Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 6
Warning: Torture, gore, bad poetry, and interfacing robots.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Drift, Rodimus, Tarn, Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Overlord, Pharma
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Prompts off Tumblr, the Dreamwidth board, and random.
[* * * * *]
Rodimus and Drift - "sitting around and drunkenly bitching about things" / Drift - "making the DJD hurt"
[* * * * *]
"Oh, Primus." Drift started to raise his drink, realized it was empty, and set it down. There was no choice left but to endure the pain. He was no longer able to rise and ease the agony via further intoxication. "He's got another one? How many did they let him do?"
Rodimus felt his pain. He shared it. That didn't meant he was going to share any of his drinks, no matter the hopeful look Drift gave him. "Heavy-duty miner frame in a poetry club? Not even the bouncer probably dared touch him." For once, Rodimus had thought ahead. He'd brought a small army of glasses to the table. Most of them were drained already. It helped dull the pain of listening to this. He stared blearily at the projected picture, one finger wagging as if trying to place a tune as the speaker swung into an eerily familiar cadence. "Ha! Got it. Is that 'Take My Spark To Praxus'?"
He waved his hand over his drinks, batting away Drift's hands. The young captain horded the remaining full glasses of engex to his chest. He could not afford to sacrifice any to the gods of sympathy. Sorry, Drift, but some things a captain was allowed to pull rank on.
Drift understood how it was. Rodimus was a soft Autobot. More drinking was probably necessary for the weak to endure. Not Drift, nope. Drift was hardened, streetwise, and too tough to crack under bad poetry ripped off from an already cheesy song's lyrics. "What? No way." He was also perfectly able to scoot his chair toward the bar because, by all that was holy, it really was 'Take My Spark To Praxus'. "Did he even try? Hold on, hold on…" He paused in his chair-scooting and straightened as if to give his own performance. He had to clear his throat of the mingled laughter and screaming from the previous attempt at poetry they'd endured. "'Take my spark to Praxus, my love, and drive the roads above~' oh come on. I can do better than that!"
Sadly for the wanna-be poet who was immortalized in footage Rewind had dug up from where 'someone' had tried to bury it (they had suspicions about who'd buried it, oh yes they did), Drift likely could do a better job at poetry. Frag, he could scoop better rhyme composed by stim-addled drones out of the gutter. He'd still give a better performance than this slag, and yet he couldn't currently grab a cube off the bar without first poking it cautiously to distinguish the real cube from the three his overcharged optical sensors insisted were piled on the counter.
"He didn't even change the rhyme." This was painful, just painful. Rodimus slammed back another full glass of engex. The projection was still in front of him when he came up for air and to wipe his mouth. He cringed a bit when passion - or inexperience - made the speaker's voice crack at just the wrong time. "This's…wow. How many of these you got, Rewind?" the captain asked muzzily, putting the hand holding the empty glass under his chin.
The tiny Autobot beaming the video on the wall for them hummed thoughtfully. Apparently he was immune to their pain. "According to these files, he came back two more nights before the show recordings go back to the regular local poets."
"Nooooo," the other two Autobots moaned in chorus.
Rodimus let his chin slip off his hand, and his forehelm slammed into the table. This did not seem to be a problem for him, as he started tapping it in time with Megatron's badly-rhymed, poorly-written drivel being clumsily (if passionately) performed on the wall in front of him. The physical pain seemed to help distract him. Young Megatron's public speaking had been very sad in the beginning. Everyone had to start out somewhere, but ouch. Rewind seemed to be finding it all fascinating, but Drift and Rodimus had reached the point where laughing mockery became horrified disbelief and then slid downward into prayers for a quick death.
Megatron's performance was so painful to watch that Drift paused halfway from the bar and scooted back. He made himself at home there, giving up on the return trip to the table. There was no point in pretending this was going to get any better. He contemplated whether it'd be rude to drink straight from the spigot.
He looked over at this private viewing's guest of honor and was just drunk enough to feel a sliver of sympathy. "Y'want some?" The spigot was waved vaguely in Tarn's direction. Wait, no. Awkward moment of logistics, here. Drift thought hard and fished a solution out of the muddled depths of his sloshed mind. "Can't take the vocalizer-lock off, but, uh…I can pour it down an auxiliary intake?"
Even behind the mask, Tarn's optics had the half-squinted look of someone who'd been trying to flinch only when no one was looking at him. There was subtle shifting as the Decepticon tried to unobtrusively straighten back up and look like he hadn't been wincing every other word. Drift could sort of understand trying to stand - uh, sit, in this case - tall and proud even under this assault of drivel. The leader of the D.J.D. was supposed to be a fanatic loyalist, supportive of all Megatron's great works. This didn't really qualify as a great work. It was sort of a bellyflop into epic failure. 'Megatron: The Early Years' was probably considered cruel and unusual punishment by galactic standards.
Drift turned his head toward the video and contemplated it with the serene despair of a torture victim. He could respect the amount of strength it took to remain proudly aloof through this record of verbal and linguistic travesty. "Being this overcharged kinda helps." Drift turned his head just quickly enough to catch Tarn looking. Yeah, those red optics were definitely eyeing the spigot with longing. "Takes the edge off."
"Drift. Driiiiiift." Rodimus still head on the table, but he was rolling it back and forth as Rewind changed to the next video. "Drift, if he compares one more social injustice to 'the black depths of my darkest night, alone and cold,' I'm going to purge. I really am."
"Urgh. Yes." Just the reminder of that overused phrase had Drift shuddering in horror. Screw manners. Tarn could suffer. It was spigot time in DriftLand.
"Ah." Rewind paused the video and seemed somewhat apologetic when both drunk (but regretfully still conscious) Autobot officers stared at him. "Shall I get you a bucket, then?"
"I can't do it," Rodimus said faintly. "I just can't." He contemplated his table full of empty glasses. When had he downed the last of them? "Drift. I need liquid reinforcement."
"Why bother?" Having guzzled some courage of his own, Drift sat back in his chair and braced himself for the horror to come. There was apparently a reason no one had ever published any of Megatron's early, early poetry. "S'only gonna come back up."
"True. But!" The captain raised a finger to emphasize his point. It wobbled but pointed vaguely upward. "Throwing up might drown out some of the worst parts."
"Oooo, point." Drift began looking for something to stack full glasses on as the next video started.
Tarn just silently suffered.
[* * * * *]
Powerglide and/or Cosmo and/or Siren! Rewind and Chromedome, Blaster, Pipes - "In heat" continuation
[* * * * *]
There were many things Fortress Maximus wasn't proud of in his long life. There'd been a lot of poor decisions he didn't like talking about. Things had happened. He didn't like to talk about them, either. Holding Rung hostage had only been the latest in a series of lousy life choices.
Holding Whirl hostage was not counted among those bad choices. The only thing that Fort Max regretted about beating Whirl up was that he hadn't finished the job.
He felt that regret most acutely right now, stomping along in the rotary mech's wake with his wrists cuffed and hands held out in front of himself like they were contaminated. He could still feel the tingle of excess charge on two of his fingertips. His optics had seen things that his mind would never be able to unsee. Regrets: so many of them. Some of them contained erotic Minibots, now.
Between the cuffs and the curves, if he came out of this situation with some sort of weird fetish? He wasn't going to be surprised. He'd just blame Whirl.
The ex-Wrecker ahead of him paused at an intersection to check around the corner. "Don't even look," Whirl warned him as the warden came up behind him. "I know you got trouble listening to instructions, but - "
"I do not," Fort Max cut him off. Of all people, he was not taking a lecture about issues with authority figures from this mech.
Whirl somehow managed a withering glare before skittering across the intersection. The warden made a face at his back and strode to follow. He caught a flash of color out of the corner of his optic, however, and he took a quick look. With the virus at work, however, a quick look was all the indication of interest the infected required. Oops.
Siren saw him and was immediately calling, "Hey! Come on over here! We've got room!"
Up ahead, the gangly blue Autobot leading today's tour of the crew's many sexual positions turned and just looked. Fortress Maximus hastily caught up with him. The ex-Wrecker continued looking at him. The bulkier mech shifted, trying not to squirm sheepishly. Whirl's scuffed antenna slowly laid back in peevish irritation.
"Aw, come back! We could use a fourth - uh, fifth! Sixth? Come back, we'll take goooood care of you!"
There wasn't much point in playing innocent. Siren was loud enough to rattle their struts. That was one mech onboard that Fort Max could identify by voice alone, no problem.
By now, Whirl's antenna was pinned all the way back. "I warned you."
The warden grimaced. Chalk that up to another poor decision. "Shut up." He'd find a way to blame it on Whirl, later. Somehow.
The rotary mech shrugged. "It's your mental health," he tossed back over his shoulder as he started off down the hallway again. "See what I care if you don't listen." His voice fell to a mutter the massive tank behind him only heard because Fort Max had increased his pace. As much as he hated to admit it, he really didn't want to get left behind. Sticking with Whirl was the better choice. This situation was all kinds of wrong. "Was gonna spare you what I've been put through, but what the frag, who listens to me anyway. Blah de blah, Whirl the violent, Whirl the ex-Wrecker, Whirl the incredibly handsome who's saving your blasted afts, you morons!"
That last part was shouted at the tangle of mechs blocking the intersection up ahead. Fortress Maximus slowed down warily this time, but Whirl didn't even hesitate. The spindly ex-Wrecker stomped forward and briskly poked at the pile. He seemed to know what he was doing. Under his clinical prodding, limbs separated enough to be distinguishable as actual 'bots instead of just a moaning mound of spare parts. Fort Max edged up behind Whirl and cautiously peered over his head down at them.
The big green and yellow mech on top towered even when kneeling. When he sat up, Whirl had to look upward, and Fort Max had to angle his head in order to see past the big mech's bulk. There were two more Autobots pinned between the green mech's legs, and he seemed intent on taking his time with both of them. The smaller red one was on his front, clawing at the floor and sobbing in huge gulps of air as pleasure ran his systems so hot the air distorted around him. The other mech, larger but just as red, preened under the attention and purred through his speakers.
Whirl deftly avoided the two pinned mechs' pawing and batted away the largest Autobot's hands. They seemed to be coaxing him down to join the two the big mech had already collected. "Not interested! What's your fuel levels?" Bat, bat, push, duck and dodge. Whirl obviously had some experience escaping amorous mechs by now. "Hey! Respond! Fuel levels, now!"
"Thirte-eee-eee - ohhh. Oh. Ah…" That was definitely Blaster. The warden recognized that warble of sound as a familiar voice from the ship's P.A. system. The red Autobot bucked into the orange-red hand that dug in on either side of his Cassette casing and massaged slowly. "Oh Primus, oh yeah! Oh frag, yeah! Cosmos you got the touch, mmmm."
Cosmos, huh? That would explain why the green Autobot kneeling above the two collected 'prizes' was almost Fort Max's size. Fort Max had him in his 'Welcome to the Lost Light: Please check reality at the airlock!' briefing packet. He was listed as a Minibot class orbital platform. He'd dwarf the warden if he transformed.
He certainly seemed to enjoy using his size. "I don't have the touch until you can't talk anymore," Cosmos laughed, optics sparkling merrily as massaging fingers started down Blaster's sides. His other hand was giving much the same treatment to the sleek wingpanels that went down his second lover's back. The flyer had his hands flat on the floor, now, pushing himself up as much as he could to meet the firm pressure stroking every single sensor Cosmos could find. "Now," the happy dominant switched his gaze from Blaster to his more desperately whimpering, squirming partner, "be a good mech and overload, Powerglide."
The smallest red Autobot wailed and obeyed.
The jolt of released charge zapped up the cables connecting all three Autobots. Fort Max blinked away an after image from the bright light. Wow. He was vaguely impressed. That was quite an overload. Either Powerglide had been saving himself up, or Cosmos was just that good.
Whirl smacked Cosmos in the arm before the Minibot could recover. "Hand. Hand!" He pressed six cubes into the hand not currently sending Blaster into static-laden sound-clips. The Cassette carrier was incoherent, but also apparently at only 13%. "Y'know what'd be sexy? If you fed them these. And took two for yourself while you're at it," Whirl ordered sternly.
"You know what'd be sexy?" Space-worthy engines rumbled, rattling the floor, and Blaster spasmed as the vibration and intense sound did things to his tuned systems. Cosmos put his hand flat on the Cassette carrier's chest and let the vibration take him from front and back until the red mech's mouth opened in a silent scream. Cosmos never looked away from Whirl as he spoke, however. "It'd be sexy if I found out exactly how many tweaks of those cute little guns'n'rotors it takes to get the center of a whirly-bird."
"Nope, nope, nope!" See Whirl. See Whirl run. Run, Whirl, run.
Whirl skittered back so fast Fortress Maximus had no chance to evade. The warden doubled over as a bad-tempered ball of rotors and unexpectedly sharp elbows took him in the midriff. "Oof!"
That, unfortunately, redirected Cosmos' list of sexy activities from flying blue rotaries to riding tank treads. "Hello, there." Blaster gave one last desperate jolt, legs kicking underneath Cosmos, and overloaded with an unflattering blat! of nonsense noise. The large spacefarer took the opportunity to curl his now-free hand in a beckoning gesture at Fortress Maximus. "I see you over there. Now come over here. It's so much more fun over here, I promise." How could a mech with a face mask leer? Fort Max was being leered at. That was definitely a leer. "Here, there, under me - we can see it all today."
O…kay. The warden wasn't much for being a passive lover, and his interfacing equipment was locked offline, yet still his systems sent a ping of interest.
"Refuel! Now!" Whirl pointed a pincer at the spacefarer. "You do that, and I'll bring - uh, slag, hold on," the ex-Wrecker descended into mutters as he made rapid calculations, rearranging mechs around inside that convoluted head of his. Fortress Maximus was not-hiding behind him as Cosmos visually molested his treads, but that gave him an all-too-good position to overhear things he'd rather not have. "Not Chromedome, 'cause he'd probably squish Rewind. I'll never get near Pipes with you around. Swerve's busy and Ambulon will get me if I go back. Like the Pit am I trying to get Red Alert out of his office; it's like a fragging sealed box full of sirens and lights and I think he was 'investigating' three 'traitors' last time I busted down the door. There was a line to get in. I had to cut. Who's the pointy guy, what's his name, Perve-ceptor had him for a sniper rifle-rest last I saw, I can bring them both out of the lab at the same time if we - Atomizer!"
Name remembered, Whirl straightened and raised his voice again. "You three refuel, and I'll bring you Atomizer. You can - you can, uh, I don't know." Pincers gestured aimlessly, then made a strange sawing motion through the air. "Use his bow to play him like an instrument or something," the ex-Wrecker bargained, retreating another step as Cosmos turned the not-leer on him.
The Minibot paused, intrigued. Fortress Maximus shuffled back as he was elbowed again, optics squinting as he tried to remember who Atomizer was. There weren't that many mechs who used bows, so -
Whirl's odd sawing motion suddenly clicked, and the mental image registered. The warden choked on thin air.
"Hmm." Cosmos absently pet the mechs recovering between his knees. "That could be fun. I do like music." Speakers peeped small sounds as their rims were traced gently. "And I most certainly like to, mmm. Play."
"Oodles of fun. All you gotta do is stop 'facing their bolts off long enough to fuel up!" Whirl pointed at Blaster and Powerglide while pushing Fort Max back another step. "He can still reach us," was hissed under an ex-vent at the larger Autobot behind him, and the warden's optics widened even further. He raised his cuffed hands up out of arm's-reach and took two big steps back, and Whirl nearly toppled over backward in a scrambling retreat of his own as Cosmos snatched for his leg. "No! Fuel! Fuel for Atomizer, that's the deal!"
The green Autobot stopped halfway to his feet and sank back onto his knees, reluctant to leave his gathered prizes. Whirl windmilled his arms and caught his balance using Fort Max's hip. Blaster shifted and murmured. Cosmos looked down at him and sighed heavily. "Well…"
"It's probably taking them so long to recover because they're underfueled," Fortress Maximus said when the blue rotary mech hanging off his side seemed ready to start screaming in frustration. "Maybe Blaster could," he couldn't believe he was suggesting this, but Cosmos was giving him that assessing look that spoke of harems and joining them, "lick it off him?" He nodded at Powerglide, who still hadn't moved after being knocked out by that overload.
Cosmos lit up. "Oh, what a marvelous idea! It's a deal!" Inspired, he looked down at his lovers, and the pulse of arousal he sent down the cables sent both pinned mechs right back into arching and wriggling once more. Big orange-red hands delicately put four of the small cubes down above their heads as Cosmos fed his share of the energon into a fuel intake on his side. "Bla~aster, time for a ga~me…"
"Good job," Whirl said as he led the warden past Cosmos. He couldn't tell if the mech were being sarcastic.
One of Fort Max's optics twitched. He was so not proud of this moment in his life.
[* * * * *]
Overlord & Tarn - "Pharma"
[* * * * *]
Overlord won, in the end. The Decepticon Justice Division tracked him down, they planned it, and they got overconfident. Overlord won. It wasn't easy, but neither was it the greatest fight of his life.
"Disappointing," the Phase Sixer rumbled to himself as he dropped the rest of Tesarus' body to the ground. He'd used it to beat Helex into deactivation, slowly and messily. It had been satisfying, in a rhythmic way. The mech's head was halfway across the battlefield, where the walking grinder's distinctive red optical array now impaled Kaon. The blind mech had optics, now, but he still could not see.
Overlord strolled across the torn ground. The damage he had taken himself was not inconsequential, but it wasn't life-threatening. Unlike the damage he'd done to Tarn, however, it wasn't enough to disable him.
Tarn lay where he'd been tossed aside, Vos' altmode still speared through his upper thigh. The gunformer was dead, spark crushed inside its casing as Overlord had joyfully turned him on his fellow D.J.D. members while gradually crumpling the gun's stock in one cruel hand. The helpless screams of a mech pushed past dignity had been a pleasure to listen to. That shrill voice set against the bass beat of explosions and enraged yells had made for a beautiful fighting soundtrack. Turning Vos against his own had a delicious sense of betrayal to it, even after the mech himself had died and only his corpse could be used.
Overlord had used Tesarus to kill Helex and Kaon. Vos had been used to disable Tarn.
He had won by turning the D.J.D. against each other. It was wonderfully ironic that the close-knit loyal Decepticon fanatics had been their own downfall.
Still, as amusing as this battle had turned out, Overlord found himself disappointed by how easily he'd won. The violence had been far more straightforward than he'd expected. Even the ambush hadn't caught him by surprise.
But, no matter. The day wasn't over yet. Tarn was still alive, after all.
"All those threats, come to naught," he mused as he braced one foot on indented chestplates. He reached down and yanked the twisted gun barrel out in a spray of fluids. "I expected more. Tsk."
Tarn's optics twitched behind that ridiculous mask, but the mech tried to show no reaction. He had likely resolved to die a dignified devotee of the Decepticon Cause. Overlord chuckled, bending down again to grasp one dislocated arm. He stood and began walking toward the ship he'd shot down much earlier today. The Peaceful Tyranny had landed mostly intact. It would make as good a place to do this as any. Tarn jerked and coughed as he was carelessly dragged behind the Phase Sixer. A wide swath of leaked fluids marked their path.
"I wonder what your real name is?" Overlord asked idly, not expecting or receiving an answer. He'd punched that irritating vocalizer into spitting static when Tarn first tried that cute spark-trick. If he remembered, he'd ask later, when the stubborn Decepticon became more amendable to participating in conversations.
He would. They both knew he would. He'd be eager to talk, to share any and everything he knew. The D.J.D., of all mechs, knew that pain always triumphed over resolve. Mechs started out determined to preserve their precious self-image. They learned, soon enough. It wouldn't take Tarn long at all to deny Megatron, deny the Cause, deny anything that he thought would make Overlord happy to hear denied. He'd do anything to end his suffering.
Overlord did hope there was recording equipment intact aboard the ship. He'd rather like to make a nice video of Tarn's inevitable collapse. The Decepticons on the List might celebrate him as a hero, which would be nothing short of hilarious, and the rest of the simpering ranks could cower in fear to see their diehard figurehead cut down. It would be a potent message for Megatron:
'You've sent your best lackeys. Now come fight me yourself.'
If he had the patience for that sort of game, the Phase Sixer would consider sending what was left of Tarn crawling back to Cybertron to deliver the message personally. That would be a mercy, as Megatron would grant the mech a quick shot through the spark. It was a tempting thought, but if Overlord were that patient, he'd keep the loyalist at his side to witness the final fight. The mech would cease to be amusing long before that happened, however.
"No, I think I shall kill you eventually," he said aloud as he hauled his victim up the gangplank crookedly extended from the crashed ship.
He paused at the top and lifted Tarn up to press against the ship's hull. The defeated Decepticon hung by one arm before him. The shoulder joint grated, ball and socket scraping in harsh metallic noises against each other, and Overlord shook him to hear the snap of some cable giving way. The red optics behind the mask - he would have to tear that off later, but only once he had something to record that unmasking for everyone to see - glared fiercely.
Overlord stepped closer, pressing his helm's cheek guard to the purple mask. "I will kill you eventually, Tarn, that I promise you," the exaggerated lips the Phase Sixer was famous for whispered directly into one audio. "I will kill you, but it will not be soon. What is your record? Your darling group of torturers held yourselves as the most fearsome of judges, but your record for torture is so short. Three days, I believe, is it not?" Those thick lips curled into a sadistic smile, close enough to be felt as Overlord turned his face so that they nearly kissed the side of Tarn's mask. "You will beg for death by the third day, but I won't grant it. Not even a week will be enough." His voice lowered to a breathy purr full of sickening anticipation. "My longest record was at Garrus-9. Fortress Maximus, as you probably know. The prison warden?"
There was a faint breath of air against his cheek, like vent fans involuntarily faltering. Overlord threw his head back and laughed. "You do know! I thought you might. I kept him alive for years!"
Now he did kiss Tarn's mask, tender and mocking. He laughed again when the smaller Decepticon struggled to head-butt him, broken body giving a pathetic surge of futile effort. A spurt of vibrant green lubricant came out of the mask's mouth slit as Tarn tried to clear his throat. "Our time together will not be a record, I fear. Garrus-9 did have medical facilities, which certain of my favorite activities do require if you," he patted a loosely-flopping tread, "are to survive."
That, oddly, caused Tarn to go still. It was only for a split second, barely enough to catch, but Overlord noticed.
His optics narrowed. "Ah?"
It took some time to find the cause, but they had time. There was no way for Tarn to stop him, and Overlord had every intention of exploring the ship. He took it slow, because the creeping reality of utter defeat needed time to properly permeate through Tarn's head and devour every lingering hope. Overlord wanted the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division to truly appreciate how low he'd been brought by one of the so-called 'traitors' off his precious List. He wanted Tarn to know that there was no possible way to change his fate. Tarn knew the agony was coming, but a real torturer knew to choose the correct method if the victim's mind was to break before the body.
Overlord made sadism into an art.
Browsing through every Decepticons' personal quarters got no reaction beyond hatred. Finding the recording equipment he wanted sent his victim rigid in apprehension, but no. No, there was something more. There was something he hadn't found yet.
Tarn's self-repair had cleared enough of the slurry of fuel and lubricant off his vocalizer that a gurgling snarl got out when Overlord approached the door of what he thought led to the ship's medibay. The Phase Sixer looked down at him, optics inquiring, before shifting his grip from one limp arm to the mech's throat. Tarn grimaced behind the mask. Although Overlord didn't crush his vocalizer to slag yet, it was clear that his specialized spark-killing voice would not be allowed to speak again.
The massive mech looked down at his victim. The reaction had been unexpected. "Interesting," he said as he keyed open the door.
It was a medibay. Well-stocked, if in shambles because of the crash. It seemed that an entire cabinet full of supplies had shaken open and emptied onto the floor. Not much appeared to be broken, which might be useful later. How fortunate. It certainly would have been inconvenient if the medic himself had taken injury, after all. 'Who repairs the repairmech?' as the saying went.
"I did not know that Autobots were a standard Decepticon medical fixture," Overlord observed in mild surprise.
Wary blue optics stared back at him over the repair berth in the center of the room, but the Autobot held his tongue. Someone had gone through the trouble of training him, it seemed. From the protesting rasp and flutter against the palm of Overlord's palm, it had probably been Tarn. Oh, that could come in handy.
The Phase Sixer turned at the door and walked along the wall, studying the medibay itself and letting the Autobot get a good look at him. The mech didn't move but to keep his optics on the massive invader. Overlord let him stare while he took in what was a very well-equipped if small medical station. There were enough supplies and expensive tools in this room to fill a minor clinic; far more than necessary for keeping five Decepticons in good repair. Interesting, indeed.
He could see why Tarn would want to prevent him from finding this room, given the implications of having medical supplies on hand - and even better, a medic. There was the small matter of the medic's cooperation, but Overlord wasn't fazed by that. He was quite aware of the aura of menace he gave off, covered as he was in his own wounds and other mechs' gore, not to mention the fact that was dragging the captain of this very ship across the floor in his wake.
So he felt it would be overkill to bother with threats when it was obvious who was in control here. Instead, when he'd inspected half the room, he simply stopped in front of the Autobot and looked down.
The medic stayed still under his regard: white, red, blue, and pristine but for the tarnished black chains around his arms and throat. From the way his winglets stayed perfectly still, he was aware that he didn't stand a chance at escape. The D.J.D. must have taught him that difficult lesson first, with their chains and the inhibitor claw Overlord could see clamped onto his back over the main turbine assembly. They had clipped his wings, the poor flyer, and caged him. He had the look of a mech who'd been someone once, before they took him as their own.
Overlord reached out with his free hand and used one huge finger to tip the little Autobot's face upward. There was only the slightest hint of resistance before blue optics flicked down to glance at the Decepticon dribbling fluids at their feet. After that, the flyer obediently let his head be turned this way and that as Overlord looked him over.
When he'd seen enough, the Phase Sixer made the mech look directly at him. "Do you know what I am, Autobot?"
Blue optics dimmed, fear stuttering through even a medic's professional stoicism. The chin Overlord balanced on his forefinger dipped against it. There weren't many who didn't know the Decepticon Empire's most terrifying weapons on sight: the Phase Sixers, the undefeatables.
"Do you know who I am?" Another miniscule nod pressed against his finger. Good. This medic might prove to be more than a moment's amusement for him, then, novel as that thought was. "And what," Overlord asked, deep voice dropping into a rich darkness where ugly terrors lived, "might you be?"
Those terrors visited the medic, sending the tiniest of shivers through his winglets. His mouth opened, then snapped closed as the question really registered. 'What,' not 'who.' Overlord approved of that second thought. A medic who thought under pressure was far more useful to him than one who let fear drive intelligence away. A medic who bowed to the reality of his situation might be worthy of being used.
This medic was proving himself more worthy than most. Bitter and terrified, but with nothing left to lose, he met Overlord's optics steadily before jerking his head at the mech hanging from the Phase Sixer's fist. Resignation kept his voice from shaking as he quietly replied, "I was his toy."
It was good answer, for a mech who knew how the Decepticons functioned. To the victor went the spoils. He was no longer Tarn's toy to play with. He belonged to whomever claimed him.
Overlord tapped the smart little thing under the chin, acknowledging the tactful answer with a shallow nod. His hand left the Autobot's face, and the massive warlord turned his head to look at the broken body he held almost quizzically. "This mech?" He lifted the crippled Decepticon easily, slowly righting him until Tarn dangled by his neck. For someone Overlord's size, Tarn's weight was negligible. Fuel bubbled, dripping from split lips and shattered dental molds onto a malfunctioning vocalizer, and Tarn's defiant snarl turned into a defeated gurgle. Overlord chuckled, letting his amusement roll around the medibay until Tarn drowned in it. "How did he toy with you?" he asked the Autobot.
Blue optics darted between them. This was not rescue. There was no hope. This was a new owner casually inspecting his new property. It was only a matter of if the property were disposed of with the old owner, tortured and killed.
The Autobot's nervously licked his lips before his face went completely neutral. "Am I to show you?" It was an offer as much as a question. The words came out leeched of anything but bleak determination to survive.
Overlord did like to hear that tone of voice from a mech.
He gave the small mech a leisurely once-over. Blue optics dropped, burning anger-dark but submissive. Polished winglets hiked up before reluctantly fanning out as the Autobot straightened his stance to display himself for the Phase Sixer's viewing pleasure. The sight was one Overlord fully enjoyed. The chains were a nice touch, adding a lovely sense of helplessness to the overall picture. The D.J.D. had captured themselves a very pretty flyer for their cage.
Beauty had no use to him if there was nothing supporting it, however. "Do the symbols on your wings mean something, Autobot, or are they merely decorative?"
That earned a flinch, and Overlord's optics watched intently as blue hands curled into fists. Those hands were strange, now that he paid attention to them. They were fine instruments, he could tell, but they looked too new. They stood out, even against the luxuriously waxed state of a clearly pampered pet. The hands of a medic were his pride, but pride became a mech's weak spot when imprisoned. There was a story in those hands that Overlord intended to hear. Not right this moment, but soon.
"I'm the top surgeon in my field," the Autobot confirmed shortly. His optics dimmed to a dusky hue as if shamed by that fact. Or, perhaps, the circumstances under which he was admitting it. A skilled Autobot surgeon chained to the wall in a Decepticon ship was obviously valued more for abilities other than his skill at surgery.
"I am in need of repairs, as you can see," the Phase Sixer said, gesturing at himself with his free hand. The damage didn't hamper movement, but still annoyed him. His self-repair could deal with it given enough time, but there was no reason to live with injuries for days when there was a competent medic willing to repair him. Dim blue optics gained a sliver of hope as they looked up at him. "I'm a generous mech when pleased, surgeon. Agree to repair me, and I will spare you." It was a merciful promise in and of itself, if the Autobot knew anything of his reputation.
It seemed he did, as the flyer seemed to shrink into himself. The hope in his optics went hollow. Overlord did not leave survivors. "I will repair you," the medic said despite his despair, because agreeing meant he'd live at least a short time longer. It was unlikely that this was the first time he'd made this bargain. It couldn't be coincidence that the D.J.D. had chained him in this particular room, after all. Why waste having a medic on hand to render services?
The Phase Sixer's laughter boomed through the medibay again, and the Decepticon still dangling from his fist gurgled as fingers worked over damaged components, searching for the right grip. Tarn gasped and feebly struggled as Overlord found what he was feeling for. The Autobot's optics went wide and mesmerized, suddenly fixated on that hand. Fingers tightened, and the medic strained against his chains, expression starvation-hungry as Overlord took his time crushing that specialized vocalizer into sparks and fire. The mouth behind the purple mark silently gaped open to leak fuel and lubricant instead of sound. Fluids dripped out from under the mask's cover. Smoke billowed until metal collapsed inward and smothered the burning circuitry. Tarn gave one agonized convulsion, limbs twitching violently, before going limp.
Overlord locked optics with the Autobot as Tarn was carelessly dropped to the floor between them in a tremendous crash. "You say you're the top surgeon in your field." He pushed the weakly moving Decepticon toward the trembling, heavy-venting medic with one foot. "Can you keep this wretch alive?"
Blue optics seared suddenly alight. "Yes. Oh, yes."
The Phase Sixer stepped over his defeated foe and bent to twist his finger in the chain around the Autobot's neck. "No matter what I do to him?"
The medic smiled up at him and didn't even hesitate when pulled forward to meet the looming warlord. "On one condition."
Overlord stooped to look at him optic to optic, smile to smile. "Do you think you're in any position to bargain?"
The threat teased over the smaller mech like a stroking hand, and wings flexed sleekly under it. "I want to watch," he said, breathing the words out as if they were his most spark-felt desire, and Overlord drank in his hatred.
Pretty flyer. Pretty, murderous flyer. This was the kind of beauty Overlord could appreciate: surface-deep because everything underneath was raw, wounded emotion. He preferred his caged pets packed to the brim with useful abilities, yet rotten to the core. If he was careful, this fragile little glitch wouldn't self-destruct until he was done using the brittle beauty for every ounce of pleasure he could wring free.
Plush lips curved, nearly touching the medic's matching smile. This Autobot would bend to his will gladly and not even notice he served a new master, because it would give the medic exactly what he wanted. The D.J.D. had brought about their own downfall in every way.
There was a faint scraping at their feet as Tarn tried to drag himself toward the door. A rubbery hiss-pop signaled the seal on a main tube of some kind giving way at last, and they both recognized the liquid sound of energon gushing across the floor. Overlord didn't look away as he ripped the chain from the medic's neck. "That can be arranged."
"Then I'd be delighted to keep him alive as long as you like," the flyer said, slipping away to fetch the tools of his trade and begin working.
Overlord's deep, dark laughter swirled around the medibay, burying the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division in defeat. Another laugh joined it a moment later, like bright wings dancing over a grave.
[* * * * *]