Spanking, far too much intimate information about everyone, the Constructicons are unhelpful, Grimlock's kinky adventures, and extreme BDSM
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 24
Warning: Is "all of them" an option? There's a bunch of little ficlets in this one, and they're all over the place. Spanking, a whole list of TMI questions, pain and torture.
Rating: R
Continuity: G1, IDW
Characters: All of them.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): So many Tumblr memes. SO MANY.
[* * * * *]
Spanking challenge
[* * * * *]
Swindle propped his foot against the exposed piping in the wall and hauled Vortex over his knee by one rotor blade, snarling at the helicopter's startled blurt of static. "You want to mess with my deals, then you pay the price! One," his free hand smacked down hard enough to dent, and the other Combaticons graduating from staring to gaping, "for every lost dollar. Stop moving!"
Onslaught took a step forward as if to intervene, because Vortex seemed shocked immobile by Swindle's unexpected aggression.
"You try and stop me, and you're next!"
Onslaught quietly stepped back.
The hand came down with surgical precision, which was probably accurate considering it was attached to a surgeon. Wheeljack arched and squealed, wriggling, and Ratchet spanked him twice in a row, hard and quick. "I said I'd do this if you blew yourself up again, so stay down and take your punishment!"
Why did he think he'd done it? Wheeljack stifled a chortle and made a moan into a barked cry as that hand cracked across his aft again.
"You," smack, "got," smack, "us," smack, "caught!" Smack-smack-smack, and Rumble wailed. It was muffled against the flat slab serving as seat and berth in the brig. That was gross enough, but the way Frenzy had him pinned made it impossible for Rumble to struggle loose, leaving the other Cassette free to rain punishment down on his aft in painful strikes that had him crying out. Oral fluid kept dribbling down his chin, and every time he tried to close his mouth to swallow, another harsh crack across the back of his thighs had him hiccupping and opening his mouth again to protest in an inarticulate jumble of spit and choked words.
His chin smeared across the berth, wet and totally undignified, and nobody was going to come help him. Frenzy had been at it long enough that he knew that already.
Didn't stop him from yelling for help, but Frenzy just spanked him harder for that.
It was a quiet day. A slow day.
It couldn't last.
One quick slap in passing, and Jazz had his entertainment for the day.
He tore out of the Ark with a police car on his bumper, sirens blaring.
[* * * * *]
Wheeljack / Scrapper - 'Autobots lost the war just as it was starting'!AU
[* * * * *]
On a scale of 1 to 10 for how this decision had turned out the way he'd wanted it, Scrapper judged this to be an 11. The former Autobot was feisty, inventive, creative beyond any of their ken, and dauntingly enthusiastic once they'd seduced him into cooperation.
There were unexpected moments, however. Scrapper rated it a solid 7 for how the decision had turned out in Wheeljack's favor, in the end.
The Constructicon leader looked up and wished he had a mouth, just so he could bite a finger. Maybe it would help him find some control. "Oh, Primus, he's doing it again."
Bonecrusher didn't even look up. "You wanted him as an auxiliary member of the Constructicons. I remember this, I was standing right there listening, you can't weasel out of responsibility!"
The lack of mouth meant that Scrapper's fist pressed to the front of his face mask. It looked ridiculous, he knew it did, but he couldn't care as he stared across the worksite and breathed hard. "I didn't realize he'd be so fragging hot when he works with combustibles."
"Stop whining and take your optic candy explosions like a mech."
[* * * * *]
Prowl - Strangest/most unique place you've interfaced? How about self-servicing?
[* * * * *]
This interview was not going as planned. Prowl clenched his hands out of sight in his lap and rearranged his expression into something more neutral than a poisonous glare. The officer of the Prime conducting this interview had a reputation of genial comradie among the troops, something Prowl had anticipated as making him a pushover. He wasn't entirely clear on what the mech's official rank was, but it couldn't be that important if he was greeted with smiles and waves whenever he entered a room. Discipline obviously wasn't a priority at whatever level this mech ranked at.
Prowl was a rising star in the Tactical Division, aiming for Head, and he was one of the candidates for position for Assistant Head right now. Jazz was lending the current Head a hand filtering the candidates. This interview should have been an easy pass. Jazz wasn't exactly a physically intimidating mech, and people seemed to like him. Prowl had planned for some formal questions and a lot of casual banter that would annoy him but serve to pad the mech's ego.
He hadn't anticipated how easily Jazz could turn words into a trap. Three questions in, and this interview had gone so far off the tracks Prowl had no idea where it was headed anymore.
"I…was reprimanded for that," he said stiffly, forcing the admission out. "It was off the record, however." How the frag Jazz had discovered that long-ago infraction was the question.
A question Jazz ignored, instead choosing to lean forward and smile a frighteningly sharp-edged smile at him. "And why was it off the record?"
Prowl ground his teeth. "My partner at the time was scheduled for a transfer into a different department. Our supervisor didn't want a black mark on his record right before transfer." Tumbler had gotten them both off, and then off the hook afterward. Prowl had never overloaded so hard while so embarrassed in all his life.
Jazz smiled, however, and he wondered if the record would stand for much longer.
[* * * * *]
Megatron - Do you like your aft?
[* * * * *]
They were doing it again. Three highly-placed officers, three entirely disparate personalities, and most of the time, they were rivals. Their place was behind him, and he wanted them at each other's throats, fighting for the pride of second place. It was when they clustered in a trio grouped together at his back that he worried.
Like now. The tense atmosphere usually between the three officers had dissolved into a peculiar kind of comradie, and he worried.
Not that they were scheming. Starscream stood between Shockwave and Soundwave, and neither would ever conspire with him. However, Megatron's sensors picked up the way both of his cooler-headed officers leaned in toward the fiery flyer, one at a time and paying close attention to the small gestures made at his back. His hands moved to clasp at the small of his back on automatic. He had to stifle the urge to casually slide his hands down to hide his aft.
Three officers nodded in rare agreement, and Megatron twitched.
[* * * * *]
Jazz - Do you like the way your interface array looks?
[* * * * *]
His lovers always got the same look on their faces. He knew why. After all the hype - and there was hype, even if he wanted to stop the rumors he wouldn't have - he didn't look very impressive. He had an industry-standard jack, smooth and blunt, and a port that could have come directly from the medbay spare parts bin.
It had, in fact. He'd stopped tricking himself out after the third time his entire array had to be replaced due to damage from a mission. War wasn't kind to special mods. Demand was still there, but skill, time, and supply were long gone. It was more important to be functional than dazzling, he'd found.
It wasn't about how it looked, anyway. His lovers got that confused, slightly disappointed look on their faces, and Jazz just smiled.
And set his speakers to pound the bass, vibrations channeled straight into what mattered most.
[* * * * *]
Starscream - Do you find your interface array physically attractive, or weird/gross, or not feel strongly either way?
[* * * * *]
He didn't care, honestly. Who had time for fragging, or the trust? The medbay had at least one casualty of a fling gone wrong every day, and that was just among the lower ranks. He'd been a massive target for manipulation and assassination attempts even as a cadet in the War Academy, and interfacing was when a mech was most vulnerable. After a few incidents in the dormitory barracks, Starscream developed and implemented a celibacy program. It would have been groundbreaking work if he'd bothered to share it.
He didn't. He just installed it and went on with life. It was a life far improved, as far as he was concerned.
The program detected when his body felt lust, and it systematically shut down the processor threads attempting to influence his mind. Attraction happened, and his mind viewed it without being influenced by it, an observer to arousal. The program allowed him to use his body as a tool instead of his body turning him into one. That didn't help when he genuinely felt intellectual interest, but that rarely happened. There weren't many mechs on Cybertron that his mind lusted after.
His body might, but bodies were weak that way. He knew that he was beautiful, all of him was, and he used that beauty on weaker mechs.
He didn't feel any sort of attraction to himself.
[* * * * *]
Vortex - Your most embarrassing sexual experience?
[* * * * *]
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It wasn't intentional!" Vortex flinched under the lash of the loyalty programming, cortex twisting in on itself. He was unable to enjoy the pain inflicted by the blasted program. It was the most effective torture ever inflicted on him, and he hated how weak it made him.
Megatron didn't even acknowledge his apologies. The 'copter flinched again as he tried to regain his feet and at least stumble along with the hand pulling his rotor array. Bending forward under the tyrant's hold wouldn't be much better, but it wouldn't be quite as humiliating as being dragged through the halls. Curious, sadistically amused optics were peering out of rooms and around corners after them. There wasn't much that could shame someone as shameless as Vortex, but this fell square onto a tender spot inside him.
The programming curled around his vocalizer, shocking down his backstruts again and again, and he had to speak. The Lord of the Decepticons was furious with him, and the programming compelled him to seek forgiveness. Worse than that, sheer embarrassment had his insides knotting up in appalled little ball. "Sir, please, I can do better. It's not you - eh-heh, n-no, I didn't mean that you could ever, you wouldn't, I, uh, it's not, ah, um." He eventually stammered to a halt under the hot red glare directed down at him.
Only once he'd stopped trying to talk, free rotors wilting down in submission, did Megatron resume stalking through the halls.
Vortex miserably slid along at his heels. He really wasn't looking forward to reporting his failure to the other Combaticons, which was apparently what Megatron intended. Because what was a lesson learned if the rest of the students didn't share the learning experience, right?
[* * * * *]
Ultra Magnus - Spit or swallow?
[* * * * *]
Probably the most telling fact was that he didn't have to stop to think about it. He didn't even hesitate. "Swallow. Spitting is against regulations."
"What, seriously? Where's that written?"
A sigh. "Am I truly the only one who's read the Autobot Code?"
[* * * * *]
Onslaught - Have you "sexted"
[* * * * *]
Space was a lonely place. It was a huge, cold, barren void where a mech had no one but himself for company. So lonely. Very lonely. A very, very lonely place.
Swindle banged on the open door of Onslaught's office and grumbled, "He's at it again." He didn't bother to go inside. He didn't bother to explain, either.
He didn't have to. Onslaught stood up and followed him toward the communication hub of the Combaticon base, already aware of everything he needed to know. Vortex and Brawl were there, bickering over the console. It blinked with a series of messages that were incredibly pathetic in their own way. Understandable, but pathetic.
Blast Off spent a lot of time in space by himself. He was an aloof mech by nature, but that didn't mean he could deal with constant isolation, especially not with the gestalt links pinging him for stimulation all the time. Onslaught didn't know how he'd handled away missions back before the gestalt, and it probably didn't matter. What mattered was that Blast Off had reached his limits yet again, and he'd started sending messages. Stupid little check-ups, annoying nothing questions, observations, anything that'd get someone back at base to talk to him. Without actually saying that's what he wanted. The messages were just there, appearing on the screen, an unending demand for their time and attention.
The other Combaticons hadn't understood the game at first. They hadn't even thought to discuss it amongst themselves. They'd all had their turns on shift in the command center, volleying irritating floods of nonsense communication back and forth with Blast Off.
Eventually, however, they'd discovered they were all doing it. And it wasn't like they could stop, because Blast Off was a teammate in distress, and the gestalt links got fragging persistent when they tried.
So they'd figured out a way to make him shut up. Basically, satisfy his need for contact via satisfying him, and he'd log off for a while. It was better than dealing with the constant pestering, but not by much.
"I did it last time," Brawl said as soon as Onslaught stepped into the room. "It's his turn."
"I'm no good at it," Vortex snapped back at him. "Dirty talk isn't my thing." He flicked a glance at Onslaught as if appealing for help. "Innuendo's fine and good, but this is way beyond that."
"I'm busy," Swindle said before Onslaught could even say something.
Excuses in place, the other three Combaticons turned their collective peer pressure on their commander, and Onslaught groaned. He wished he could make the others do it, but having an argument about who had to get the shuttle off would put everyone in a sour mood and do nothing for their teammate.
It really didn't help that Blast Off had a subordinate kink. He liked getting orders.
Everybody here knew that Onslaught liked giving orders.
The argument was lost before it began.
[* * * * *]
Rodimus - Have you ever attempted (or succeeded) to give yourself oral?
[* * * * *]
Ultra Magnus could have happily lived his life without this information. "I asked for a list of your accomplishments, not a blatantly embellished story of your life," the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest spat as he sorted through the poor excuse for a resume he'd been handed. "This is false. I was there for that, and it didn't happen that way. Do you have a witness for this? I will not count it without a witness. Drift doesn't count. A reliable witness. This isn't physically possible. This contradicts that. Not only is this one obscene and doesn't belong on an official document in any form, but I refuse to believe - "
"No, see, I can prove that one right now."
"Get off my desk!"
[* * * * *]
Optimus Prime - Have you ever had your ceiling node stimulated?
[* * * * *]
"What kind of question is that?"
Sideswipe gave Kup a cocky grin. "Aw, c'mon, you can't say you've fragged him, so how would you know?"
Kup gave him another incredulous snort. "Kid, your Prime used to work the docks." He took a sip of his drink while that processed. "Dockworkers used to use the lift cranes between loading gigs, and when I say use, I mean use. Asking if he got his sensors properly buffed is like asking if water's wet."
[* * * * *]
Tarn - Are you into anything under the BDSM umbrella?
[* * * * *]
His head turned, blindly seeking. His wrists twisted but stopped before he pulled them apart. He had been ordered down, hands placed behind his back, and he would obey. The thrill was in the obedience. Against everything his body screamed for, against all logic pertaining to their relative sizes and the power of his dual fusion cannons, he obeyed. His systems roared their arousal under that control.
The briefest touch of fingers against his mask. Tarn's mouth parted, lips soft and desperate for contact, but discipline remained. The mask was a symbol, but also a restraint. It was rarely used as such.
But when it was, he trembled beneath it.
[* * * * *]
Vos - What is the quickest you've ever brought yourself (or been brought) to overload?
[* * * * *]
He's a weapon. His altmode is a rifle, but not of the energy form. The ammunition he uses can vary, and he has spent a considerable amount of time and effort crafting his own sadistic takes on bullets. His workshop has examples of his work lining the walls, a timeline of progressive sadism. When Tarn chooses him to perform the final execution on a List name, Vos will bring the latest models out.
He will take them out of their display box one by one, holding them up in front of terrified optics to consider them. Some of them are self-explanatory. Some of them, the other D.J.D. members will explain via vividly described stories of past executions. Eventually, he will choose what ammunition he will use, and Kaon will shoulder him for the final shots. They like to see to how many they can inflict on a victim before death grants its mercy.
Vos enjoys being fired multiple times. Kaon strokes his trigger over and over, and the bullets burn out of his barrel until Vos isn't sure who will collapse first: him or the dead mech.
They don't call it discharging a payload for nothing, after all.
[* * * * *]
Prowl - Do you ever "edge" (repeatedly stop and start) when self-servicing?
[* * * * *]
Only when a lesson needed to be taught.
He rose up on his knees, fingers trembling and pressing a hard pattern like they'd break a code and unlock his body. Liquid tension drained from under his spark, pooling in his joints until they stiffened and shook, right on the verge of bursting the strained surface tension and sending pleasure in a flood across him. His vents closed, fans stuttering.
He had to gasp for air as he forced his hand away. His fingers trembled, cupped over the throbbing circuits that begged for the final push, but he refrained. Again.
A snarling whine came from next door, and multiple fists pounded on the wall between their quarters. "Come on, Prowl! That's not fair!"
"We said we were sorry!"
"Fragging smeltwaste bumper-eating glitchheaded - "
"Primus, will you just finish?! This is cruel, and you know it!"
The Constructicons' voices were hoarse with strain and lust. He judged them not hoarse enough.
He settled back on his heels and breathed deep, bringing his temperature down. Soon enough, his fingers lightly brushed in. Pleasure melted the cool relief back into a fluid pulse that set him on fire. His hips began to give minute thrusts in time with his fingertips again.
"Please!"
[* * * * *]
Drift - What does your spark chamber look like?
[* * * * *]
It looks like broken promises.
The Decepticon emblem used to be made from the metal of a mech's spark chamber, back when it was a life-oath instead of just a formality. The branders would yank pieces off, and a mech would scream or not depending on his pain tolerance, and the metal would be melted down. When it was ready, the branders let it set just enough in the mold not to run, and then they'd torch the contact areas until the metals fused. That was how a Decepticon got his insignia at the beginning of the war.
It was part of his spark chamber brought out into the open, the only truth outside a shell of lies. The sparkchamber was the only part of a mech's frame that could determine what he could or couldn't be.
Drift isn't Deadlock. He reneged his oaths to the Decepticons, but the metal is gone for good.
His spark chamber betrays what can no longer be seen on the outside. The shell still lies, and there is no truth in sight.
[* * * * *]
Tesarus - When you ejaculate, do you more shoot or dribble?
[* * * * *]
Shoot, unfortunately.
Tesarus laughed high and nervous as he turned. "H-hi, boss. Didn't see you there."
Tarn slowly wiped a hand down his mask, bits of traitor sticking to his chest and dripping in messy globs to the ground. His glare spoke volumes for him.
[* * * * *]
Overlord - Have you ever had sex in a public place?
[* * * * *]
Oh, yes. Many, many times, with partners both willing and not. He could name names if he wished to list the sweetest frags, the funniest, or the most painful. They were all enjoyable. Being watched was quite a turn-on, for him.
Yet when he took a mech, it never touched the needy ache far down in his core that remembered how it felt to be the one being taken, gasping and shuddering as he was overpowered and forced down to be someone else's reward. There was exactly one mech who'd ever won that right, earned it and taken it. Overlord vividly recalled being under Megatron, and he wondered, deep down inside, if he would feel the same submissive thrill under anyone who used him.
It was a perverse curiosity that haunted him. He dearly wanted to know.
To the victor goes the spoils, yet he kept winning.
[* * * * *]
Rewind - Does your valve have any modifications?
[* * * * *]
Chromedome sputtered, half-formed words spilling out of his vocalizer, and Whirl laughed. Rewind sighed between them. This wasn't about him, and he knew it. Whirl was needling Chromedome for the fun of it. Whirl had no problem talking to him as a person most of the time - honestly, Whirl was one of the few who seemed to have no size or function bias whatsoever that he could tell - but Chromedome had been purposefully talking over the ex-Wrecker's educational level to Rung, and Whirl had cut the legs out from under him in turn by diving straight into crudity.
"I don't have a valve," Rewind said, clear and calm through the laughter and outrage volleying over him.
The bar stopped dead.
"I was a disposable. We weren't built for anything but work. Why would we need something like that?"
Whirl twitched. Chromedome cringed, looking around the bar and hovering as if he'd shield the much smaller mech from the stares, but Rewind turned a level gaze and recording camera on Whirl.
"Giving a valve to someone like me would be like giving hands to someone like you. What a funny idea."
The camera light stayed so steady.
"Go ahead. Laugh."
[* * * * *]
Galvatron - Have you had or do you want to have a threesome (or foursome, or more)?
[* * * * *]
Their lord hit the command deck like a bulldozer, smashing through and leaving wreckage in his wake. Decepticons fled in every direction. Soundwave shook in his altmode against the far wall the whole time, hoping to be ignored, and he was.
The other Unicronians didn't retreat. They didn't fight back, either. They did fling themselves into the fray, however, and that was how their lord liked it. He never seemed able to tell the difference between a battle and a frag, but the Sweeps didn't mind. Especially when his lieutenants were at his side obeying orders and pulling flanking maneuvers no Autobot had ever seen.
[* * * * *]
Ratchet - Are hand jobs boring, or underrated?
[* * * * *]
He used to say that it depended on the hands. Now, however.
Blue hands closed and opened, and Ratchet bowed his head.
Now he knew it depended on whom those hands belonged to.
[* * * * *]
Grimlock - When you ejaculate, do you more shoot or dribble?
[* * * * *]
Does it matter? By the time that mountain of teeth, fire, ferocity, and sheer unbridled passion has finished you off in a pounding, writhing grind, you're hardly going to notice how he finishes.
And if you're still able to pay attention, then he's obviously not finished yet.
[* * * * *]
Starscream - Have you self-serviced for or with someone via webcam?
[* * * * *]
"This is the weirdest thing I've ever done."
Octane paused, head turning toward the vidfeed. "That's quite a claim."
Busy setting up his end of things, Starscream shook his head without looking up. "If you say you do this regularly, I may have to rethink having you as a friend."
The tanker grinned and flopped down in the chair now that he'd cleared the junk off it. "Aw, come on. You have to have done weirder things. You fly with Skywarp."
"Skywarp," Starscream deadpanned, "is so uninterested in interfacing that he recharges through Thundercracker's orgies. So no. I have not done anything weirder." He didn't seem to register the fact that he no longer considered orgies weird. It was Thundercracker, however, and the mech had a way of normalizing the strangest things until nobody thought twice about weldmarks in odd areas.
Finally getting the camera at the angle he wanted, Starscream sighed and sat back, hitching up one leg to rest on something out of sight on the feed. "There. Can you see?"
Octane greedily drank in the sight of miles of sleek plating. "Yeah. Yeah, I can see."
"Then pay attention. I'm only going to do this once."
[* * * * *]
Tailgate - Have you ever had sex in a public place?
[* * * * *]
Although they didn't bring it up to his face, Tailgate's many grandiose lies about who he was and what he'd done were still a hot topic amongst the crew. Even the new members were interested in how far Tailgate's lies had gotten him.
"I'm surprised he didn't claim he was 'facing the Prime by the end," Smokescreen scoffed.
There was a beat of silence as various people glanced at each other. "Um…"
"Did he ever claim to be 'facing anyone?"
"I don't think so."
"That's a little weird now that I think about it."
"Yeah, he said he'd done everything else."
"Huh."
"…I always thought he was doing Cyclonus."
"What, seriously?"
"No way."
"That ain't right."
Nightbeat cocked his head. "Based off of the amount of lies he's told and how far he went in telling them, he either hasn't interfaced at all or has, for some reason, chosen that one detail of his life to pull a veil of privacy over."
They all thought about that.
Getaway chuckled. "Only one way to find out. Who wants to see how experienced he is?"
[* * * * *]
Swerve - How big is your spike?
[* * * * *]
Ratchet stared straight ahead, every inch a professional. "Repairs will be completed by tomorrow, but the cutter's down for now."
"What's that mean?" Swerve laughed nervously. "I've got to get back to my bar, Ratch'. You know leaving Whirl there without me is a Bad Idea. He doesn't listen to anybody else telling him to get off the bartop."
"It means you're without," the medic gestured, "for now."
Swerve blinked. He blinked again. "But…I need to get back to the bar."
"Close the bar."
"Whirl's already inside. You know he won't leave until closing time."
"Not my problem."
"Ratcheeeeet," Swerve whined plaintively. "Help!" He watched the medic turn to return to whatever it was that medics did when they were deliberately ignoring mechs with strategically missing pieces of armor standing in their medibays. "Maybe if I just stay behind the bar," he mumbled to himself. "And stack the glasses really tall. Yeah. That'll work."
He left, still muttering plans.
For some reason, Swerve's was really busy that night. Ratchet showed up and was thoroughly unsurprised by the crowd casually leaning on the bar, optics glued on what swung free on the other side.
[* * * * *]
Skyfire - Do you indulge in sparkplay often?
[* * * * *]
The snow wasn't always there, blocking the sun. On the warmest days of summer, the ice was bare. It sparkled into blinding shards of light as the sun reflected, a suncatcher throwing the spectrum of colors up into the air.
When the sun went down, light still glittered from deep inside the ice. Under the ice, a lone spark played with starlight and memories, thousands of years gone.
[* * * * *]
Bluestreak - Are you into anything under the BDSM umbrella?
[* * * * *]
Three Decepticons, one Autobot. Three mechs nearly twice the size of the fourth. All the threat of the war that'd just ended hung over the hulking mechs as their leader leaned down to purr their question at the little cutie that'd caught their optics. It was a leading question. The tone it was spoken in heavily suggested that the Autobot confess his erotic fantasies, because they were about to all come true.
Bluesteak blinked up at them, a bit frightened but mostly just confused. "No? I mean, I know what that kind of stuff is and I've tried a lot of it, but nothing beats a nice fluffy frag in my opinion. Slow and steady wins, as the humans say! And the humans say a lot of stuff, not all of it about sex, so there's lots of versions of that saying."
The Decepticons exchanged a glance as he babbled on. "I'm still game," one admitted under his breath. Wasn't what they'd expected, but, well, the Autobot was really slagging cute. .
"Me, too."
"Think he'd at least agree to a gag?"
[* * * * *]
Drift - What is the quickest you've ever brought yourself (or been brought) to overload?
[* * * * *]
Drift ducked his head and muttered an answer to the floor under his feet. Ratchet waited. The swordmech flicked a hopeful glance at him, but the medic didn't move. No, he wasn't off the hook. Spill.
Heaving a sigh, Drift admitted, "I can't. Haven't been able to since - well, since way before you saw me the first time. And trust me, I've tried," he added a bit defensively, as if Ratchet doubted him.
Ratchet didn't doubt him. "It's a common side-effect of the stuff you were doing back then. I'm not surprised."
Drift was kind of surprised at the casual acceptance. He blinked and looked up at the medic. "So, uh, what's the treatment?"
"There isn't one." A glimmer of sympathy got through Ratchet's gruffness, but it went away. "Now you know why I warn everyone anytime stims or circuit boosters come up. Nobody ever thinks about the permanent consequences until it's too late, and I'd rather no one else suffer."
Drift nodded slowly. "I understand." He did, he truly did.
It was just one more mistake he was still paying for.
[* * * * *]
Skids - What are you more into (or like more about yourself), valve or spike?
[* * * * *]
Instead of being embarrassed by the question, Skids threw his arms wide open and laughed. It was a carefree, happy laugh. "I don't remember! It's great! Talk about a quest," he said, toasting Swerve. "A real journey of discovery, here."
Beside him, Getaway wiped his shock away, glanced at Chromedome's curious look, and shook his head. Whatever Skids used to prefer didn't matter anymore, and it'd be kinder to say nothing.
[* * * * *]
Fort Max - What do you like best about plug-and play?
[* * * * *]
His fingers shook, but they were steady enough for this. It'd be different if someone else were pressing the prongs into him, or pulling his cable out, but these were his fingers. The hands were his own. He was doing this himself, when he wanted, with whom he wanted, and one quick yank could end everything the second he lost his nerve or just changed his mind.
Some mechs preferred to shut off their optics to feel the data pulse start, but not Fortress Maximus. He needed to watch his hands slot the plugs home. He needed to know this was reality, not the memories that still twisted through his nightmares. This was real, and this was now.
[* * * * *]
In IDW canon now, it's established that Prowl is a repeat offender in muttering.
[* * * * *]
"Hrzzfrazzlemrrfft."
Optimus Prime barked, "Prowl! What did we say about the muttering?!" How many times did he have to warn the mech before Prowl stopped making comments under his breath?
But then the Constructicons chimed in to say, "He said that you never use the brain Primus granted you, more's the pity!"
Cue dead silence. Prowl froze stiff, unnerved and hunted. On one side, Optimus Prime dropped into quiet, angered glaring. On the other, the Constructicons were the happiest, most helpful guys ever. Wasn't it nice of them to have repeated Prowl's mumbled comment? Of course it was.
Optimus Prime certainly found them helpful, anyway. "Did he, now."
"Yeah!"
"Thank. You. Mixmaster."
100% hint not taken. Mixmaster perked up. "He said you should just go ahead and join the Decepticons earlier. Did you hear him?"
Optimus Prime turned a heavy stare on his fellow Autobot, voice deep and painstakingly neutral. "No, I didn't. How interesting."
"We don't think it'd work, but he was complaining about how you're only helping Megatron out and basically handing Cybertron to the Decepticons."
"Really. Prowl, I think we need to have a word in private."
Prowl shuffled files on his datapad. He could feel the Prime's optics boring a hole into his helm. "Ah…in a minute. I need to go, er, organize my desk."
"We'll take care of that, Prowl!"
So helpful, the Constructicons.
[* * * * *]
A kink fic entirely in Grimlock's voice. Narration as done by him Grimlock.
[* * * * *]
Then me Grimlock tell him Optimus Prime to get down on him Prime's knees before me Grimlock. Him Prime refuse, but him Prime need a firm hand. Me Grimlock's hands are the firmest. Me Grimlock grab him Prime by the back of him Prime's neck and make him Prime kiss floor. Me Grimlock make him Prime kiss floor until him Prime say he Prime is sorry and wants to kiss me Grimlock's feet instead.
Me Grimlock think about it, but him Prime been disobedient. If me Grimlock not stern, him Prime never learn. So me Grimlock make him Prime go fetch him Prime's harness instead, and me Grimlock strap him Prime into restraints. Me Grimlock will leave him Prime tied up like titanium turkey for the rest of night.
Maybe me Grimlock let him Prime kiss me Grimlock's feet in morning if him Prime learn lesson.
Him Prowl tried to put us Dinobots back in the cave. Him Prowl say us Dinobots don't need individual rooms. Him Prowl think us Dinobot are drones, me Grimlock think.
Me Grimlock say, "Okay, me Grimlock show you why us Dinobots need separate rooms," and him Prowl get look on him Prowl's face like when him Mirage talk to him Sludge. Him Sludge stupid, but know when him Mirage treat him Sludge like him Sludge is stupid. Me Grimlock not like being looked at like me Grimlock is stupid. Me Grimlock need to teach him Prowl a lesson about intelligence. Me Grimlock know smart words, too. Me Grimlock just not care about making him Prowl think me Grimlock is smart.
Me Grimlock do care about making him Prowl know me Grimlock isn't stupid.
Me Grimlock take him Prowl into cave with us Dinobots, and them other Dinobots watch while me Grimlock pin him Prowl's legs against cave walls way up high, so him Prowl couldn't touch the ground. Him Prowl tried, too. Him Prowl's arms very short. Him Prowl loud while trying to order me Grimlock around. Him Prowl try to kick and struggle. Me Grimlock ignore him.
"Okay," me Grimlock say. "Us Dinobots all here watching you Prowl. You Prowl need education," and me Grimlock put me Grimlock's palm across him Prowl's aft. Him Prowl go still. Him Prowl stop breathing. Me Grimlock's hands are very big. Me Grimlock's hand could squeeze him Prowl's whole aft, but me Grimlock just pat as me Grimlock sound out long word. Ed-u-ca-tion. Good word. Means 'learning,' only larger concept. Longer words doesn't mean smarter word, but this long word is a good word for situation. Makes point, me Grimlock think.
Me Grimlock careful. Me Grimlock could hurt him Prowl, because me Grimlock is strongest Dinobot. But me Grimlock just pat him Prowl's aft and say, "Me Grimlock doesn't educate," ed-u-cate in careful pats, not too hard, "Autobots in front of other Dinobots. They Dinobots think it too funny. They Dinobots need separate rooms, or you Prowl never learn."
Them other Dinobots snicker, and me Grimlock drop him Prowl. "You Prowl assign us Dinobots rooms like Autobots," me Grimlock say, and him Prowl sit on the floor and stare up at me Grimlock for a while. Him Prowl keep rubbing him Prowl's aft.
Me Grimlock think him Prowl gets me Grimlock's point. Him Prowl assign them other Dinobots new rooms.
Me Grimlock still live in cave, but it okay. Him Prowl asks for more ed-u-ca-tion sometimes, and me Grimlock have more privacy in cave.
Me Grimlock think him First Aid not know about us Dinobots. Him First Aid say he First Aid want to 'play doctor' with me Grimlock, but me Grimlock think him First Aid not know what he First Aid just said. Him Ratchet look like him Snarl just head-butted him Ratchet.
Me Grimlock very amused by them Protectobots. Them Protectobots cutest siblings. Someday, him First Aid figure out what he First Aid said, and me Grimlock will laugh and laugh.
Him Optimus Prime treat self worse than them Decepticons. Me Grimlock fed up with him Optimus Prime's martyr complex. Him Optimus Prime can't go one week without sacrifice.
Me Grimlock put him Optimus Prime into restraint harness, and then me Grimlock go find volunteer to haul him Optimus Prime around like dead weight. If him Optimus Prime going to keep being useless bag of cogs and actually use him Optimus Prime's head, then me Grimlock going to use him Optimus Prime's body before him Optimus Prime's body is ruined. Him Brawn good at hauling dead weight. Him Brawn volunteer right away.
Him Optimus Prime give me Grimlock petrorabbit optics, but me Grimlock think petrorabbits delicious. Very crunchy.
Me Grimlock sit back and let him Brawn drag him Optimus Prime around until point is made. Me Grimlock think this take a while.
Me Grimlock seen a lot of things. Us Dinobots always seen more than they Autobots wanted us Dinobots to, but me Grimlock seen even more.
They Autobots not talk about how they Autobots treat us Dinobots at first. Us Dinobots remember. Me Grimlock enjoy making them Autobots squirm, trying to smooth over it past.
Him Red Alert squirm the most. Him Red Alert think us Dinobots dumb drones for longer than most. Him Red Alert let us Dinobots see things him Red Alert not want them Autobots to know, and us Dinobots remember. Him Red Alert used to visit cave when him Wheeljack lock us Dinobots away on him Optimus Prime's orders. Him Red Alert used to lean against cave wall and do things to self that other Dinobots laugh at. Me Grimlock didn't laugh.
Me Grimlock learn interesting things from watching him Red Alert watch us Dinobots and do things to self.
Him Red Alert like big, powerful machines. Him Red Alert like to think about what machines could do if machines were alive. Us Dinobots not machines. Us Dinobots alive.
Him Red Alert very embarrassed, later. Him Red Alert even more embarrassed when me Grimlock talk about what him Red Alert used to do.
But me Grimlock see him Red Alert do things to self when nobody but me Grimlock can see, now. Him Red Alert squirm if me Grimlock walk up and put a foot on him Red Alert's roof in altmode, and him Red Alert squirm more if me Grimlock tell him Red Alert what me Grimlock saw him do. Him Red Alert not stop doing things to self. Him Red Alert just stop doing it in front of other Dinobots.
Him Red Alert only do things to self in front of him Grimlock, now. Me Grimlock seen a lot of things.
[* * * * *]
Wherein I try to sleep, and my brain wouldn't shut up. I blame people on Tumblr for turning this into more than an outline.
[* * * * *]
It was an Autobot staff meeting. Most of the mechs at this table are well known for their contributions to the Cause, both as officers and good mechs. The soldiers admire and respect them. They're serious and professional, but snarky and warm. The mechs at this table are friends as well as colleagues.
Except there's something wrong at the table tonight. They're tense. They're...afraid. Jazz is wound tight in his chair, visor a dark blue slash peering out from under his helm. Beside him, Prowl has his hands flat on the table. His optics are locked on them, and he breathes slow and steady to hide how his doors shake. In contrast, across the table from them, Red Alert averts his face. It hides his expression, but his fingers tap a nervous tempo on the table. Wheeljack can see his face, but he has his own concerns. He trembles finely while shifting about in his chair. Between the engineer and Jazz, Ratchet has his hands under the table to protect them, his face forced neutral and optics locked straight ahead. He knows how to deal with this. He used to tend Senators.
Ironhide's the only one who sits completely straight, chin up and jaw set in defiance, but maybe his courage is false bravado. Maybe he can only keep his back straight because the Prime has focused on Blaster. Blaster, whose grin has turned sickly as he huddles in his chair, shrinking down to be submissive and small. Ironhide can afford to look defiant because Optimus Prime paces past him to stand behind the communication mech instead.
"When you are chosen as an officer, you accept the responsibilities of the position. You acknowledge that you serve the Autobot Cause above all. That means you sacrifice your time, your desires, even your sense of self to your rank. An officer incapable of devoting himself to his position is unworthy of it, because on that rank rests the lives and well-being of the Autobots under him. An officer who cannot devote himself is a weakness. An officer who serves himself over those he commands is not an officer, but a parasite. He is a disgrace to the Cause, a traitor to the Autobots, and," the Prime heaves a sigh carrying all the weight of responsibility, "my mistake. Those who fail their duties fail me, but more than that, they are my failure. I promote you. I choose you. I read your reports and judge your abilities. When I fill an office, it is my decision to make. If you are unable or unwilling to fulfill the rank bestowed on you, then it's my error to have trusted you. I cannot forgive those who fail their responsibilities until I forgive myself for entrusting them with what they weren't worthy of."
He walks around the table, speaking softly about what it means to serve the Autobot Cause, to serve him, and what it means to fail. Shoulders hunch as he approaches, shudder as he pauses behind each mech, and misery paints their bodies even though their faces show nothing. He moves on, but his words are pointed. They remain speared through guilty sparks.
"Autobots have died, my friends. Soldiers paid the price for our failures. I've failed them. And you? Are you innocent?"
Blaster scrunches lower with every word. When the Prime stops behind him, one hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights.
The entire table flinches when their leader says, as if to them all but painfully, excruciatingly to Blaster, "There are no innocent mechs in this room. Not while the dead fill the morgues and are solemnly recycled, their only worth now in the parts of their bodies. We have failed them. I have failed them. I promoted officers who aren't worthy of their ranks."
He takes the blame himself, including them all only as a footnote for his own guilt, but Blaster seems about to break because - because, oh, had those words hit home. It's not the Prime's fault. It's his. He's to blame. It's not fair that Optimus Prime blame himself when Blaster deserves every acid drop of shame and guilt.
There's no time for courage or shame to spur him to speak up, however. He's had time to marinate in the consequences since the battle ended. What did he do? He avoided it. It takes their leader to make him face it.
"Get up," the Prime says, ordering him out of his chair. The orders keep coming, implacable and stern. He's ordered to be silent. He's told to stand by the wall. He's commanded to listen and watch as a witness.
It is the greatest punishment a communication mech can suffer, and Blaster's vocalizer bleeds a thin trail of static as he obeys. He will fulfill his function and duty now, as he failed to do during the battle. He won't be weak this time. He won't falter. He is an officer of the Autobots, a servant to the Prime that served them all.
Blaster stands against the wall and forces himself to do better.
One Autobot's failure is a sign that discipline has become lax. An entire cadre? Officers cannot afford to fail. Their failure costs lives, and the death toll of the latest battle hurts their Prime deeply. The Autobot officers flinch as he gently reminds them that it is a Prime's duty to protect the people.
"I am their protector. When I fail them, I bear their deaths as my own. I've failed them." His hands come down, fingers feathering over Wheeljack's shoulders softly. A shiver wracks the engineer, but he doesn't shrug the barely-there hands away. "I've failed you all, and there is no forgiveness to be had until those I've failed forgive me - but there is no forgiveness for officers who cannot commit themselves fully to my Autobots. Only those who can serve are worthy." He sweeps his optics around the table, and only Ironhide can meet them. Optimus Prime speaks directly to him, as if the words were meant just for him, but they're too aware of their failures. "Autobots are dead. Who will pay for their lives? Who was meant to command them in my stead? I put you in place to lead them, guide them, and save them, and now they are dead. I grieve them, old friend. I grieve for the lives lost to carelessness and your inability to commit to the Autobot Cause."
Ironhide drops his gaze first, but only because the Prime regards him kindly. Anger would have been easier to face. "I serve even the dead," their leader tells them. "I am their protector, and although I've failed them, there is one last thing I may do for them. I can make sure those who failed them are punished."
He cannot spare the rod, as it were. They shudder and, one by one as he stops behind them, hand on their helms, they agree.
"Yes, Prime," Wheeljack says.
Yes, he should punish them.
Ratchet clenches his hands under the table and bows his head under the hand on it. "If you must," he agrees gruffly.
Yes, they deserve it.
Jazz twitches away, warily twisting around to look up at the taller mech standing behind him. He snorts out his vents and mutters, "Yeah, can see you're real broke up over it, Prime. Really blaming yourself. Way to take one for the team."
"I am a vessel for those I serve, just as you should have been. If you didn't fail your duties, held all your responsibilities without breaking, then there is no need to repair the vessel." The Prime's kindness doesn't falter, and Blaster whines low from the end of the room. Jazz flicks a look at the tormented communication mech standing witness. Standing witness instead of being 'repaired,' as if the Prime believes that punishment sufficient to guide him back to the path of service and duty.
He's their leader. If they won't follow him, then he will discipline them. They, in turn, won't fail him again.
In disciplining them, he disciplines himself.
Optimus Prime rests his hands on the back of Jazz's chair and looks down on him. "Have you failed, Jazz? Or were the lives lost in battle due to overwhelming odds, attacks that couldn't be intercepted or anticipated, or bad luck? Did you do everything you could, or," he leaned close, "did I make a mistake choosing you to be one of my officers?"
Jazz doesn't answer, but across the table, Ironhide and Red Alert are unable to raise their heads. Prowl's doors wilt down until they show his submission.
Please, Prime. Remind them of the price of failure. For every soldier who fell, make them pay.
Their leader shakes his head, disappointed by their behavior, their lack of regret, their failures. That is a lash of shame across their sparks, but then he circles around the table and speaks to Blaster in a quiet murmur. The normally upbeat mech presses back into the wall and turns his head this way and that like he could avoid the request. He can't. He begins to recite the list of the dead.
It is a long, long list.
Optimus Prime stands by his side for a while, staring off into the distance as he remembers each fallen soldier. It reminds the officers that he knows every Autobot in the ranks. Even if they only met once, the Prime remembers at least one detail about every Autobot. When Blaster hesitates, vents stuttering for air, the Prime comments aloud on the last name, personalizing the list that little bit more. The officers wince lower in their seats. It hurts to put names to the numbers.
Blaster's vents hitch and drag more often, but the communication mech blurts out name after name, unable to handle any more details.
After a while, their leader stops interjecting agonizing pieces of dead soldiers' lives, but he said enough. By the time he stands at the head of the table again, the officers are asking him to hurt them. Jazz says nothing, mouth set in a sullen scowl, but the others earnestly ask for justice for the dead. They failed. They were inadequate to the tasks he gave them, and they must be punished for failing their duties, their responsibilities, but most importantly, for failing the Autobot Cause.
The battle is over. The dead deserve compensation.
Give the officers their penance, as is his duty. Let them earn forgiveness, so that he can forgive himself.
He gives them what they ask for.
He strikes Red Alert with his open hand, heavy slaps across the face that power through the feeble attempts to block him. The Security Director reels, falls back in his chair, blinks dazedly between hits, and eventually can't focus enough to restrain his pained cries. He hides behind shaking arms, helm tucked down, and begs the Prime to stop.
He doesn't. It isn't until Red Alert is stammering apologies to dead mechs and swearing he'll do better that the Prime moves on.
Ironhide is beaten into the floor. There is no subtlety. He gives the old soldier no opportunity to prepare. The Prime roars fury and engages him in combat that the Weapons Specialist can't win. Defiance dies before shock. He can't fight back, not against his Prime, so he can only defend and block, retreat until he can't retreat any longer, and then he must surrender. He goes down and doesn't try to get back up. He suffers the blows, grunts with the pain, and tries to make himself a small, boring target.
The Prime is merciless, however, and Ironhide cracks. He grates out pleas that are ignored, the angered Prime shouting, "You, who trained soldiers to die, beg mercy? Why? Why should I grant your pleas? No Decepticon did! Where are the soldiers you trained? Where are they? I'll face them in the Matrix, and what will I say, that I excused you for letting them die? The Autobots you trained might have survived if you'd hardened them, but no, you've gone soft! My error was in having faith in your training. I believed that you would give me competent, confident Autobots, and you broke that trust. I sent half-trained soldiers into battle to be killed, and now you ask me to stop? What stopped you from preparing them for war? What stopped you from saving them? What selfishness excuses you from their deaths?"
Had he failed to train them? No, no, of course he hadn't, no, he wouldn't have filled out the ranks with cannon fodder, but Ironhide is stricken by the accusations because aren't they what he's been thinking? Aren't they what he's already said to himself deep in his doubts? His denials cut off halfway out, and he curls into a defensive ball more focused on what he did than what the Prime does to him.
He is a shaking, mourning pile on the floor when the Prime kicks him aside in disgust. Physical weaknesses are nothing compared to the psychological ones. He has inflicted more damage with his words than he did in his attack, and now Ironhide must live with the pain.
The internal weaknesses are the greatest vulnerabilities. Those are the wounds the Prime lances in sharp, stabbing words as he turns on Jazz. Jazz, who knows every mindfrag in the book and has stood up to every torture there is. But Jazz couldn't bring back the right information, could he? Arrogance for his abilities far outstretched actual results. Humility is a skill he sadly lacks in. If he's cool, confident, and undefeated, then why are there dead soldiers in the morgue right now?
"Self-centered, Jazz. Entirely about yourself, at the expense of what your rank calls for." That is the greatest disappointment of all. The Prime looks down at the spy coiled in a chair like a trap waiting to be sprung, and he turns away. That's not an Autobot he sees. That's a wholly self-centered glitch who doesn't care in the slightest about fellow Autobots, only about his own achievements and the carefree image he projects. It's all about the image, for Jazz.
Fine. Then let him be a smiling demon, since that's the image he's so proud of. The Decepticons are said to fear him, but it's the Autobots who should fear him more, because he's supposed to be their protection from the shadows. "All image and no substance," the Prime says grimly. Disappointment spirals down into bitter cold disapproval, and his optics are ice as they pin the saboteur in his seat.
Jazz is no longer huddled or wary; he watches his commander with a blank face that gives nothing away despite the words slashing through his ego.
"They relied on you, and you failed. You failed them. You failed us." The Prime sweeps an arm, indicating the room. He lets it fall and looks down at his Head of Special Operations. "You failed me. Because you care more for your image than for the lives of Autobots."
"So smile." Let him smile. Let him laugh. The Prime casts a shockwhip down the table, and it spins to a halt in front of an officer who can no longer even look up from under his helm. Jazz's face shows nothing, but he can't meet his Prime's optics. The coldness in Optimus Prime's voice chills his spark. "Pick it up, and use it. You've had your chance to see the damage caused by your ineptitude, your attitude, but you keep that image up. If that's the most important thing to you, then there is no forgiveness for you. Pick it up, because I have another task for you."
Jazz reaches out to grasp the hilt uncertainly.
Whatever the Prime stops to murmur in Prowl's audio, it makes the tactician jerk upright, optics whiting out and a denial stamped on his face. Another murmur, and Prowl freezes, protest melting. The urge to fight the accusation slams flat against truth. Agonized revelation bursts open, raw and exposed while the Prime flays him from the inside out. The tips of his doors quiver, and slowly the motion spreads until he is cringing away from the whisper in his audio. He shakes like a leaf in a hurricane. His optics dart left and right, searching for escape. The need to flee is almost visible in how he sits taut on the edge of his seat, but the Prime gives a final whisper.
Defeat takes everything but surrender from him. He gives the barest nod in agreement.
His chair slides back as the Prime steps away, and Prowl never raises his optics. He bends forward over the table, elbows taking his weight and one hand clasping the opposite wrist.
"Jazz." He drops his helm and swallows guilt. Jazz looks up sharply, glancing between Prime and Second, but Prowl's voice is as firm as it is low. "Administer a disciplinary beating. Punishment for failure to anticipate that the city was a trap, and for the loss of life caused by my lack of foresight."
This is what he deserves. It was his plan that failed. He needs to pay for his failure before he can be forgiven. Blaster still drones on at the end of the room, arms crossed tight across his midriff as he rocks back and forth, reciting name after name. Every soldier lost deserved more than a simple apology for an error made. Optimus Prime chose Prowl to create a master strategy, and Prowl - somehow, somehow, and it is a blindness he curses himself for - failed to fulfill that duty. Other Autobots paid the price for that.
An apology isn't enough. He must suffer for their forgiveness.
Jazz stands at the Prime's imperious gesture, but he seems unsteady for a second. Only a second, however. His face smoothes into a smirking mask, and he steps behind Prowl to raise the whip and begin. The flash of impact snaps across the room in bright light that makes the other officers flinch in reaction. The harsh thuds of the whip against armor will become loud cracks as Prowl gasps and demands more through gritted teeth.
Ratchet vents out hard when the Prime stops behind him, but his leader is compassionate. "You did your best," the Prime says, and the medic's throat aches as he has to break that faith.
"I didn't," he forces out.
"You didn't?"
"I…could have done more."
"Ratchet." Optimus Prime turns his chair and makes him look up at the kindness that can kill. Kindness understands, but it is merciless in its understanding. It will listen to the facts and try to believe the best of them, but a Chief Medical Officer who lost so many in his medbay doesn't deserve that. He deserves condemnation, and he deserves the anger of the dead he couldn't save. "Ratchet," the Prime repeats, "tell me what you've done."
He obeys. He stands and gracefully sinks to his knees like a penitent sinner before a priest. And, like a priest, the Prime leads to him to confess.
The Prime isn't a priest so much as he is judge and jury. For every botched repair, every casualty triaged as too far gone to save, every life that faded on his surgery table, the heel of the Prime's foot grinds into Ratchet's hands. They are flattened against the floor before him, fingers spread wide in humble offering. There's no attempt to defend himself or lessen the punishment. The dead can't forgive him. He lost so many lives, failed his duty and his Prime, and he wants this penance.
Ratchet presses his chevron into the floor and recites the names and times of death. He whimpers his apologies. The Prime shifts his foot and grinds down again, and the wreck that should be his Chief Medical Officer stutters that there wasn't anything more he could do, he swears it.
"His spark was all but extinguished. I had to take him off life support or I would have lost someone else!"
The Prime is quiet, the kind of quiet that hurts to hear. "Must I remind you that all life is precious?"
"He was almost dead! He was dying, there was nothing more I could do. It was either take him off the machine and let him die a few minutes faster, or lose another patient before he died anyway! I had to make the call. I didn't have a choice," he promised fervently. "I didn't."
"Do you know exactly what would have happened in those last few minutes of his life?" the Prime asks, relentlessly gentle, and that's what has haunted the medic since he made that call. It is the uncertainty of not knowing that makes Ratchet scream and beg forgiveness, promising that next time he won't sacrifice the living so easily, and the Prime asks him with pitiless kindness if that's what he'd done. Does he truly believe that's what he'd done?
"Yes," Ratchet whispers, although he has to fight the words out, knowing what it will earn him. The Prime's weight comes down, and the medic screams again.
But in the back of his pain, Ratchet wonders. Is it what he'd done?
His screams overlay the gasps and pained groans from Prowl, who's taking his beating well. He not only accepts it, he welcomes it. The pain is buying redemption, one lash at a time. The lives lost to his failure can't be brought back, but he can pay for his mistakes. He stretches out his doors despite how they tremble in dread, offering them fully to the lash. The metal dents and cracks. The flash of the shock electrocutes the circuitry underneath. Arching his back to meet the pain, he stifles his cries in his throat and concentrates on making this his apology.
He should have saved more. The plan should have been perfect.
The pain stripes his back, missing not an inch of plating as it moves down. Over the sobbing of his vents, now, he hears Wheeljack wildly speaking. He starts to turn his head before reminding himself that he can only earn his own forgiveness. He will not fail his Prime and his Cause again. Prowl clenches his hands together as if in prayer and pushes his face into the table. It doesn't block out the half-articulated explanations falling out at the Prime's feet to be trampled on. Wheeljack is frantic to explain himself, but his excuses dead-end in guilt.
The words turn into a keen, then a screech, followed by a moan that hold more internal pain than anything a fist could inflict. The Prime says something, but Prowl can't hear it over the snap of the whip. Wheeljack babbles garbled words and nonsense, and the Prime baritone growls reproach, turning his words back on him. Prowl grinds his face into the table and remembers the way the Prime's words can cut.
They need his sharp mind turned back on them. They need to be cut by their own words parroted back at them through his perspective. An abscess has festered in them since the battle, and it has scummed over past their own attempts at self-medication. Their treatment plans have failed, and their Prime has stepped in to care for them since they can't care for themselves. The swelling growth inside them is ripe with a pussy mass of repressed guilt, lost lives, and perfect hindsight. Optimus Prime speaks, and the mess opens.
Now the infection oozes free, everything out in the open and grossly obvious, but he plunges both hands into the weeping wound to purge the source.
The whip falls, and Prowl looses his first scream. It overrides Blaster's guilt-ridden recitation of dead mechs, but only temporarily.
It'll be a while yet until Jazz finds his own absolution, dropping the whip and throwing himself down to hold the tactician. His image will be completely destroyed by how he pulls Prowl up and tries to convince him it was his faulty information that lost the battle, it's his fault. A plan can't be expected to work when it's built on false info. He'll try to shake sense into Prowl, beg the assembled officers' forgiveness, and finally crawl to the Prime, seeking pardon and re-entry into a Cause he's utterly convinced he's failed. Self-doubt has become a palsy, shaking him to the core, and his attitude has been as much of a scab as a symptom of the disease.
The Prime will speak his words, quiet and leading, and he will rip the wounds open to drain. Jazz will writhe at his feet, bleeding, but the infection must be burnt out. Punishment will be brought down upon him until Jazz himself judges it enough. Forgiveness of the dead can only be granted when they stop believing they must beg it, or earn it, or otherwise be cleansed. They will be forgiven once they forgive themselves.
Their method of seeking that forgiveness from themselves is brutal, but it was a hard battle. Their Prime will give them what they asked for, no matter what they ask. This punishment is the medicine they asked him to administer, a brutal dose of playing the persecutor until the illness has been scoured and a new, tender scab can form. Only then can they start to heal.
It's not a cure. But it is treatment, and Optimus will care for them in the aftermath soon enough, assuring them that they never failed him, never disappointed him, and served to the best of their abilities. He is proud of them, so very proud, even when they couldn't accept the good in themselves. No forgiveness is needed.
That will come later, once they're ready to believe him.
For now: pain.
[* * * * *]