculiar bond he held to the Combaticons. It was a tenuous relationship, absurd at the first glance, and Onslaught would have laughed at the suggestion if he weren't so desperate. It defied easy definition or description beyond the obvious action: he'd rebuilt them.
When the jet finally closed the terminal screen and looked up at him, Onslaught didn't even know how to put it into words. "Yes?" Starscream asked, evidently deciding the opening pause to be another form of respectful deference.
"Sir, I…" Onslaught fumbled for words. "The Combaticons…"
The Air Commander leaned back in his seat, not relaxed but obviously at ease. "Yes," he drew out, staring the bulkier mech down. "The Combaticons. I assume there's a reason for all of this." He waved a hand casually, a gesture that could have meant Onslaught's presence but served to draw attention to the small heap of things discarded in the far corner. Onslaught flicked a look at the expensive trinkets - everything Swindle had labored to gift the picky Seeker, untouched and thrown aside - and looked back to Starscream. The other Decepticon was regarding him with the steady optics of someone growing bored. "Do explain, Combaticon."
Surely Starscream knew his name? 'Combaticon' had become synonymous with 'prisoner', however, so Onslaught could be fairly certain the omission was deliberate. This was not going well, and time kept rushing by.
Onslaught straightened his shoulders and dove in with no pretense of pride. "Sir, we need your help. I'm here to ask you to intervene with Lord Megatron on our behalf." The Air Commander was terrifyingly smart. Spelling out why they needed help would be offensive. Explaining what they could bring to the Decepticon cause would only insult his intelligence. Onslaught didn't know if that would be more or less offensive than flat-out asking an officer to help them when said officer knew every reason why not to help. "We would be exceedingly grateful, sir, for even the smallest favor. All we need is an opportunity!" He couldn't tell what the jet was thinking behind those bored optics.
He strained to keep his voice level, to stay at attention. He had very little dignity left, but he would salvage what he could. "An opening, sir. A chance. We're not asking you to directly ask for our pardon," although if that happened, Onslaught would dedicate an entire day to singing the jet's praises, "but you could speak with him. You could…say something to Lord Megatron."
Starscream interrupted. "Say what, exactly?"
Onslaught brought his hands forward, spreading them expressively. The jet had a cleverness with Megatron that no one else had ever been able to duplicate without a fusion blast through the lasercore. "Whatever you think best, sir. Anything would be welcome. Lord Megatron," he hesitated, because it was true for the jet and increasingly unlikely to ever be true for any of the Combaticons, "listens to you."
The time continued counting up. Kickback was going to ream him, but Onslaught didn't dare prod the jet. Starscream leaned forward slowly, resting his chin on one fist as he studied the Combaticon leader. The silence wasn't outright rejection. He held onto that like it could be comfort. That dripped away the longer the silence lasted.
Finally, finally, the Air Commander dipped his chin against his fist. It was tiny. It could signify anything. Onslaught's spark quivered in a whiplash of hope.
"He might," Starscream admitted, and his optics were no longer bored. They held a dangerous, lazy kind of interest. The kind of interest that could help or hinder, but at least it was interest! "Or he might decide that I'm trying to plot his downfall with you once more. I fail to see why I should risk myself for your team's sake. What could you possibly offer me?" His optics flicked sidelong, dismissing Swindle's pile of gifts. "I can buy my own junk, you know."
The bargaining phase. Swindle always said it was the least difficult phase of a trade because wrangling over the cost indicated both parties were equally involved in the deal. Onslaught didn't think that to be true, not when he had so little to bargain with. "What do you want of us?" he asked, hands still spread. Open body language, Swindle explained because he spoke physical interaction like a professional, offers anything and everything. 'Tell me the price, and we'll pay it,' Onslaught offered, and he could only pray to Primus that Starscream would condescend to name a price they could actually pay.
Now amused, Starscream considered the open offer. With the regal bearing of a prince, he swept a look over the Combaticon, head to foot. Internal cables jerked to tautness, although on the outside Onslaught struggled not to show it. That was the same look Bombshell had when contemplating how to best cut the combiner team off at the knees and make them feel every demeaning moment of it. He shouldn't be surprised; this was the jet that the Combaticons had taken turns grinding into the rock of that asteroid during their brief exile. Starscream had apparently been content to let their permanent probation punish them for that mistake, but Onslaught had just cast his entire team at the Air Commander's feet.
His commlink opened with no warning, and if he hadn't been standing so tense already, Shrapnel voice over the internal array would have made him startle. *"Onslaught. Report!"*
Whatever the Seeker wanted as vengeance couldn't be worse than what Kickback would do to him when Onslaught had to return. The Combaticon leader dropped his gaze to the floor submissively, keeping his hands open and vulnerable: 'Do with us as you will.'
The words were a thread of sound, barely audible in the office. "Sir, help us." Even quieter yet. "Please."
Starscream smiled, wide and gloating. "I could do something." A delicate shrug, and shame and fear curdled Onslaught's tanks in equal measure. "I suppose." 'If it's worth my while,' the lazily triumphant optics over that smile added.
A small motion from the hand curled under Starscream's chin, the slightest hint of a crooked finger, summoned him. Onslaught pushed aside the counting numbers and Shrapnel's audible anger. He walked around the desk and knelt by Starscream's side without needing to wait for an order. The Air Commander looked down at him, optics sharp and glorious in triumph, and Onslaught's core felt cold when the Seeker's free hand reached out to stroke gently down the side of his helm.
Oh, Onslaught already regretted this.