They'd taken him to the brig.
'Of course they did.' Mused Jetfire.
Megatron had decided he was Shockwave's responsibility and so he'd been thrown down to fester within the New Kaon dungeons.
He wasn't complaining. Staying under the watchful eye of Shockwave was mostly likely within his best interests; and he was happy to be away from The Nemesis - from Soundwave and the untrustworthy likes of Knock Out.
But at the moment Jetfire was a prisoner, and would likely remain that way for megacycles.
He was filthy Autobot-scum, after all.
The absurd insults Decepticons slung his way just for wearing a red symbol upon his wing tips amused him to no end.
If he wore purple-brands, what would the Autobots call him? He'd always wondered.
Jetfire didn't mind as much as he thought he would - being imprisoned.
His new cell was generous with its space in comparison to his other cages, with a berth designed to account for his heavy upgrades. Since his transformation in the arena, during his fighting with Soundwave and the mystery beast, Jetfire hadn't felt the need to shift back into his scrawnier mechling form. His armor wasn't an adult-frame by any means; but, something new entirely - like some twisted compromise on Shockwave's behalf.
The Autobots would call it an abomination.
Shockwave was an avid recycler; he never let any spare material go unused in a project, if he could find a place for it - no matter how gruesome or tame.
And such habit had never been so apparent to Jetfire, until he examined his new frame.
It meant Jetfire had an extra layer of metal randomly welded atop a fingertip.
And an extra set of empty energon-lines running across one of his legs - to be used as an unconventional medkit in the advent of a bleed.
His armor was littered with little cracks and crevices which didn't line up - welds ran perpendicular to each other, as if the metal had been crudely pinched together from different bodies.
Different mechs.
No doubt Jetfire's new armor was a carapace fashioned from pieces of the dead.
He recognized a vehicon backstrut sticking out from one of his shoulder-plates. He fiddled the tip with a claw, almost bending the metal clean off.
His expression was a bland mixture of disgust and intrigue.
'Good ol' Shockwave and his gifts.' Jetfire grimaced.
"Well, nothing I can do about it now." He said out loud, and it got him to thinking...
What did he want?
'To get out of here, obviously.'
He'd be happy to just get out of his cage.
He wasn't the type of mech to desire much beyond a little more leg room.
As long as he had shelter, energon, and wasn't in disrepair, Jetfire was happy.
He appreciated that he could survive.
That he could simply exist in the situation he was in.
But there was one thing missing.
One unbearable itch he couldn't get at.
He was lonely.
He wanted to see his brothers again, but that couldn't happen so long as he was locked up.
His first instinct was to plot and to scheme to get out of his cage, like any sane mech would.
But idly, he wondered what the Decepticons wanted with him.
They hadn't killed him.
'To turn me into a weapon, obviously.' It was a sound conclusion. Jetfire's recalled Megatron's words from the arena. "Behold, the weapons of New Kaon!"
What a joke.
The only other thing of interest in his dungeon cell besides his berth, was a conspicuous cube of green energon.
It looked...rancid.
"Shockwave, what is this?" he muttered, half hoping the mech would surprise him by peering into his cage again. But Jetfire was alone as he nervously sloshed the contents of the cube back and forth.
It looked like fuel.
It also didn't look edible.
Against his better judgement, he took a sip. As soon as the substance hit his taste receptors, he unceremoniously set the cube down.
"Well, I won't be doing that again." He said plainly.
The sound of his voice caught the attention of something besides the back wall of his cell.
Something large, which moved like it'd rusted.
'Oh, it's the arena beast.'
Jetfire peered through a hole in the wall, a small wedge messily cut into a square - as if to allow prisoners the luxury of viewing and speaking with each other.
That was odd.
Not even Autobots allowed such fraternization.
Jetfire shook his head, again concluding such hacksaw work was Shockwave's doing. While Shockwave considered himself an undisputed genius, an artist he was not. He favored form over function, and the cut of the square hole was littered with jagged edges as if it had been caressed open by claws.
Jetfire watched the beast through the peephole. It had yet to notice him, seemly stretching his spines and plating as it rose from a deep recharge session.
"Hello there." The beast eyed him curiously. Did it understand his words?
"Are you getting enough to eat?" The beast cocked its head as Jetfire held the energon cube in front of him, filling the peep hole's view with the rancid fuel.
Whether it was the smell or color that attracted the beast, it darted towards the opening. Using it's bottom-jaw fangs, it punctured the cube and began to gingerly lick at the rancid nectar. It hummed in approval at the taste of rotted meat, and it knelt down on it's front servos, suckling the glass akin to a nursing kitten.
Throughout the entire exchange, Jetfire was apathetic, watching as the contents of the cube siphoned away, somewhat relieved he didn't have to drink it himself.
No doubt Shockwave had cameras slotted around the room, and would know he'd fed his ration to the predacon; but Jetfire wasn't about to drink something so fowl if he didn't have to. Shockwave would have to force the disgusting sludge down his throat...
"Well, it's all gone now." Jetfire smiled firmly, feeling his needle-teeth tease lightly against the flesh of his mouth. "Was it poisoned?" he asked, his tone just a touch sadistic and unkind.
Jetfire wasn't a cruel bot, no, but he was despairingly curious. Would the beast flop over dead, frothing at the mouth? Would it go wild with a berserker's rage, until it fell into involuntary stasis-lock?
He needed to know if the green energon was safe to drink. Obviously, the rancid taste belayed a malicious motive - the liquid no doubt drugged in some manner.
Jetfire didn't believe drinking such energon would've been healthy for him.
It hadn't tasted like Ratchet's vitamin-mixtures, the thick golden energon Jetfire was currently craving - that sweet honey, soft and fluffy upon the tongue.
Jetfire watched the predacon keenly, watching it for any sign of malfunction or disrepair. If Shockwave scolded him for wasting his ration, he'd demand better - normal low-grade blue he could trust. If the predacon dropped dead, he'd use the opportunity to ask Shockwave for an explanation. Was Shockwave trying to kill him? he'd ask.
He crouched contentedly in a corner, watching the time tick by.
The predacon hadn't dropped dead.
It had simply curled around itself, after lulling itself into recharge. Jetfire could only feel disappointment, having watching for joors for poisoning, yet there had been no discernable pay off for his efforts.
He was furious; though his anger did not show. It stayed pinned beneath his plating, like the slow-simmer of a kettle.
'What a waste of time.' He thought. He was imprisoned - the highlight of his punishment was growing unbearable.
Jetfire was a bot not meant for enclosed spaces, wanting more than ever to brush his wing tips across the warm air of an afternoon flight. He wanted to be free, busy doing a job or an activity which could hold his attention.
He was going stir-crazy, mad in his cage.
The arena fights had been a delightful reprieve, and he'd tell Shockwave as much, the first chance he got.
He wanted to fight.
He was good at fighting.
Playing the act of a Decepticon prisoner had long grown boring; even playing as an Autobot recruit had long lost its novelty, and Jetfire had to reconsider what he was doing, stationed on planet Earth.
'I think I'll just leave.' He shrugged, noncommittally. 'The first chance I get, I'll go back to Vox. It's boring here.'
He was homesick, he had to admit.
It stung a little to think his little venture on Earth, an alien planet, would amount to nothing.
'Not like I'd be missed. Not like I ever did an important job - at the Autobot-base.' Jetfire sneered. He hated being a mechling.
Nobody ever trusted that he knew what he was doing.
At the Autobots he'd wanted to prove himself, to become a medic.
But when he'd requested training, Ratchet had looked at him as if he was crazy.
As if he was inexperienced and didn't know what he was asking.
To Ratchet, he was a mechling.
Just a mechling.
He was.
Not worthy of training.
Exhausted by his useless thoughts, Jetfire dragged himself from the berth he had grown miserable upon, musing his time away. He again looked into the peep hole, the predacon alive and fast asleep.
'Perfect.' He darkly thought.
He wanted out of his cage, off of planet earth.
He could only think of one scheme to accomplish such matters as quickly as possible.
He would eat the predacon.
It was a mad idea - not one rooted in reason and diplomacy - but Jetfire's sparkeater coding demanded a spark-chamber - and the mechling, weighted down by his heavy upgrades, was in no position to shake off his temptations.
Shockwave would feed him.
Eventually.
But not soon enough.
Shockwave would bring him to the brink of starvation, before bringing him a spark-chamber.
This he knew, and Jetfire held out a servo without hesitation. Only two claws could fit through the peep hole, his upgrades made his hand huge and cumbersome.
But two claws were enough to tempt his prize closer. Using the uncanny ability of his spark-power, green energy snaked along his claws - his sparkeater telekinesis activated, peeling off his servo with a satisfying, vibrating hum. The unsuspecting predacon was pulled closer to the hole, much too heavy to lift with only two claws.
Inch by inch.
Twitch by twitch.
Of jingling, peeling scales.
Eventually the predacon was in a spot Jetfire could reach him, just below glass and smears of green. Jetfire couldn't do much else with only two claws - couldn't even grasp the throat of his unsuspecting victim to suckle dry. Typically, a sparkeater wrestled a victim's brain out of their skull - then the paralyzed, traumatized husk could do little as the spark-chamber was consumed...
But Jetfire was impatient, and unwilling to try anything radical.
He wanted out of his cage.
And what better way to grab Shockwave's attention, then to harass one of his creations, if what Megatron said in the arena was true.
With little tact, Jetfire stabbed his claws into the leg thigh of the predacon, holding it for a nanoclick or two before the beast woke up, yowling in agony.
Unceremoniously, the beast peeled away into a corner and a hefty chunk of meat was left glued between claw tips, dripping delicious purple-blue. Smiling, Jetfire began to nibble his prize, chewing the meat slowly with his sparkeater mandibles, akin to a well-fed insecticon - not ravenous enough with hunger to consume the flesh in one single gulp.
But the delectable piece was gone too quickly.
Jetfire's instincts activated automatically, and his two claws returned to the hole, twitching to will the predacon closer.
But it wasn't enough.
The humming was too weak.
He could do little when the beast was awake.
His claws gouged a widening cut into the metal.
Testing the strength of his upgraded-frame.
He was bored out of his mind.
He would carve up the predacon.
It would be a good use of his time.