Thundercracker's Fate
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Chapter 6: A Rude Awakening
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"So, you had this femme's frame, and you just put me into it," Thundercracker bawled.
"Yep!" beamed Wheeljack. "And it's a pretty one too."
Hoist helped the Decepticon into a sitting position. "Very pretty," he said with a hint of a sigh to his voice.
"Why? Why not just let me die?!" Thundercracker snarled.
"Because there's a lot of information locked up inside of you that we could use," Ratchet snarled back, poking at Thundercracker's new chest. "And our guys need you operational in order to hack you."
Thundercracker glared. This was bad. Whoever thought the Autobots were a bunch of do-gooders with noble motives had been swallowing their propaganda whole.
"So, once we know you've completely stabilized, we're taking you up to our security chief so he can have some fun with you," Ratchet explained.
Their security chief? The Autobot security chief? Red Alert?
Primus... Not that guy.
Thundercracker cringed. Starscream had talked all about the unstable and emotional head of security after a semi-successful attempt to seduce the mech to his private cause. He'd managed to get the beautiful glitchy thing under his command and even into his berth, and even had him orchestrate stealing the Autobots' latest weapon. But at the last moment Red Alert had panicked when cornered by both Megatron and Optimus Prime, and had destroyed the weapon rather than let it fall into either's hands.
"Ratchet, you should be the one to have a bit of fun with her first," giggled Wheeljack as he put his hands on Citrine's legs and suddenly jerked her thighs apart.
Thundercracker gasped indignantly and snapped the legs back together, noting as he did how long and slender the thighs were.
Wheeljack patted those thighs teasingly. "Hey, Ratchet's been waiting a long, long time for this," cackled the inventor.
Hoist gently pushed Wheeljack away, a bit more concerned for the poor mech. "The usage seals on the frame are all still intact, except for the main medical port ones. Had to pull those for the spark transference process," the doctor explained.
A brand new body? They'd put him into a pristine frame?
Ratchet gave a snort of amusement. "And yet after all this time I'm still not in any hurry. I can wait until after Red's done with her. I'd like to take my time and savor it once my long awaited dream finally arrives."
Thundercracker moaned. Between Red Alert's hacking and Ratchet's desires, this was going to be nothing but bad for him.
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Thundercracker spent the next several days fastened to a wall somewhere in the Ark, a multitude of cables and datalines connected to him, every one of them leeching away data and memories as the Autobots' security chief pillaged his processors and opened his memory banks.
Starscream had fondly described Red Alert as a 'wanton little slut' who could barely keep his hands off of him, but he certainly did not match that description now. The grounder, though definitely as attractive as Starscream had told them, seemed to want only to extract as much information as possible as each firewall was broken down. What Thundercracker had expected to be hours of fondling and perhaps a fragging or two or twenty were all spent with relatively little physical contact. And while Red Alert did seem a touch paranoid, he was definitely neither glitchy nor emotionally unstable. He went about his work with meticulous precision, his visage cold and unfeeling, his duty consuming him. The only time he smiled was when a large red mech named Inferno happened in, bringing him fuel and mineral goodies and admonishing him to get some rest. They had to be lovers, for the red mech would tease him about wanting to spend more time with the pretty femme attached to the wall than in his berth. And then he'd tease that perhaps Red Alert found the brig wall just as comfortable as a berth. The security officer would deny it, and even insist that Thundercracker confirm his fidelity.
On the other hand, Jazz, the head of special-ops assisting occasionally with the hacking, seemed quite eager to get his hands on more than just the information the seeker could divulge. Jazz did pay heed to the frame they'd put Thundercracker into, occasionally admiring it with his visored gaze or with probing fingers. 'Checking connections' became both a euphemism and an excuse to grope.
Ratchet would appear twice during the sidereal day to provide the captive with a small serving of energon and to check that the victim remained medically sound. Other Autobots would come to gawk at the lovely form spread against the wall and whisper to each other.
'Citrine' they called this frame. A slender femme pleasurebot for all he could tell. Devoid of an alternate mode. Devoid of any defenses. Devoid of any weaponry or anything practical. She was all looks and beauty—a thing of grace designed to be pleasing to the senses, to live the sheltered life of a pet or a concubine. She was the antithesis of war, the antithesis of Decepticon might.
All in all, it was terribly humiliating for Thundercracker. He was torn between wanting his faction to suddenly burst in and rescue him from the impending fate, and between wanting to pass away into an anonymous oblivion, lost in yet another unfortunate battle with the enemy.
But instead nothing changed. He stayed attached to the wall feeling Red Alert crawl though his being and his self-esteem failing to hold up to the treatment. Jazz groped. Skyfire looked at him with pity. The others looked at him with lust. Optimus Prime just stared, cold and unfeeling to the plight the prisoner had been subjected to.
In time, Thundercracker decided that it would be for the best if he just passed away.
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Four days after awakening permanently, Red Alert declared his work finished. Hoist came in, checked over the femme's frame and vital signs and then released her from the wall. Skyfire appeared next, swept her up into his huge arms, and Citrine was delivered back to Ratchet somewhere in the depths of the Ark.
It wasn't the medbay she was taken to but apparently the CMO's quarters, where Ratchet and Wheeljack were waiting. "Welcome back, Citrine," Ratchet said as Skyfire carried the exhausted Decepticon to some large padded bench within a sitting area at the side of the room.
The shuttle-former deposited her gracefully, helped her to sit, and knelt for a moment to look her over. "Need anything else, Ratchet?"
"Nope. Thank you, Skyfire," the CMO replied.
The jet nodded and left, at which point Ratchet came over and began examining the still trembling frame. "Welcome to your new home, Citrine," he said confidently, his fingers and optics exploring to search for damage that might have occurred during the last day of Red Alert's process. The Autobot medical staff was thorough if nothing else.
"My name is Thundercracker, and this isn't my home," came a growled response, the last vestiges of defiance rising despite the horror and humiliation of what he'd been through so far in the grasp of the enemy.
"Thundercracker is dead," Ratchet replied matter-of-factly. "Your name is Citrine. My property under Iaconian salvage law and the slavery laws of Kaon."
"I am still Thundercracker," he huffed with as much venom as he could muster.
Ratchet sighed dramatically and cupped the femme's chin in his hand. "Poor thing. Didn't you hear the news? Thundercracker was demolished in battle two weeks ago. He was shot down, stepped on by Superion, and further crushed when Menasor fell on top of him. The Decepticons saw he was dead and left him behind. You..." At this point Ratchet put his finger to Citrine's chest. "...you are Citrine, the playmate of Ratchet, chief medical officer of the Autobots. You've belonged to me since the Autobot raid on the Port of Kaon. Isn't that right, Wheeljack."
The engineer nodded. "Fine bit of booty we ended up with that day."
"You can't do this to me! It's against the laws!" came the protest.
Ratchet's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the femme harshly by the throat. "Laws? A Decepticon admonishing me about the laws?" he snarled.
Thundercracker brought up his hands and tried to free himself from the medic's strong grip but found his attempt completely futile. "You have to return me to Megatron, either in a prisoner trade or of your own good will. I've given you what you want. They hacked me. They got what I knew," he cried in Citrine's sweet, almost musical voice. It was half of the truth. Thundercracker had found he was still able to dump some of his memory, tossing most of the past two meta-cycles to the wind. The Autobots had his old memories, but they'd not get any critical information about Megatron's current plans.
"I'm not returning you to Megatron. You're mine now," Ratchet retorted, his usually non-threatening demeanor breaking down as his hand tightened its grip.
"You're hurting me," Thundercracker cried.
"Submit. Swear you'll submit."
"Let go of me! I only take orders from Lord Megatron and Starscream!"
Ratchet's grip tightened further. "Submit. Swear you'll serve me."
"I'll only serve the Decepticon cause," spat the defiant voice.
Ratchet's other hand gripped Citrine's slender neck, yanked her to the floor, and squeezed tighter.
"Whoa... Ratchet," Wheeljack choked. "Ease up a little." He could see the metal of Citrine's neckplates beginning to bend inwards where the medic held her.
Thundercracker had managed a kneeling position on the floor now, still clutching helplessly at Ratchet's arms. "You're hurting me..."
"Swear you'll serve me, or I'll rip your processors right back out of that pretty little frame I put them into and toss them right into the smelter chutes!"
Wheeljack was stunned. It had been quite a while since he'd seen Ratchet resort to such extreme measures.
"I... I will."
The medic released his prisoner, and the amber frame collapsed to the rug. "What's your name?" Ratchet demanded in a low tone.
What was left of Thundercracker glared up at him in defiance, but the perfect pink lips parted and said "Citrine."
Thundercracker stifled a sob. He'd used his slave name.
"Good! Don't forget it!" Ratchet stepped away, poured a glass of high-grade from a decanter on a side-table, and drank it quickly. "This is your new home now. Wheeljack and I share these quarters, and you are to serve both of us," he said in a much calmer tone of voice.
Citrine winced. What would the 'service' entail?
Ratchet was looking her up and down again. "You're a mess. Let's get you cleaned up next."
The CMO showed her to a small private washrack in an adjacent room, obviously retrofitted at some point after the crash of the Ark. "You can shower here, and here's a towel." He grabbed one from a stack on a shelf nearby and shoved it into her hands. "When you're done cleaning up, come out and I'll have some proper energon for you."
And to Citrine's surprise he simply turned around and left, leaving her behind with the expectation that she would wash herself. It was the first time since coming on-line that she'd been alone.
For a moment her eyes darted around the room, and found a second door, but also quickly discovered that it looked welded shut. Testing it proved so. The vents in the ceiling were far too small to climb into, and the floor was more or less a solid sheet broken only by the drain beneath the showerhead and the drain beneath the sink area. She sighed. Even if she did manage to get out of the room, there was still the Ark to escape. And even if she managed to escape it, how would she return to the Nemesis. On foot? She'd found absolutely nothing regarding an alt-mode. The only form of added mobility this frame seemed to possess were a pair of 'stepladder' anti-gravity units in the heels. Those were great for getting things down off upper shelves or for embracing a larger mech. But they'd certainly not get her back to Decepticon territory.
She found that she did have a communications radio, but discovered it locked to all but three frequencies. One was labeled 'Ratchet' and one was labeled 'Wheeljack.' The third was labeled 'general emergency.' Looking at the specific data, she found it to be the general Autobot distress frequency.
Sighing, she slumped to the floor. She could trash the washroom, but what good would it do but to vent a bit of anger. And such would probably bring consequences from the temperamental medic. And then they'd probably make her clean it up afterwards. There was no way she could overpower either of them, and then there would still be the rest of the Ark to navigate without being caught. Nothing in the small room would do for a weapon.
Admitting defeat she rose, turned on the water, and began to shower. At least she'd feel a bit better once the dirt and transfluid smears had been washed away.
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After showering, drying off, and giving her plating a quick waxing Citrine walked timidly back into Ratchet's quarters. While still a prisoner, she did feel a bit better. Of course most anything was better than being attached to the wall of the brig while the security officer violated her processors.
And instead of glaring, the CMO was smiling at her from the table where he sat with the mad engineer. "Ah, Citrine, come join us."
Wheeljack even stood and pulled out the third chair that had been placed for her. "You look lovely," he complimented her.
"Thank you," she responded bitterly, glaring at her keepers.
Ratchet let the comment slide and she sat down with the others, where a cube of energon waited for her. But as she picked it up, Ratchet snapped his hand onto the top of it. "Give thanks to Primus first," he said in a sickeningly sweet tone.
Citrine glared. Primus had not delivered this cube. The humans probably had. "I don't pray to Primus."
"You do now. Say the prayer of thanksgiving, and you can't tell me that you don't know it."
Citrine was too hungry to argue. She placed her hands against her chest and leaned forward in a little bow. "All thanks be to Primus for bestowing his light upon us and giving us the blessings of his creations. We praise him for sustaining our sparks and frames with the benevolence of his will. May peace be ours."
Ratchet smiled again. "Very good. You may drink now."
Thankfully neither of the Autobots interfered with her fueling, but when she finished Ratchet rose. "It's our time to recharge now. I need a regular six cycles each night, and you will help me see to it that I get it."
"What?!" Citrine squawked.
"You heard me. I know those audials work perfectly well."
"This way, Citrine," Wheeljack chuckled, opening a door that had so far remained ignored, and Ratchet herded her through it.
Beyond the door was a berthroom, neither large nor luxurious, occupied only by a large berth and a row of storage closets. There were two pillows and two spread-open thermal blankets on the bed.
"I'm not recharging with you!" Citrine protested.
"Yes you are. I don't like sleeping alone, so get in."
She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. "I'll sleep on the floor."
The medic leveled his gaze at her. "Citrine, now. It's time to recharge."
"Never!" she hissed. Maybe he owned her frame and had become his slave, but she wasn't about to let him frag her.
"In! Now!"
This time when Citrine hesitated, Ratchet slapped her rump and shoved her in the right direction. "Get in!" he demanded.
The mad engineer came up behind her, placing one hand onto her shoulder. "Please Citrine," he pleaded. "Do as he asks. It will make things a lot easier in the long run."
She looked at Wheeljack and shook her head again. "Never!"
"Citrine. Please. I know you've had a rough time here. But it will get easier from now on."
She huffed. "Then you sleep with him!"
Ratchet had meanwhile pulled back the covers and lain himself on the far side of the thick padding.
"Fine," sighed Wheeljack. And with that he simply swept her off her feet and placed her onto the berth.
Citrine struggled, but both mechs held onto her. This was it. Ratchet was going to rape her while Wheeljack held her down. There was nothing she could do now. She ceased her struggle and lay still, tears beginning to form in her optics.
She'd given herself a thorough examination in the washrack and had found that the dark green doctor had not lied to her. Her valve was still factory sealed. Thundercracker had lost his inner seals so long ago that she couldn't even remember what it had been like to have them in the first place, so it shouldn't have meant anything. But now she felt a curious attachment to the unbroken, untouched state of this frame, as if that intactness were something to guard.
Wheeljack pulled the blanket up over her and checked the placement of the pillow beneath Citrine's head. "Goodnight you two. And Citrine, things will seem a lot better once you've gotten some rest."
"He's right. You'll feel better in the morning. Set your alarm for 0700 local time," instructed the medic. "That's when we're getting up."
Wheeljack reached down to stroke her forehead, and she could swear he was smiling beneath that ugly mask of his. "Goodnight you two." He moved for the door, but then paused in the jamb. "Hey Ratch... So nice to see you've finally got your Madame Ratchet," he grinned. "Comm' me if you need me. I'm just in the next room."
Wheeljack departed as Ratchet settled in against Citrine. "Goodnight, darling. Our first night together," he said quietly as his arm encircled her waist. "Tomorrow we'll start getting you trained on what we want done around here."
The lights in the room suddenly switched off, all except a small lamp upon a counter to the side, which appeared to be a glowing orangey-pink rock of some sort.
The medic shuffled again and pressed his lips to the side of Citrine's helm with a tender kiss. "Goodnight Mrs. Ratchet," he said. Moments later his systems all shifted their rhythms as he dropped into recharge.
Citrine stilled, shocked at what had just happened.
That was it? He wasn't going to force himself upon her? He wasn't even going to grope her frame? And now he was just lying there so innocently asleep with his arm over her?
Citrine's mind raced again. How could the Autobot allow himself to be so vulnerable? And how could he trust her not to kill him in the night?
She could escape now. The door was just at the foot of the bed. The room beyond led to the corridor outside. From there she could...
No. She couldn't escape. There were too many mechs out there. Too many cameras. Too many passages. And if she even managed to escape the Ark, how would she get back to the Nemesis? There were no jets. There was no alt-mode.
She felt... handicapped—trapped by the frame Thundercracker had been put into.
With a sigh, she offlined her optics. The nutcase had been right. She would feel better after she'd gotten some rest. There would be tomorrow to start planning an escape.
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"Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 7: "The Dinobots"
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Transformers and all related concepts, characters, worlds, and events are property of Hasbro and Takara Tomy. Original characters and story elements are property of E. Potter, writing under the pen name of Miratete.
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