Pt. 35: Prowl isn't sure what he feels; Ratchet takes care; Jazz teaches the Dinobots manners; Bumblebee picks up the pieces; the Combaticons honor the dead; Shattered Glass MTMTE gets religious in an extreme way; MTMTE 46 spoilers + return of random characters.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 35
Warning: Sensory deprivation, bondage, robots in makeup, religion, gore? MTMTE 46 Spoilers, objectification/torture reference.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1, Shattered Glass
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet, Grimlock, Jazz, Wheeljack, Bumblebee, Combaticons, Deadlock/Drift, Wing, Pharma, Ambulon, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Sixshot, Nautilator.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.
[* * * * *]
"Prowl - Judgment"
[* * * * *]
He rolled his head back, optics offline. He couldn't see anything behind the full mask clamped over his face, anyway. It clanked as he worked his jaw from side to side. The plug lodged in his mouth nestled against the back of his intake, compressing his vocalizer. He couldn't recoil from it to relieve the blunt pressure, only push with his tongue to ease some of the discomfort caused by it. It sat directly on the main speaker. While that didn't mute him, exactly, it did muffle his voice considerably. Trying to speak made a dull ache grow in his throat, and with the plug stretching his lips wide, he couldn't articulate what little sound he managed to force out.
The mask kept him from seeing or speaking, but the rest of the restraints kept him mostly immobile. Whatever pinned his doors back was flat on the inside, compressing them together instead of hooked on them some way. The restraints were featureless, giving him nothing to strain against but solid pressure and no catches holding onto his door to somehow slip free of. They were as impossible to escape as the cuffs capping his forearms. They encapsulated his arms from the elbows down, forcing his hands into small, smooth bubbles barely large enough to hold them if they were in tight fists. There was no texture to focus on. There was no give. The forearm cuffs were sealed together behind his back at an angle that kept his shoulders on the edge of pain. His doors were then pushed up by how the cuffs lodged underneath them, straining the hinges. The combination gave him no room to struggle, even if he could deduce where to start.
There were no weak points. The restraints simply held him in place at the limits of joint extension where he had no room left to struggle. Held by his own weight, he couldn't shift forward or back on his feet without losing his balance and tumbling in an uncontrolled, painful fall that got him nowhere. His only option was to stand motionless, ankles braced at the ends of the spreader bar forced between them, and wait.
It was almost peaceful, except for the occasional frisson of apprehension and anticipation. He steadied his ventilation system against showing it.
After a timeless period he couldn't measure, something touched his bumper. With most of his sensor suite disabled or blocked, his analysis processor grasped at straws. His HUD threw out a tentative information set that told him not much of anything:
Room temperature.
Larger than a hand.
Softer than metal.
Firmer than known atmospheric elements in the immediate area.
At least he knew it wasn't a figment of his imagination or a chance breeze. It existed, whatever it was, and it was running into his front grill. Were it warmer, he'd conclude it was groping. Cooler, and he'd think it was liquid. The way it touched him was just random enough that he couldn't tell if it was sentient. However, that might be a ploy. It would certainly be how he'd throw someone off in this situation.
The lack of certainty made him quiver. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, he didn't know what. Hostile or benign, conscious or at random, he was at the mercy of his captor. Nothing he could do would change his fate. There was no more information to be drawn from his circumstances, and even if he deduced one fact, he could do nothing with it. All the data analysis, strategic planning, and advanced tactics programmed into his mind couldn't help him, here.
A click brought a single communication line up. "Is this enough?" he was asked.
His teeth bit into the gag, and he gurgled an answer: Almost. Almost.
[* * * * *]
"Ratchet - Visible"
[* * * * *]
There wasn't much of Prowl visible to judge his condition by. Between the mask over his face and the restraints pushing his doors together behind his back, Prowl's body language had been gagged as effectively as his mouth. Not even his hands were visible, covered by the smooth ends of the full forearm restraints Ratchet had put on him.
Ratchet leaned his elbows on the desk and frowned at the live broadcast on his console screen. The steady whirr of fans gave him nothing to work by, but Prowl's control only extended so far. The mech's body wanted to respond. Ratchet had locked it down until involuntary motions were the only give-aways. He had to watch closely to catch those before Prowl caught the telltale signs. Judging Prowl's condition took experience. He studied the width of vent slats, how they shivered as they opened wider and were immediately closed.
Prowl rolled his head back. That rocked him as much as the spreader bar locking his ankles apart allowed. Any further attempts at moving would result in an undignified topple to the floor. It was an experience Ratchet knew Prowl didn't enjoy, especially since leaving him there in an uncomfortable sprawl made such a good punishment for the misbehavior. Why scold when the consequences taught Prowl a lesson?
The small shifting was a decent sign. Prowl was prepped.
A remote manipulator arm unfolded from the wall. Ratchet guided it down Prowl's front, watching the reaction closely. The first touch earned a twitch before Prowl stiffened, mind spinning a thousand conjectures on who or what was fondling his grill. Ratchet had stripped away most of his senses. He'd limited the input, and that limited processing. Ratchet's frown deepened. They were searching, he and Prowl, looking for a strange balance between helplessness and surrender. Too much of one, and Prowl panicked. Too much of the other, and Prowl became restless and bored.
Ratchet opened a comm line as the tiniest quiver racked the Prowl's bound form. "Is this enough?" he asked in monotone voice.
A gurgle answered him.
Hmm. Prowl needed something else, something more. Ratchet drummed his fingers on the desk as he picked through his options. There were certain things Prowl responded to, positive and negative, but he wanted to keep everything physical locked down for this session. Prowl's mind focused on analyzing facts at the expense of the mech himself reacting to them, more often than not. Ratchet needed to set a fire under Prowl, not Prowl's processors.
His frown twisted into something wicked. "For the record, this call is being recorded for quality control."
Another, more urgent gurgle. Prowl's head made a small motion, turning as if he'd frantically opened his optics behind the mask to search for observers. The manipulator arm withdrew, only to return and tickle a barely-there touch on one knee joint. Prowl squeaked, head jerking around the other direction.
Ratchet's smile grew. "The video's being recorded for my supervisor's viewing pleasure."
With so much of him covered, it was hard to see Prowl overload. Good thing Ratchet was watching so closely.
[* * * * *]
"Grimlock - Guest"
[* * * * *]
When the leader of the Dinobots invited you over for anything, you went. It didn't matter if it was for a sleepover, to look at etchings, or tea and crumpets. You went.
Jazz perched on one of the rickety chairs clearly hauled from the storage closet the rest of the Ark used as a dump, and he wished for tea and crumpets. "Yeah, so, uh...I like the decor."
Most of the Dinobots studied him like a strange artifact from another world. They didn't respond. Grimlock cocked his head to the side. Jazz both hated and admired that. He wished he could master the art of looking like he was about to take a bite out of someone just by a small motion of the head. It'd help to have a mouthful of really sharp teeth, but Grimlock didn't even need to be altmode to make Jazz nervous.
"You Jazz mocking Dinobots?" Grimlock rumbled.
Danger! Danger! "No! A'course not, Grimsy!" He laughed big and loud, projecting good humor as hard as he could. "You fixed it up good!" It hardly even looked about to collapse anymore. Why anyone had thought it was a good idea to give Wheeljack dynamite, he'd never know.
The predatory light in Grimlock's visor died. "Hmmph. Good."
Jazz rest his vocalizer and rocked on the chair. It had one short leg. Clonk clonk clonk. "Right! So, ah, what's up? Whatcha need from little ol' me?"
Suddenly, all the Dinobots were giving him that look. The one with extra teeth. "Him Mirage say you Jazz master of 'chang-a-ble et-ti-quette,'" Grimlock pronounced with extra care, and Jazz's tanks sank down to the floor. "Us Dinobots talk with him Mirage and him Ratchet. Us Dinobots decide us Dinobots need lessons. You Jazz teach us Dinobots."
Jazz stared. Oh, what he wouldn't give for tea and crumpets.
[* * * * *]
"Jazz - Visible"
[* * * * *]
"I get why Ratch' sent them to Mirage," Jazz said out of the side of his mouth. "Manners. Etiquette. Makes perfect sense, y'know? He'd be my first choice. Grimlock says he wants them Dinobots t' learn it, Ratch' sends 'em to Mirage, and I can see it."
Wheeljack made a noncommittal sound as he pried up a lid. He was more concerned with stirring the paint inside than listening to Jazz grumble.
"What I stall out on is Mirage passin' it on to me. I'm no expert!"
"Neither is Mirage," Wheeljack said mildly. This can was good. Shiny black was a go. He looked up into the shelves lining his workshop, searching for a nice matte white.
"Yeah, I get that. Nobody here's an expert in French court etiquette." Jazz viciously organized his notes. Wheeljack blinked at the blur of pictures as slides shifted and slid into a different order. "But why me, mech?"
Wheeljack didn't know, but he had a theory. "He's an expert on Iaconian Towers etiquette, but that's not anything to do with what Grimlock asked him to teach. When it comes down to it, who is a better infiltration expert: you or Mirage? I mean in terms of adapting to the point of being a visible agent, not by literally being invisible," he clarified.
Jazz shot him a look. From the pinched look of his visor, he already knew where this was going and didn't like it one bit.
"You," Wheeljack answered his own question. "You're more capable of becoming what people expect to see. You learn foreign mannerisms faster and apply them to blend in. You can mimic a different culture's social mores perfectly. You do your research." He nodded at the tablet Jazz had his notes on. "Mirage referred the Dinobots to you because you're better at changeable etiquette. I'm sure he could teach them Towers etiquette, but that's not what they want to learn."
Jazz's visor narrowed, and he gave Wheeljack a peeved look. Logic had defeated him once again. "Still got no idea why they wanna learn - "
"Does it matter?" Oops. A bit of defensive creator might have shown through, there. Jazz cleared his filters and busily sorted notes. Wheeljack harrumphed, going back to opening paint cans. "They want to learn. Personally, I think it's nice that they're curious about the humans."
"Yeah," Jazz agreed, if only not to start an argument. But Wheeljack did have a point. Even if he didn't: defensive creator. A mech crossed Wheeljack at his own risk.
When the leader of the Dinobots asked you to teach a course on old French court etiquette, you better have a good reason why you won't teach it. Grimlock wasn't the one who'd wield guilt like a baseball bat against your head. The Autobots owed the Dinobots too much for Wheeljack to let it slide.
So Jazz plastered a smile on as the Dinobots tromped into Wheeljack's workshop. "Okay! So, uh, we left off at formal makeup last time. Ya'll wash your faces? Masks. Whatever." Dinobots nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Right, so, I'm gonna need my volunteer ladies over here, and my volunteer lords over there, and Wheeljack, you got th' stencils for beauty marks? Great." Jazz covered a resigned sigh, opening up the first slide. "Just great."
[* * * * *]
"Bumblebee - Worth"
[* * * * *]
He had fought in a war millions of years in the making, millions of years in the fighting, millions of years in the waiting. He had been there, done that. He had lasted through it.
None of it was worth anything held beside a handful of minutes in the company of an alien species, on a world far from home, doing nothing but living. Talking, driving, even just sitting on his wheels with the Witwickys nearby, listening to them, watching them.
When the war took them away, they weren't that much against the millions of years before and after. Humans lasted such little time, like flashes of lightning in a storm. They were fragile fragments of life tossed in amidst the fighting, torn to pieces and thrown away.
Bumblebee treasured those pieces more for being broken.
[* * * * *]
"the Crypt"
[* * * * *]
"I'm not saying that we shouldn't be doing this. I'm saying it's odd that we have to be the ones doing it." Blast Off compared the schematic in his hand to the one inside the foot of the statue he'd just opened up. As he'd suspected, somebody had cannibalized the fuel and fuel lines, leaving a series of missing parts he scribbled down on the list for repairs. "This level of vandalism is sacrilegious. I'd be shocked if it were worth the effort."
"It's never worth the effort, with you. Need help?" Onslaught shouted toward the back of the Crypt.
"I've got this!" Holding a beacon of holy light aloft in one hand, Vortex hacked at the shadows with the flaming sword held in his other hand. Amazing how replicas of the Star Saber could be fabricated on demand when one told the Constructicons what it was for. Even more amazing that Soundwave had coughed up the relics of an ancient AllSpark shrine. Vortex remembered that shrine. He handled the glowing AllSpark shard with all the reverence it deserved, switching hands when he had to punch the shadows in their slimy, gibbering, darkness-concealed faces.
"If you say so." Onslaught shrugged. He dipped his brush back in the bucket and went back to scrubbing the floor. It wasn't glorious work, but somebody had to do it. "I can believe this level of vandalism," there was a war on, after all, and half the graffiti in the Crypt was blatant Autobot propaganda, "but what I don't understand is how they could have neglected it this long. It doesn't take that much effort to send a cleaning detail down every century or so."
Blast Off closed up the panel on the statue and moved on to the next. "Shockwave seemed surprised we remembered it was here."
"He did, didn't he? But someone has to be sending someone to top up the lamp reservoirs," Onslaught mused. He wrung out a rag and tossed it to Blast Off to use wiping down the access panel.
"Half of them don't have reservoirs left anymore," Blast Off grumbled as he shielded his face with his free hand, using the other to swipe gingerly at the seams of the panel. Gearspiders hissed, skittering away from the solvent. A few jumped toward him, and he had to suppress his weapons systems. Full powered blasting of many-legged critters the size of his thumbpad was frowned upon.
Vortex cursed and chased something that flowed like smoke across the Crypt. "Begone to depths unseen, eldritch horror! I banish thee to the Pit to smelt in torment, reaching unto the light of the Matrix, blessed by Primus, where all my brethren dwell as one, joined in light!"
Blast Off and Onslaught didn't even look up. It was an old, familiar battle cry. Not one that they'd heard lately, they had to admit, but there weren't many priests on Earth. There was probably a temple in Shockwave's Tower. They should visit later and invite the priest to bless the place in case Vortex's blasphemy somehow nixed all their labor bringing the Crypt back into shape.
They did look up as Swindle trudged by dragging Brawl by one leg. The tank clawed at the ground. "I'm not dead yet!"
"You'll be stone-cold dead in a minute." Swindle braced his feet and heaved, scraping his larger teammate across the Crypt a fingerlength at a time.
Neither of his other teammates moved to help. "I have to wonder if Starscream even told Lord Megatron why we were assigned to Cybertron this month," Onslaught said as he returned to scrubbing. "If we get in trouble for this later, I know who to blame."
"Why would we get in trouble for doing this?"
"Not everybody honors the dead."
Vortex roared challenge in the background. Brawl whined as Swindle tried to stuff him into a too-small coffin.
"Can't imagine that, personally."
Something cold ran up the backs of their necks. A second later, a flaming sword sliced it away. Onslaught shook it off and handed Blast Off a rag for the next statue. "Neither can I."
[* * * * *]
Shattered Glass - "something with Drift and the potential religious implications of Optimus being Prime, or Rodimus having bonded with the Matrix"
[* * * * *]
The Decepticons rejected Deadlock for going to the lengths they wouldn't.
He remembered that, when he was born again into Wing's hands in Crystal City. The Decepticons had overthrown Functionalism. They denied it, insisting that a mech's form didn't dictate his function. Yet then they tried to put their own rules and regulations on the chaos left by the removal of the underlying structure of an entire planet, and they were too soft. Too changeable, always altering depending on who was in command or the planet they were expected to adapt to.
Deadlock took Turmoil at his word and became what he assumed he was supposed to be. This was war. He became Megatron's weapon, a specialized killer feared by both sides of the battle. His name became known as a synonym to terror, and it was his purpose. That was he was supposed to do. He had a form without an assigned function, a past as a dead-end addict wandering the Dead End. Megatron gave him a Cause to fight for. Deadlock latched onto it. It became his entire world.
And the Decepticons rejected him for it.
Out of that rejection came Wing and Crystal City. He remembered the Decepticons' rejection, and Crystal City's reluctant acceptance of him. There were so many stipulations on his stay in the city. Wing oversaw the dictates of the city, gentle but uncompromising, and Deadlock had never been guided like that. The strict rules were everything he'd been craving, under the automatic hatred he felt toward the old ways. What had done the old ways of Cybertron ever done for him? The Primes had sat up there in pretty temples, fat and happy, indulged in every way while the poor starved down on the streets. Sweet ceremonies once a year dispensing blessings and energon treats to beggars hadn't touched the real problems of Cybertron. Deadlock had come to Crystal City hating the Autobots, the Prime, and everything relating to Primus.
Wing reeducated him. Harshly, at times, but mostly with the brutal simplicity the believers of Crystal City were known for. Ascetics all, they lived and worked in a militant commune set up in a rigid hierarchy. It was based on their belief that Primus walked beside them from day to day. Dai Atlas was said to hear Primus' voice in his prayers. Crystal City existed under a theocracy, one they believed to be a pure version of what Cybertron had once been, and they had no tolerance for Decepticon contempt for the supremacy of the Primes.
"The Senate corrupted the purity of the Primacy," Wing told Deadlock during one of their many educational spars. Deadlock gritted his teeth and endured, pinned beneath the better hand-to-hand fighter. Instruction always followed defeat, in this strange version of imposed training. "Before the Senate interfered, Cybertron embraced the One True Form, not Functionalism. Your form doesn't necessarily dictate function, but Primus reserves determination of form. It is his will that you are shaped how you are. That form is your own. Function is what can change, and it is determined by society, for the good of all." Wing draped a warm, loving hug over him. "You are what you are, and I will never deny you that, Drift. What you must understand is that you can become anything, no matter your form."
Anything, he meant, as assigned by a priest. Religious dispensation of grace would be what forgave him his sins of independent violence and slot him into a proper function within the city. Then and only then would he become as one with the others.
That was the purpose of religion in Crystal City. It gave purified social structure where the Senate's politics had rotted Cybertron.
"Never saw a Prime down in the gutters," Deadlock growled, baring his teeth in feral, hostile denial of Wing's preaching.
Wing sighed regretfully right before knocking him down for further reeducation. "Have you ever seen one of use rejected for doing what we were told?" he asked after slamming his captive disciple's face into the floor several times to ensure better listening skills. Deadlock twitched and muffled a pained whine. "By submission, we are accepted. We must join together, taking our roles as given until all are one."
'Till all are one. It was a phrase he heard repeated again and again in Crystal City. Even after he left as Drift instead of Deadlock, it haunted him. It echoed in his thoughts. It gave him something to cling to when he joined the Autobots. One of the hardest things he'd ever done was crawl to the Prime's feet as penitent and petitioner, desperate for a purpose the Decepticons had given and denied him. Optimus Prime granted him that purpose.
That was enough to make a studying, doubting student into a believer, but truly Primus smiled on him. One day, a speedster with the fire of a living god reflected in his paint job smiled at Drift, and belief burst into devotion as Rodimus said, "'Till all are one."
[* * * * *]
Shattered Glass - "Catholic indulgences"
[* * * * *]
Ratchet fell against the medibay door. Pain pulled his face into an ugly grimace, but he held his tongue. His usual manic cheer had no place here, not now. He was no longer the favored Chief Medical Officer of Optimus Prime. The Matrix was gone, shattered, and Rodimus Prime led the pilgrimage to find the Knights of Cybertron. Optimus Prime had been of the old religion, the old Primacy. That made Ratchet one of the old guard, and if Rodimus' assumption of the Primacy had taught this old medic anything, it was that the new leader was more likely to execute than respect those reluctant to follow his lead.
Ratchet knew his history. Primes had strong personalities. Their charisma turned Cybertron to Primus like iron filings to a magnet, but no religious leader could stay ruler of Cybertron without cultivating a cult of personality as a power base in politics. Optimus Prime had relied on strength of arms as much as personality. Rodimus, so far, drew on the resurgence of religious fanaticism following the end of the war.
Hence the Lost Light and this pilgrimage. Honestly, working aboard this vessel was like being aboard an enclosed monastery. Ratchet's irreverence toward Primus stood out like a search beacon at midnight, and he no longer had Optimus Prime's favor to protect him from the consequences.
Optimus was out there, somewhere. He had rejected Primus, and Rodimus Prime had declared him rejected in turn. Knowing his chances of survival in current politics, Ratchet had thrown his lot in with the new Prime. It was almost his duty. Ratchet had been the personal medic for the Primes his whole life. He had served Sentinel. He had endured Zeta. He had bowed to Optimus. Despite how his youthful religious fervor was disrupting the sober gravity of the Primacy, Rodimus Prime had enough grasp on ceremony to accept Ratchet's fealty as one of the trappings of office.
But Rodimus Prime kept him close. Ratchet's presence was a status symbol - see, the old guard supported the new Prime - and security. As long as Ratchet was kept close, he couldn't sneak off to rejoin the disgraced former Prime. Ratchet knew and accepted that. It was good politics.
However, it left him under uncomfortable scrutiny from a Prime intent on rejecting every time-worn religious routine Cybertron had fallen into during the lives of the previous three Primes. Rodimus was young, energetic, reckless, and utterly ruthless. The mechs of the Lost Light practically worshiped at his feet, or at least followed his lead in fervent belief of Primus, the Primes, and a new age for Cybertron. Nobody intervened when the young Prime passed judgment on someone, not even if it was their CMO being judged.
Ratchet's casual sacrilege was no longer overlooked, and it was proving a hard habit to break. He dimmed his optics and drew in a shuddering breath, waiting for the pain to pass. Ultra Magnus' hand on the whip had been mockingly hard, striping his back in muted amusement that Ratchet was the one suffering out of favor while he, formerly the pariah under Optimus Prime, stood at the new Prime's left hand. Ultra Magnus didn't believe in Primus the way the rest of the ship did, but he hid his atheism under a stoic façade. Ratchet did believe, but he kept slipping.
It could have been worse.
"I spoke for you."
Ratchet ignored Drift, instead turning to put his shoulder against the door while he typed the passcode.
The speedster looked at him in open misery. "I spoke for you to Rodimus."
"Don't let him hear you call him that," Ratchet muttered without turning around. It was no secret Drift and Rodimus had a casual friendship, but it was dangerous to rely on the friendship of a Prime. Ratchet knew that full well.
"Ratchet…" Drift stepped forward to key the door open when the medic's shaking hand missed the code for the third time. "I did speak for you. You didn't have to take the penance. I bought you indulgence." He gave Ratchet an earnest look. "I said the prayers."
"Good for you." He set his jaw and strode into the medibay on shaking legs.
Drift followed him. "Why didn't you take the indulgence?"
"I wanted the penance." Ratchet headed straight for the one medical berth without restraints.
"Why?"
"You know me. I'm not one for prayer." He flexed his hands, trying to work some feeling into the numb joints. Treating his own lash marks was going to be a glitch and a half, he could tell. Rolling his wrists created loud crackling noises, and he flinched, tucking his chin in. His hands hurt worse than the whip had, and that was the point.
"But…"
"Leave it, Drift!" he barked, shooting a glare at the warrior monk. "You're the one always preaching about finding ways to Primus. You ever stopped to think that this is mine?"
Drift stared at him in astonishment. It obviously hadn't.
After a minute, his optics dropped to the medic's worn hands. Ratchet made a conscious effort to stop rubbing them. When the staring grew too intense, he shift about to sit on the berth, back turned to the stupid, caring idiot who desperately wanted to save the medic who'd once saved him. Religious salvation wasn't the same, not in Ratchet's book, but he had to give the kid credit for trying. Drift still thought of him as the laughing prankster setting off his sirens in the hospital chapel. He didn't realize that Ratchet hadn't been an atheist since Zeta Prime.
Nobody survived the war as a medic and didn't know Primus stood at his shoulder. Ratchet just had difficulty resetting his mental image of Primus to match Rodimus Prime's particularly severe version of the god. Irreverence and a volatile new religious leader didn't mix well.
Drift didn't need to buy him indulgences. Ratchet had his own plans. He was old, older than he should have been, and the war was over. It was time he stood aside and let a new mech fill his position, but in time-honored tradition. Positions like Chief Medical Officer weren't ordained like generals or priests. Medics were elevated. And when they fell, it was as saints and martyrs, kneeling before their Primes to die, instantly accepted into the Matrix to live their rewards eternal. Fading away softly, indulged into rust and forgotten memory? Ratchet wouldn't accept that fate. It was a tempting, painless death, and he didn't want it.
Thinking about it reminded him of something he'd been meaning to do.
"Speak with the Prime," he said suddenly, and Drift jolted behind him. "I've received some strange messages from Messatine."
"The Delphi Medical Convent?"
"Yeah."
"What's there?"
Ratchet flexed his hands and didn't answer.
[* * * * *]
Shattered Glass - "Ecstasy of Martyrdom"
[* * * * *]
Pharma's smile was beatific. He didn't even feel the agony of the sword passing through his wrists. Beyond serenity, he met Ratchet's rust-clouded optics with a look of utter ecstasy. Ratchet met it with horror, but it wasn't his salvation Pharma fell for. Oh, he'd tried, but Ratchet had disappointed him in the end. A shame, but not a total loss. The surgeon fell into the clouds below with his face twisted into a blissful smile, and he left his hands behind as testimony of true belief.
The Delphi Medical Convent had always followed the tenants of suffering. Through pain, they were purified. Through suffering, they found their true selves. Through endurance, they were cleansed. Through sacrifice, they were saved.
Pharma, Surgeon Superior of the convent, holiest medic of the covenant, died a martyr for his beliefs. Pharma had sent the followers of his fanatic cult to the Matrix as one, pared down to their most basic selves by his Red Rust. First Aid's faith had wavered in the end, but Pharma had welcomed the test of faith. He'd seen the light. He'd recognized the path laid before him by Primus. To him fell the task of goading Ratchet into the final sacrifice, that of surrendering even friends and loved ones to Primus' care.
"Ratchet, please," he'd commanded, almost coaxed, as he hung from where he'd flung himself. Hanging by his hands over the clouds, he'd never felt so alive, so at peace, so at one with the universe, as if by losing everything he'd found where he belonged. "You can't leave me hanging here forever." Take the shot, he hadn't said. Sacrifice even this worldly attachment in humble submission to their god. The bonds of friendship had to be given up in perfect surrender and all-encompassing worship. He had burnt his followers to the last mech, tested Ratchet and the newly arrived Autobots from the Lost Light with a contrived play of blame, and it'd come down to this.
Ratchet had turned away. Pharma's optics had narrowed in religious fervor, the killing disapproval of a true believer bringing his shoulder guns to bear, but Drift. Oh, Drift. The dying Autobot had thrown himself between the two medics, expending the last of his life in agony and desperation, a prayer on his lips and a weapon in his hands. Pharma had felt it in the way the swords went through his wrists, and it was beautiful. It was everything the tenants of suffering preached. In one second, Drift had condensed the most brutal of Optimus Prime's lessons of war into a glorious moment of transcendence.
This was why Pharma had lived. This had been his purpose. Drift's salvation was the pinnacle of Pharma's function, fully realized.
He fell to his death smiling, one more martyr buried in the Messatine snow, elevated forever beyond its cold into glory.
[* * * * *]
Shattered Glass - "Druid"
[* * * * *]
The Lost Light changed when the Delphi contingent boarded. It wasn't just the sick miners. The few left had to be forced back into living and put on suicide watch, but nobody considered that a hardship. Their refusal to refuel was considered a denial of worldly needs, and mechs standing guard over them considered it a high honor. It wasn't often that martyr's were brought back from the brink. Drift visited them for daily prayers, pleading with them to live in order to lend their faith to the quest.
Fortress Maximus was an enigma. No one knew what to do about him.
First Aid's cowardice and underhanded betrayal of Pharma branded him wherever he went. Everyone knew about his lapse of faith. He knelt in the stocks outside the medibay before and after his shift, visor lowered to the floor in shame. Forgiveness would be a long time coming for his sin.
The entire pilgrimage had a different aura to it, now. It wasn't just the miners, or Fortress Maximus. It wasn't First Aid's ongoing penance. It wasn't even designating Delphi a shrine, although Rodimus Prime celebrated that as a landmark part of his Primacy. His first appointed shrine was important, of course. He was also acting to quickly canonize Pharma as a saint, but the realm of medical miracles grew somewhat questionable when it came to talented surgeons. It might be a longer process than the Prime wished.
What really changed the Lost Light was Ambulon.
Ratchet hissed into the piece of sheet metal twisted between his teeth, but the scream tore out after a moment. The heavy weight holding his forearm down shifted, and cold optics regarded him distantly. Ratchet looked away first. Ambulon's contempt for his weakness was clear. Pharma had been Surgeon Superior, leader of the Delphi Medical Convent, but Ambulon's faith had no peer. He had severed the bonds of gestalt to walk to Optimus Prime, kneel, and state his calling as priest, medic, and Autobot.
The Prime, in his wisdom, had recognized the sacrifice inherent in Ambulon's simple words. He'd appointed him a ward manager.
A ward manager oversaw patient's religious lives as much as their medical wellbeing. Ambulon ran triage and services. He determined whose sparks deserved to survive, and he labored to make the living worthy of Primus. He had been a living example for the miners of the convent, and a being of incomparable faith here on the ship. There was no suffering that could be greater than what he survived every day. There was no more beautiful pain. He embraced it, and what it made him.
He had stepped aboard the Lost Light holding Pharma's hands like the holy relics they were, and Rodimus Prime had asked for his blessing.
The medibay had transformed overnight. While Ratchet had run it efficiently enough, whim had ruled. The CMO had a flighty attention span and tended to act on impulse. Ambulon had grim purpose. He took control of it from the CMO, faith above and beyond rank as any proper theocracy should be run, and the medibay became a temple to pain, to suffering, to healing. Ratchet's manic cheer was no longer tolerated.
"Pray," Ambulon ordered him now, and Ratchet wanted to demand a decent pain patch. But that wasn't the way, not under the tenants of suffering, and look where protesting Pharma's fanatic beliefs had gotten Ratchet so far: held down, wrists flaming in excruciating pain as Ambulon slowly soldered connections into place. To Ambulon's mind, it made perfect sense that if Ratchet would not abide by Pharma's beliefs, then he would at least continue Pharma's work.
Ambulon had known what the stiff flex of Ratchet's hands had meant. He'd known why the CMO had come to Delphi.
This discipline was as much a reminder of faith as a warning. Ratchet had wanted Pharma to take the title of CMO so he could retire properly, but Ambulon? Ambulon had no tolerance for weakness. Ratchet wouldn't be allowed to die, not while his faith remained weak.
Ratchet snarled silently at the holy mech torturing him. If he prayed to Primus after that, the words he used would have earned him far more than the stocks.
[* * * * *]
"Post-MTMTE 46"
[* * * * *]
It turned out to be a relatively simple procedure. Not one Fortress Maximus - or, evidently, any of the professionals brought into to consult on the issue - had ever thought to try, but he ended up concluding that it didn't surprise him. The whole bunch of weirdo Scavenger Decepticons seemed to come out of left field in terms of how they thought. Why would Vice Admiral Spinister be any different?
Although, topnotch surgeon or not, the rest of his behavior made Fort Max intensely curious as to what kind of practical joke had created him. He made a mental note to ask Red Alert about the rest of the Autopedia entry later.
"Alright, already, stop crowding me." He pushed aside the crowd of technimals pressed around him. A chorus of little grunts and groans answered him, with tiny cheeps, chirrups, whistles, and a few whimpers from the smaller of the group. The preprogrammed 'allowed' sounds were all bestial like that. It thoroughly unnerved him, but he kept it from his voice, projecting reassurance as hard as he could. "Vox boxes are an easy fix, I promise. We have a surgeon standing by at the base for our return, and the T-cog dents keeping you in beastmode will self-repair once we reset your internal systems. I just need to make sure everyone's loose before we leave," he repeated for the recently freed.
It felt like he'd been giving endless variations of this speech since he'd started, but the poor mechs around him were disoriented, frightened, and probably traumatized. They'd likely been conscious throughout most of the domestication procedure, after all, and then he'd needed to bring them online to reverse it. No one had handled that well, yet. He'd never seen such wordless terror in so many optics.
The group was clinging to him as a savior, but he didn't think they were all processing right yet. He couldn't blame them.
It was too bad Demus could only be executed once. Bad as it was seeing someone terrified under normal circumstances, the subtle changes made to the Roboids' bodies had upped the helpless factor. On the surface, it made the technimals impossibly cute. Confused or in pain, however, the wider optics and chubbier, rounded, thinned armor emphasized their emotions. Demus had done that intentionally to make the Roboids more appealing as torture dolls. He'd advertised it to his buyers. It'd been part of his marketing strategy.
It was sick and wrong.
Fortress Maximus had been forced to witness mech after mech slowly awaken out of a barely-aware drone state into renewed horror at what had been done to them, and they couldn't hide a single hint of their emotions. It was splayed out for everyone to see. He hoped Cerebros would be able to help them cope. If not, maybe a memory wipe? Primus, this entire situation was fragged to the Pit and back, and that didn't even count the Roboids already sold. Somebody would have to track them down.
One of the cyberhounds crept whimpering to his feet. Fort Max stopped checking boxes and looked down at him. "What? One of the dragons can curl up with you if you need to be held." And thank Adaptus for that, because handling a crowd of clingy technimals was nothing next to dealing with survivors reduced to blubbering hysterics. Fort Max wasn't much of a hugger. He'd sort of stood by wondering if he should pat them on the shoulders or something until more capable people had taken over comforting those who needed it.
The cyberhound pawed at his leg.
"What? What is it? I'm not picking you up." He felt like an aft the second he said it aloud, but…no, he wasn't picking him up.
Teeth set gingerly into his treads. He watched warily, ready to step back, but the cringing technimal merely gave a tug.
He frowned. He didn't think he'd stopped since beginning the reversions. "Are you trying to get me to follow you?"
The cyberhound let go abruptly and shook his head, jaw dropping. A second later, he stopped, looking frustrated at the amped-up beastmode reactions all the technimals still had running through their programming. Making an effort, he looked up at Fort Max to give a clear affirmative nod.
*"That's what it looks like from here,"* Red Alert said. He painted a heads-up on Fort Max's vision, bright red lines highlighting the group of cyberhounds clustered at the door to the warehouse. *"Careful. It could be a trap. Some of these people you're rescuing are Decepticons, remember."*
His frown deepened. Yeah, Decepticons. He needed to talk with Rung about some of the things he'd been thinking about Decepticons since he found out the Scavengers had tricked him - and saved all these mechs' minds.
He tossed the last empty box up onto the stack he'd double-checked. "I'll keep that in mind, but I doubt a bunch of cyberhounds and equinoids can do more than knock me over." The dragons might cause him more trouble, but one of them was curled up as an improvised nest full of shivering, crying trauma victims. The other was one of the victims doing the shivering.
"Alright, Fido, lead on." The cyberhound laid his audios back, growling, and Fort Max checked himself. Now wasn't the time to attempt a joke, however benign. These mechs were going to be sensitive to the slightest hint of degradation for a long, long time. He put his hands up, palms open. "Sorry. What do you need to show me?"
Still growling, the cyberhound turned to trot toward his pack. The other cyberhounds milled about, waiting until Fort Max drew near before they streamed out the door, heading through the junk yard. Some of the group around Fort Max faltered on the threshold as if afraid to leave the warehouse, but most of them followed the Autobot as he strode after the pack.
They led him through mounds of junk, finding twists and turns through the maze. The place scared the Roboids, but it disgusted him. Turning a junk yard for scrap metal into a cover for a slave trade operation made a perversion of an honest living. Fortress Maximus felt his shoulders tensing up around his helm as he walked. The frown on his face creased into an intimidating scowl, which he knew because the cyberhounds ahead of him flattened to their bellies in the dirt when they finally came to a halt. Instead of a pack, they became a restless puddle of big optics. Paws scrabbled. The whole pack whined their submission at his feet.
For the sake of their battered dignity, he chose to ignore their quivering. "What? What's here?" There was a low hill of junk making a curved wall in front of him. A crude gate was set into it, nothing more than rusted bars stabbed crosswise to keep people out.
Or, he realized, to keep people in.
Slag him with a smelter. He might have just found Demus' operation center, or even just a holding pen for those destined for domesticating.
Fortress Maximus drew his sidearm and cautiously put his hand on the rough gate. "Hello? If you can hear me in there, this is the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Come out if you can. I'm here to free you." A chain clinked from inside. Peering through the gaps in the bars, he searched the gloom for signs of life, but it was too dark without the floodlights on. He hadn't been able to find Demus' control panel for the yard. "Alright, I'm going to assume that means you either can't hear me or can't come forward. I mean you no harm, but I will retaliate to any hostile gesture. Please keep your distance once I've opened the door, or I may assume you are attacking me." He pulled on the gate. It creaked. "Again, if you can hear me, this is the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. I'm here to free you."
*"Be ready to defend yourself,"* Red Alert warned, tense. *"Somebody subject to Demus' hacking might not recognize good intentions at this point, or understand anything you say. They might go straight through you trying to escape the second you open the gate."*
Fort Max lowered the power on his sidearm. He didn't want to blast a survivor into oblivion. "Don't suppose any of you can tell me how dangerous going in there will be?" he asked the pack of cyberhounds huddled at his feet.
They blinked up at him. After a moment, Fort Max took a step back as they erupted into a sniffing, snorting pool of movement around the gate. Head after head shook, audios pinned back and perking forward in turn. He took that as reassurance.
"Let's see what's behind Door #1," he muttered under his breath. Seizing the gate, he yanked. Metal screamed. The bars peeled back one by one, rust dusting off them to turn the cyberhounds red and orange.
By the time he pulled the last bar out of the way, only a deaf mech wouldn't have been able to hear what was happening. Fortress Maximus kept his sidearm at the ready as he ventured in. The clinking chain had picked up, but he didn't know if the increased noise came from multiple mechs or one, or what it meant they or he was doing. Better to be prepared for an attack than to be caught off-guard.
The cyberhounds zipped in around him, however. While he was still waiting for his optics to adjust to the dim night inside the pen, the pack had already rushed forward. "Hey!"
A dark shape, dark against dark, rose. Chains shed rust all over the pack, and a massive head bent down to the relatively tiny cyberhounds. A huge muzzle nudged their small, eager noses in grave greeting. Fort Max squinted at the large technimal, slowly making out more details. A…wolf? A really big wolf. With wings. He'd thought Predaking was big, but this mech had to be bigger than him in rootmode. That was kind of impressive. Alarming, too.
*"Max, get out of there,"* Red Alert said urgently. *"Get out of there now. That's Sixshot."*
His optics popped wide. Sixshot the Phase Sixer?! What the scrap iron pothole had Demus been thinking?
The wolf looked away from the pack wriggling at his feet and met Fort Max's wide optics. He looked at the weapon half-raised in automatic defense. Self-preservation had Fort Max frozen between defense and retreat, and any sudden move was obviously going to set the Autobot off. Fort Max couldn't even think in anything less than dramatic news headlines about his imminent messy death by Phase Sixer.
Optics rising to lock on Fort Max's again, Sixshot settled gradually to the dirt. He looked, to Fort Max, strangely weary. He made no sudden moves and actually tucked into himself as if attempting to look smaller than he was. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his head as well. His chin came to rest on his crossed paws.
Only then did Fort Max notice the chains, really notice them. Shackles around each leg hobbled together by thick, rusted chains; a collar and a muzzle bolted around neck and snout, chained to opposite sides of the pen to gigantic rings set into the ground.
*"Get out of there!"*
Fortress Maximus reset his optics, then his vox box. "Hold on," he subvocalized to Red Alert. "Can you understand me?" he said louder, to the wolf.
Who gave a distressed little whine. It was, by now, a disturbingly familiar preprogrammed sound.
Silence filled the connection to Red Alert. Fort Max didn't know what to say, either.
*"…fragging Pit,"* Red Alert said at last.
That was as good a summary of the situation as any.
[* * * * *]
"Because Gone Fishing needs a cross-over"
[* * * * *]
Technically, Sixshot didn't fall under Fortress Maximus' jurisdiction as the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Technically, the Enforcer was aligned with the Autobots only as a neutral force activated upon violation of the interfactional agreement. Technically, that meant the Enforcer was duty-bound to aid one of the most notorious killers of the entire war right here and now. Decepticon Phase Sixer and former Warrior Elite or not, Sixshot hadn't violated a single clause of the Tyrest Accord. Since the war was - again, technically - over, Fort Max couldn't even take a step back to act as an Autobot instead of the Duly Appointed Enforcer. All war crimes were conditionally pardoned by orders from Cybertron, and hadn't that been a fun conversation to have, because Starscream.
Ugh.
So. He couldn't arrest him, couldn't treat him as a criminal, couldn't even classify him as a threat. In short, Sixshot was free to go.
Fort Max was beginning to understand the weary look on Ultra Magnus' face whenever Drift came up in conversation.
To add insult to injury, he was obliged to offer help to all victims of this violation of the Accord. Sixshot undeniably needed it, although he hadn't accepted more than Fort Max's help getting the muzzle and cuffs off. The Decepticons were all rather chary about letting an Autobot take a look at them, but Sixshot was positively skittish. Fort Max's initial impression of his injuries were well above the rest of the Roboids, but the winged wolf wouldn't stay still long enough for him to get a good look. He ghosted around the edges of the warehouse, disappearing if Fortress Maximus looked in his direction too long.
That kind of vanishing act made Fort Max intensely suspicious. Having Red Alert in constant contact didn't abate his concerns.
Fortunately for his sanity, all the duty in the universe didn't dictate how he approached the Decepticons post-reversal of the domestication process. Fort Max only had to offer aid to current victims. Further crimes would reclassify the Decepticons as criminals, even if not criminals the Duly Appointed Enforcer had jurisdiction over. As an Autobot prison warden, he could act to arrest anyone who broke the terms of their pardons.
He didn't know if that was what was going on, but better safe than sorry. Fortress Maximus ducked out a side door of the warehouse into a small clearing of empty Roboid boxes. "A little bird told me you've been behaving suspiciously."
The little bird in question chirped meekly from inside.
Sixshot glanced over and cocked his head, studying Fort Max. What looked like a jointed, stubby tail hung out of his mouth. Was that a tail? Sort of a tail. Those were definitely legs. Eight multi-jointed legs hung limp on either side of the winged wolf's mouth like bizarre whiskers. Two big claws hung down below them, almost dragging on the ground. The Autobot suffered a sudden fear that he was too late. The mech looked dead.
When Sixshot huffed dismissal of the Autobot, however, the stubby tail flexed. Fins fluttered underneath, and the powerful fin on the end flared as if its owner were attempting to swim.
Fortress Maximus had his sidearm out and pointed at Sixshot's chest in a split second. "Let him go. That's an order!" he boomed, reaching for intimidation. For as much as he'd like to think he could hold his own against any Decepticon gutted and mode-locked, this was Sixshot. "We've got a situation," he subvocalized to Red Alert. "Get me an I.D. on the victim. Aquatic beast mode, eight legs, claws."
Aquatic altmodes in general were fairly rare, and the details narrowed it down quickly. Red Alert hissed through the connection as a hit came back on the search. *"Nautilator; Seacon, last seen without a head due to Whirl. I had him classified as deactivated after Temptoria."*
"Obviously not."
*"Obviously. Be careful. He's part of one the Decepticon gestalt projects. Limited combination into a combiner named Piranacon, who's known for being out of control and nearly impossible to stop."*
While Red Alert talked, Sixshot had fallen back into the slow, deliberate movements he used whenever Fort Max turned his attention on him. The exaggerated motions broadcast his lack of aggression. Except he still had another mech in his mouth, so the Autobot kept his gun aimed.
"Put him down," Fort Max ordered, pointing his free hand at the ground in stern command.
Sixshot ducked his head in a graceful motion made slightly jerky from the way the finned tail hanging out the front of his muzzle flopped vigorous protest. Claws clacked. Sixshot opened his mouth, and Nautilator spilled out into an undignified pile of flailing limbs. Dumped headfirst into the dirt, it took him a moment to reorient himself.
Sixshot kept his head down as if guarding the lobster flopping about under his chin. His optics stayed cautious on the gun pointed at him. Fort Max took a few wary steps closer, ready to help a panicked…meal?...retreat. Nautilator didn't notice him at first. Annoyed clicks snipped up at the winged wolf as the lobster grumpily waved his claws at Sixshot. He apparently hadn't enjoyed being carried around like a favored chewtoy.
Then he turned, took one look at the looming Enforcer, and skittered backward so fast he nearly ran up Sixshot's forelegs. He rear-ended into the bigger Decepticon's chest.
The sidearm didn't help the reassuring image, probably. "I'm the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord," Fort Max repeated for what had to be the thousandth time this evening. Trauma from the domestication process had left most of the Roboids a bit fried. They didn't process facts about the situation well until he'd repeated it a few times. "I freed you. I reset your programming. Vox boxes are an easy fix. A surgeon is standing by at the base for our return, and the T-cog dents keeping you in beastmode will self-repair once we reset your internal systems. I was alerted to your situation and am here to help you. Please step away from him, and I will escort you to a safer location." He beckoned with his free hand, trying to make it clear the gun was pointed at Sixshot alone.
Instead of fleeing his captor, the lobster attempted to become one with Sixshot's chest. Sixshot, strangely enough, settled down on his belly as if to make it easier for the smaller technimal. Nautilator responded by burrowing between the winged wolf's forelegs and hissing at Fort Max, claws open in defensive threat.
*"Max,"* Red Alert started, sounded thoughtful.
"Yeah," Fort Max said. He jerked his chin at the two Decepticons. "Do you two know each other?"
Sixshot snorted. Nautilator paused. After a moment of looking up at the Phase Sixer, he hissed a hesitant affirmation. It was followed by nervous claw clacking.
Fort Max wasn't sure if he trusted that. A victim could be terrified into agreement. "Any sort of link I'm missing?" he asked Red Alert.
*"Hold on. I'm not finding anything on Autopedia. There was a suspected combiner team network among the Decepticons, but its existence was never confirmed."*
"Sixshot's not a - "
*"No, but the Terrorcons' Autopedia entry is riddled with references to the way they idolize him. It's a possible connection through them. The only other connection is a rumor about a liaison between Naitilator and - oh."* Red Alert cut himself off oddly. The silence felt fragile. Fortress Maximus wasn't sure how else to describe it.
"Red?"
*"I'm going to classify that as unsubstantiated at best. Nevermind."*
He didn't like it, but he trusted Red Alert. "Alright." He snapped the safety back onto his sidearm with a loud click and straightened to glare down at the winged wolf. The only reason he could was because Sixshot was lying down, which didn't make him feel any better about saying this. "Fine. I'm going to go back inside and finish cleaning out Demus' sales files. I'm leaving my little birds to watch you." A chorus of scared cheeps came from the doorway. "They'll tell me if you do anything to him," he pointed at Nautilator. "Got it?"
Sixshot blinked at him. Nautilator crouched lower, dodging the finger pointed at him. Fort Max narrowed his optics and waited for a nod.
He got it, but the tense stand-off didn't break until Sixshot dropped his head down on top of the lobster between his paws. Nautilator hissed, shocked, and Fort Max almost lunged forward. Unconcerned by Autobot and upset lobster alike, Sixshot offlined his optics and sighed. Many-jointed legs wiggled around under his jaw, pinned down by his chin, but a second later Nautilator's claws flopped into the dirt as he seemed to resign himself to being a pillow. Disgruntled hisses accompanied the scratch and scrape of rust scratched as he shifted around to get comfortable. Sixshot tolerated the wriggling and ignored the Autobot hovering over them both.
Fortress Maximus made a mental note to call Ultra Magnus after this. He needed to talk to someone who understood what it was like to deal with this kind of slag on a daily basis.
[* * * * *]