Vengeance

Summary: Broken, beaten, defiled... Living, let alone moving on, from this point is a challenge not many are strong enough to accomplish. Dark fic; Rape, Language, Mech/Mech
Rating: M

Chapter 1



C.M.D: As the idea for Matters of Consternation came to mind, so did this, and thus I began writing both fics at the same time, though one finished before the other. While MoC was a look into madness and the destruction of one individual, Vengeance became a chance for me to analyze, evaluate and even understand how people respond differently to trauma and how they move past it... or not.
I am sad that this fic was removed from FF.net, though I understand that it is too big a topic for most young readers, but I am greatly proud of this story all the same; thus I share it with all of you again and hope that you may like it as well come the end.
Originally posted September 14, 2011

It had been unexpected.....

Two Autobot captives sat bound in their cage; helms and optics turned to the floor lowly. There was no hope to be found in them, no desire for redemption. Never before had they thought that they, out of all their comrades, would be in this situation: chained, beaten and at the mercy of their Decepticon enemies. Would the others come for them, was a thought they dared not even prospect. The chances of a rescue too dismal to even contemplate at this moment.

The darkness that encompassed them split -light spilled forth from the hallway beyond as the doors to the brig were opened, two large forms entering. Their hulking masses blocked out details, but it could only have been the Autobots' jailers, for their admittance to this dank place had been not that long ago for any rescue efforts to have been organized. This fact was confirmed barely an astrosecond later, when the two large mechs revealed themselves to be Mixmaster and Longhaul. The Decepticons seemed positively mirthful as they dragged a half-conscious Ratchet back towards the cell.

The other two prisoners did not even bother to try and make a break for freedom once the energon bars had dissipated; far too weak and damaged to stand, let alone rush these hulking enemies. The moment passed anyway, as Ratchet was thrown into the cell, the bars coming back online with a nasty spit of static. “See you later, lil' medibot,” Longhaul commented cruelly, Mixmaster cackling at his words. “We'll have a good ol' time, again, won't we?”

Finally, the two contructicons turned and left the brig; shutting the doors behind them and leaving everything in darkness again. Optics adjusting, the other prisoners turned their full attention to the medic, who was struggling to push himself into a sitting position; arms cinched tightly behind his back from a pair of stasis cuffs. It was not hard to see the traces of viscous fluid and ragged scuff marks that covered almost every inch of the ambulance, especially along the glass of his chest plates and cheeks.

“R-ratchet, i-is....,” Perceptor choked, unable to complete his sentence.

Tracks glanced over the CMO's entire frame again, before respectfully turning his optics away from the sight. “They did, didn't they?,” the corvette asked, voicing the fears that he and the scientist had been speculating earlier. Ratchet did not reply. Perceptor strangled a fearful quail at the silent confirmation, turning his helm away from his comrades; unable to cover his audio receptors but desperately wishing he could. Tracks merely sighed, tilting his head back and offlining his optics. “I knew it.....,” he whispered dully.

“Just go with it,” Ratchet spoke up eventually. The medic's vocalizer was rough and laced with static, no doubt from the abuse it had just been subject too. “Put your processor into another state; offline your optics and turn off your audios. The more complacent you are, the faster it's over with.”

“Nononononononononononononononononononononono,” Perceptor was mumbling in one continuous stream from his corner of their cell. The scientist was shaking his head wildly, as if denying this entire thing could somehow save them from it all. The others, out of consideration did not bother to break him from his useless mantra, already hearing the oncoming sobs in the smaller mech's vocalizer.

Ratchet eased himself upright, ignoring the dirt and grime he could feel over every inch of his chassis. His fuel tanks roiled chaotically, demanding that he purge, but he forced the feeling back, knowing that it would do him no good if he shot excrement all over the floor. Besides, he would need whatever energy was still in his systems for later..... who knew when the Decepticons might decide to feed their prisoners. The important thing to do now anyway, was to survive.

Everything else, he knew, could come afterwards.

If you didn't pull through to then.... than all of this would make little difference in the end.

Lifting his optics, Ratchet studied each of his cell mates, lip components twisting into a frown when he finally realized that one comrade was missing. He squinted, increasing his visual input, but it only confirmed that there was three of them sitting in the brig now. “.....Where's Mirage?,” the medic asked, turning to the only 'bot who could give him any answers. Perceptor had yet to break from his terrified babbling.

Tracks slowly onlined his optics again, staring up at the ceiling. The words he offered next made Ratchet's spark almost wither in its spark chamber; a cold, slimy feeling overcoming the CMO. “Vortex took him shortly after you were...... we've heard nothing since.”

xxXxXxx

Mirage still had yet to be returned.

The constructicons came on a couple more occasions to recollect Ratchet, bringing the medic back even more filthier and de-energized as before. The fragging glitches didn't even have the decency to clean their 'toy' after playing with it. The cycles passed, slowly stretching into orns; each one feeling as if an eternity were going by with every scared, hopeless astrosecond. Still, there was no sign of a rescue party or their M.I.A comrade. Perceptor remained mostly ignored, crying silently from time to time in his little corner of their cell. The introverted scientist completely clammed up in his terror, and Tracks and Ratchet were too exhausted to pull him out of it. His silence was like a cloak at the moment, keeping him safe from any other Decepticons that decided to peruse the brig that cycle.

Tracks was eventually moved as well, being dragged along by an over zealous Motormaster, who had just returned from a mission recently with the rest of his gestalt. The situation had been as the corvette had assumed when Ratchet was first returned to them: a lot of grasping, clawing servos and a torrent of pain that flooded and encased him; resulting in practically a new repaint of pale magenta at the end of it. His disgust could barely compare to the position he was forced into; shame not even comprehensible. But Tracks did the only thing he could do -he bore through it all, forcing his processor from the action as it took place, reminding himself over and over again that he had to survive this. That he had to be stronger than the Decepticons; that he was not going to be offlined like this.

Warning signs flashing before his optics, the multi-coloured Autobot was returned to the brig; left just as damaged and dirty as Ratchet, until another Decepticon decided they had a use for him.

Then the cycle repeated itself.

xxXxXxx

Evil, wild chuckling was prelude to the Decepticon's entry.

Tracks barely lifted his helm, glancing at the helicopter that strutted into the room, the squeal of dragging metal behind him. “Hello, slag-eaters,” Vortex sneered. The copter leaned in close to the bars, going so far as to actually rest a servo on the glowing cylinder. Energy crackled immediately and there was the acrid scent of searing metal as the Decepticon's servo began to burn, yet the grey mech refused to move his servo. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the pain it caused him. Tracks curled his upper lip component at the sight, making Vortex cackle.

“Don't be such a prude,” the helicopter giggled madly. “There's nothing like a little burn to excite the circuits.”

“But, I suppose that's something to show you for another orn,” Vortex continued, removing his servo and punching in the security code for their cell. The bars had barely disappeared before the Decepticon was tossing the unconscious Mirage into the tiny chamber with them. The sight of their missing comrade prompted a reaction out of Perceptor, who turned away from his corner and shuffled slowly toward the fallen spy.

“Mirage?,” the scientist whispered worriedly. “Mirage?!”

Vortex cocked his helm at the crawling microscope, a twisted grin curling his lip components. “Now, now,” he said, reaching down and grabbing Perceptor. “You can cry over your little friend later. Right now, you've got an appointment with Lord Megatron.”

The red Autobot gave a squeak of fright, before he thrashed wildly in the Decepticon's hold. “Noooo!,” he screamed. “Let me go! Let me go!!”

“Leave him alone!,” Tracks croaked, trying to rise to his pedes. His servos were still bound behind his back, and without any fresh energon in his systems, he lacked the strength necessary for the simple action of standing. Vortex laughed at his efforts, kicking the corvette back down onto his aft.

“Sit down!,” he crowed. “You'll get your turn eventually.” Hefting the scientist up higher, the helicopter tossed Perceptor over one shoulder, walking from the cell. He paused only for a second, to turn the energon bars back on, before he headed for the brig door; laughing the entire way.

Tracks watched helplessly as Perceptor was taken from sight; the microscope crying and pleading to be  placed back into his cell. The door closed again on the multi-coloured Autobot, leaving him alone in the dark brig with only an unconscious Mirage to keep him company.

xxXxXxx

“The Autobots' genius scientist; Perceptor. Welcome.” Megatron smirked from his throne, red optics staring down at the quaking microscope. “I think it's been some time since your last visit. I had thought you might have been deactivated then from your contamination with the cosmic rust, but yet again you Autobots prove to be extremely resourceful nuisances. No doubt that intelligent processor of yours was able to save you and your comrades.”

Megatron's praise, for that's what his words sounded like, felt dirty. Perceptor shivered at the tyrant's gravelly tone, turning his helm to the floor. It took all his control not to break out into whimpers and to stand at all in the gun-former's presence; to look up at the malevolent Warlord required too much bravery from the scientist. Bravery, that he did not have. “Y-you must be confusing me w-with someone else,” Perceptor mumbled back. “I-it was W-wheeljack's invention that saved u-us.”

There was a rumble of mocking laughter. The Autobot glanced upwards, seeing the attention of the entire throne room on him. Granted, the audience present only consisted of Starscream, his trine and Soundwave, but it was still enough to make the shorter mech tremble in terror. Would they do to him what they had done so far to the others? Or would it be worse?

“Nonsense,” Megatron replied. “It was your corro-stop formula that was what saved you all from extinction. Wheeljack's inventions aren't nearly as useful without your input. A processor like that would be most beneficial to our cause....”

It took nearly a full klik for the microscope to comprehend what the Decepticon Leader was implying. When he realized what Megatron meant, Perceptor back-pedalled in horror; servos rising to his face. “N-no! No, I could never join you!,” the scientist protested. He continued to scurry backwards, but Soundwave cut off his retreat. The seekers laughed at the scientist's foolish action, but Megatron was anything other than amused.

Rising to his pedes, the Warlord stepped down from his podium, approaching the Autobot. “An unwise decision,” he said. Silence fell at his words, eager optics waiting to see what would become of the microscope. Soundwave stepped back at Megatron's gesture, allowing the tyrant to start a slow, predatory rotation around the frightened Perceptor.

Perceptor stared wide-opticed as the Decepticon circled him; coolant collecting in the corners of his optics. He was so scared, he was trembling again, his plating clanging together loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

They did not comment on the sound though, watching quietly still as Megatron walked around the microscope. “You will join me,” the gun-former hissed, leaning in unreasonably close to the scientist. A  large, black servo stroked down condensed-slicked back struts. “Before or after I release you to the rest of the wolves. It all depends on your response.”

Perceptor flinched at the personal touch, wanting nothing more than to run away from it. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, gaze locked with that of a suddenly lustful one of Megatron. “I-i-i-i..... I couldn't; I won't,” the Autobot choked. “I-i-i'll never be y-your soldier.”

A snarl was quick to come to the grey mech's lip components. “So be it! Skywarp, Thundercracker, Starscream: this scrapheap is yours to do with as you wish.”

“N-noo!,” Perceptor yelled, spinning around as the seekers were dismissed. Before he could get far, Starscream lifted a null-ray, shooting the scientist square in the back. Perceptor fell to the floor; still online, but unable to move. He watched with growing horror, as Skywarp and Thundercracker closed in on him, two cruel, dark smiles twisting their features.

xxXxXxx

Starscream pushed and shoved the swaying Perceptor forwards, null-ray pressed tightly to the back of the scientist's helm. Mumbled threats and spat curses left the Air Commander's lip components as he led his prisoner onwards, back to the brig that he had first come from. Anyone looking might have thought the seeker's actions were excessive.... To Starscream they were anything but.

How dare he -this weak, pitiful glitch- incur Megatron's lust and attentions?! He was unworthy of such things! Starscream couldn't say if it was because of disgust or jealousy that brought such vehemency out of him, but it left a black, cold weight in the jet's chassis that burned intensely within him. It was a feeling that could only be satisfied by seeing the scientist suffer horribly. Already, Perceptor had been put through a string of rough interfaces; his inner circuitry ripped and shorted out from the brutal assault. That he could still walk was astounding in itself.... but Starscream was hardly finished with the microscope. He still had other plans in mind for the Autobot, later on.

“Get in here, you fool!,” the SIC screeched, punching the code for the brig door open a little too roughly, and giving Perceptor a nasty shove into the dark room.

The red mech made a small whimper as he fell to the floor, chin hitting the metal surface hard. “Pathetic.....,” Starscream spat, reaching down and grasping the scientist by the back of his neck.

“Leave him alone!,” came a growl from the cell up ahead.

The seeker sneered at the winged Autobot, dragging Perceptor forward. “And just what will you do about it?,” he asked condescendingly. Tracks did not answer, gritting his denta angrily, while Ratchet struggled to focus on the quiet microscope.

“What have you done to him?!,” Ratchet this time croaked. His vocalizer seemed to have been damaged permanently now from repeated abuse. Proper medical attention might have fixed it, but that was as useless to hope for in their precarious situation. Both Autobots turned their attention to Perceptor, taking in the scientist's scuffed and dirtied chassis, all the way to his dim and unfocused optics.

“This....,” Starscream hissed, lifting the red Autobot higher, “little glitch hardly got what's coming to him. He deserves something more, something like.... this!!”

The SIC thrust his arm forward, shoving the microscope into the energon bars; pressing hard on the smaller mech as he suddenly bucked and screamed in agony, attempting to get away from the dangerous electricity jolting through his systems and causing them to short-circuit with raw pain. Tracks and Ratchet rolled in their cell helplessly, still bound and weakened. They shouted over Perceptor's high-pitched cries of torment, demanding their friend be released and spewing a series of different curses to the Decepticon.

Starscream only chuckled mirthlessly, finally disabling the energon bars and letting Perceptor fall into the open cell. He turned the bars back on, laughing harder as the conscious Autobots immediately shuffled for their unresponsive comrade. Tracks turned away from the scientist, glaring unadulterated fury at the seeker.

“You'll pay for this, you fragger,” he growled lowly, crooked wings hitching with the power of his statement.

“You think so, huh?,” Starscream sneered. “You know what, I don't think I've had enough fun yet. I think I'll take you out for a whirl!!” The SIC deactivated the cell door again, shooting two null-ray blasts into the cramped chamber and immobilizing both Autobots. Snickering still, he swaggered inside, pulled Tracks up by a vicious tug on his wing, shoving the corvette out by gun point. The other mech swayed dangerously on his pedes, the combination of lack of energy and the effects of the null-ray disrupting his equilibrium.

“C'mon, Autobrat,” the seeker laughed. “You can play with your 'friends' later. Right now, you and me are gonna go play a 'game'.”

Starscream made sure that the cell bars were back in place before he marched Tracks out of the brig, null-ray still lifted to the other's helm. “You disgusting, virus-ridden, malfunctioning, piece of-”

“Watch it!,” the Decepticon hissed, jabbing Tracks with the null-ray sharply. “I'm not about to tolerate your insults, worm.”

“No, but you'll take Megatron's any day, right?,” Tracks snipped back heatedly.

The SIC's optics flashed a bright red right before he swung his arm around, slamming it into the side of the corvette's helm. Tracks crashed into the adjacent wall, sliding to the floor disorientated. Intakes faltering, the Autobot looked up at the Air Commander, a twisted grin marring his bloody lip components. “What?,” Tracks poked dangerously. “Am I too close to the truth or something? Sick, little demented 'Screamer has a thing for his incompetent Leader?”

Starscream clenched his servos tightly, denta bared like a feral animal. “You will regret mocking me, Autoscum!,” he released in a low, deadly hiss. He lifted both null-rays, increasing the output setting until it was at critical level -enough to kill a 'bot. “No one makes fun of Starscream and gets away with it!!”

“Starscream: disengage!”

The third voice startled the seeker, causing his shot to veer widely to the side as he fired. Cursing colourfully, the SIC turned to Soundwave, glaring at the intruding mech. “What do you want?!,” Starscream screeched. “Can't you see I'm busy?!”

Soundwave merely tipped his helm forward slightly. “Fact: Megatron does not want prisoners offlined. Actions: opposite of command.”

The seeker spat at the communication officer's words, lifting his null-rays again. “Lord Megatron's orders are for weak, pathetic Autobots like this one! What does it matter if I blast the spark out of one?”

The telepath's visor dimmed as, suddenly, Starscream was slammed with an invisible force. Screeching in distress, the winged Decepticon grabbed his helm; trying to fight back against Soundwave's brutal, mental ramming force.

“Order: Leave premises,” the blue mech intoned, even as he continued his relentless assault. Starscream slammed into the opposite wall, screaming again as Soundwave drove another mental spike through his firewalls. Struggling to glare, the SIC spared the telepath a final glance before he turned and fled down the other end of the hall; running from the beating strength that threatened to tear his processor to slag.

Tracks did not even bother to move as Soundwave approached him, lifting his optics to look up at the Decepticon. Noticing that familiar gleam in the communication officer's visor, the corvette slowly shuttered his optics; raising his bound servos for the tapedeck to grab. “To your quarters, I assume?,” the Autobot mumbled dully, already resigned to this predictable end.

Soundwave said nothing, only hoisted Tracks to his pedes, and guided the multi-coloured mech down the hall.

xxXxXxx

A choked cry of ecstasy tore itself from Tracks' vocalizer.

The corvette slumped onto the berth, circuits still tingling from the rush zinging across his sensory net. The pleasure had been so good, too good, after all that pain and torment from before. His valve clamped hungrily, damaged wings fluttering desperately, automatically seeking it out again. The Autobot wanted to grasp that bliss, wrap himself up tight in it and erase everything else from his memory banks. It was only with the cold, sickening feeling of dread did Tracks online his optics, recalling firmly that it was a Decepticon that had just interfaced with him.

A Decepticon that had brought him to the throes of pure passion, overloading into bittersweet oblivion.

More specifically, Soundwave.

Fans whirled in the silence between the two mechs, beginning to revolve in slower rotations as their spent systems started to cool down again; Soundwave finally pulling his spike from the Autobot's valve with a muffled groan. The communications officer must not have interfaced in quite some time.... His transfluid was thick and sticky, coating the corvette's passage warmly. It also could explain why the blue mech overloaded so quickly, though it gave no reason for the care the Decepticon had given his captive while he raped him.

Yes, Tracks thought coldly to himself, even without the stasis cuffs on, this was rape and he should not let himself be confused by how considerate Soundwave had been to him.

Too low on energy to move on his own accord, Tracks continued to lay there on the berth, waiting for the Decepticon to make his next move for him. As the telepath moved about the room, the multi-coloured mech let his dim optics study his surroundings. They were fairly large quarters for a third in command, but with the room as sparse it was, it only increased the emptiness, making it seem even bigger. There was a desk full of datapads, and a smaller work area, cluttered and set at about minibot height; suitable for Soundwave's creations. Otherwise though, the room was empty apart from the berth that he laid on now -perfectly suitable for the detached communications officer.

Tracks was distracted from the rest of his thoughts by the glow of an energon cube. Stunned optics focused on the servo that held the item before his faceplates, looking up at Soundwave with the same amount of perplexity and shock. The Decepticon did not say anything though, but proceeded to tip the cube's contents into the Autobot's lax mouth. The corvette thrashed at the first dribble, certain that the telepath had tampered with the energon in some manner. But his actions only forced Soundwave to grab his helm, none too gently one might add, and force the rest down past Tracks' spluttering. Perhaps about a quarter of the energon actually made it into Tracks' systems.... the rest, fell to either the berth or  onto his chassis. That little bit of fuel though was enough to bring some life back into the corvette's frame -and to highlight the areas of his structure that were extremely strained and aching.

Gasping at the fresh wave of pain, muted by the pleasant interface he had just been forced into, Tracks didn't notice Soundwave leaving him until the mech next returned: solvent and rag in hand. Without even a comment or wandering grope, the Decepticon began to clean the Autobot; wiping away all trace of crusted fluids, both energon and not. Tracks stilled at the unexpected motion, still not trusting the telepath but too wary to mount some sort of retaliation. As far as he could tell, there was no harm thus far in what Soundwave was doing.

“....get away from me,” the corvette eventually growled, unable to take either the quiet or the tapedeck's irregular touch anymore.

The red visor looked up at him, before Soundwave surprisingly withdrew. Placing both rag and cleaner onto the floor, the blue mech gathered the stasis cuffs once more; clipping them about Tracks' wrists. The Autobot said nothing to this..... The return of the cuffs could only mean one thing: he was being returned to the brig. And that thought, though as terrifying and depressing as it was, was a much better prospect then remaining out here on the rest of the Nemesis; where the time meant being beaten and gang-banged out of one's processor.

Much better indeed.....