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 6



Skyfire stepped through the medbay carefully, aware that his size alone presented a problem in a room much too short for him and fitted with all sorts of delicate instruments vital for repairs. Ducking a low-hanging light, the shuttle headed for the ambulance standing at the other side of the room, helm bowed lowly as he sifted through various tools. “Good morning, Ratchet.”

Ratchet started a little at the soft-spoken greeting, turning on his pede, facing the other mech. “Good morning Skyfire.... I didn't expect to see you so early.” Unspoken was the thought that the medic had not expected to see the scientist at all.

As if knowing exactly what the CMO had kept to himself, Skyfire smiled kindly, holding out one of the cubes of energon that he carried. “My hours of recharge vary. I am shameful to say that any sort of new project can keep me enthralled for joors, and I easily lose track of the time,” he explained readily. “I thought perhaps you might be awake as well, and took the privilege of collecting us both breakfast.”

“I....,” Ratchet trailed off hesitantly, before nodding his helm quickly, and taking the cube held out to him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, turning back to his tools.

The shuttle did not mind that the smaller Autobot did so. He understood completely that despite having confided in him a portion of his horrific tale, Ratchet was still very wary of Skyfire and tried to limit their interactions as much as possible -out of fear and self-loathing, more than anything else. It was something that caused Skyfire's ever empathic spark to ache and cemented his resolve to be as much of a comfort to the medic as possible during this time of healing. “May I ask what you're doing?,” the scientist inquired, shuffling back a few pede-steps and settling gently into a nearby chair. He sipped a little at his cube as Ratchet glanced over at him.

“Just sorting my tools.....”

“Oh?”

The medic shuttered his optics slowly, looking to the ground. “Everything's gotten out of place since the last time we did repairs, and despite First Aid' diligence, I fear that some things might have gone missing. They've either been damaged in the chaos or otherwise have been swiped by someone else while my attention was elsewhere,” Ratchet elaborated.

That was entirely plausible, Skyfire knew. “And how is First Aid doing? I don't think I saw him at all yesterday,” the shuttle remarked, intent on keeping the light conversation going. Anything was better than having the CMO revert back into his isolated silence; he'd have no chance for hope or improvement that way.

Ratchet shrugged, finally turning his attention back to his task. “I ordered him to berth rest. He's been spending too much energy, running about doing all minimal repairs for the crew and other chores for his gestalt. He needed a few proper joors of recharge before he burnt out.”

“Yes, he does seem eager to assist,” Skyfire smiled.

The medic said nothing. It grew quiet between the two mechs for a short while, but Skyfire did not find it awkward or strained. He finished his cube shortly after the initial conversation had tapered off; Ratchet he noticed, a few kliks later. It was just as the smaller Autobot was beginning to gather his tools to put them away now, that the medbay doors slid open again, granting Smokescreen entrance. The Datsun paused just inside the doorway, caught off-guard by the sight of the other two together.

“Good morning,” he started slowly.

“Good morning, Smokescreen,” the shuttle replied, checking his chronometer. By now the sun would have risen on this side of the globe, enticing many humans to wake and get ready for a brand new day. “How are you?”

“I am well, Skyfire,” Smokescreen said. He crossed the room, glancing intermittently at Ratchet's backstruts. As he got closer though, the medic finally turned around, giving the psychologist some of his attention. “I must say it's surprising to see you here so early. Ratchet I had already anticipated, but your own presence is a pleasant surprise.”

Skyfire chuckled lowly for a couple astroseconds, his wings shifting behind him a little. “Yes, I can understand the confusion, but I could not recharge and I thought I might come keep Ratchet company in the meantime. Possibly offer him my help, if he would like it.” This was said with a small glance in the medic's direction.

Noticing the look, Ratchet turned his own optics to Skyfire, but did not say anything with Smokescreen there. The Datsun seemed to understand the situation well enough, because his doorwings lowered a tad as the tension left his frame; a warm half-smile tugging at his lip components. “That's very good to hear. Now,” Smokescreen continued, turning his helm to Ratchet. “I'm just going to go see Mirage, alright? I've brought him a cube as well.”

“He's in the office....,” Ratchet supplied.

“Mirage.....,” the shuttle piped up softly. His tone was rife with sympathy and sorrow for his fellow mech. “He has endured much cruelty. I only hope that his recovery is swift and kind. He deserves all the care we can offer.”

The other two Autobots looked at the scientist dazedly. Smokescreen was the first to snap out of it, his optics dimming as his spark was overwhelmed by the same feelings. “I hope so too,” he added. “Nobody is deserving of what has been done.”

Turning, Smokescreen headed for the office. He paused though at the door, looking back at Ratchet. “Oh, and Ratchet, we'll meet later. Alright?”

The medic stiffened a little, folding his arms over his chassis. “Understood,” he quipped in response. The psychologist nodded his helm, turning the door handle and disappearing into the office.

xxXxXxx

Tracks uncurled from his troubled recharge, pushing himself up and off the berth wearily. His systems lagged, having not rested well despite having a night to cycle down and do so. He only had his ghouls to blame for that though, and within a moment of weakness, could not find the strength to even protest their cruel mocking as he got up. He spared only a few kliks to make himself look presentable, skipping over the cans of wax that he usually kept aside. The corvette had long lost the care to fix his finish, wiping the dents and scratches out of his once glossy paintjob.

What purpose was there in making himself look beautiful when it only resulted in his suffering?

Shaking his helm to keep the growing shadows at bay, the winged Autobot finished his half-sparked preparations, growling at the voices, before heading out of his berthroom door. There was a change in the atmosphere one could easily tell, a slow growing shift that surprisingly pierced Tracks' spark. He could hear the others moving about the ship now, still subdued in their actions, but the sound was still there and compared to before that was a drastic comparison. The corvette didn't know how to respond to it all; he almost came to a full-stop right then and there when he passed by Bluestreak in the hallways, the talkative gunner offering him a weak greeting. Coming from a mech that the other 'bot had not heard speak in orns, the hello he received was startling.

Tracks hurried to move on, seeing as his own shock produced a similar reaction out of the gunner. It was the same though wherever he went. The others were finally out and about, greeting the multi-coloured mech when he came within their view. There was no looks of pity, no quick interrupting of previous chatter; no helms turning away quickly or mechs callously ignoring his presence. Everyone was being frighteningly..... nice, and it riled Tracks up more than their blatant exclusion had done. The stirrings of rage and confusion welled within him, and the corvette hastened to beat them back. He schooled his scowl into an expression of indifference, pulling that same numbness over him like a blanket, until he felt comfortingly sheltered in the absence of his emotions.

He barely reacted at all when he next entered the rec room, finding a good portion of the crew lounging there for breakfast. Some bade him good morning, others just a simple nod of acknowledgement. Most were still understandably uncertain how to act towards Tracks. The winged mech supposed that made him the outcast then.

With a soft snort of disdain, Tracks made his way across the room, getting himself an energon cube. When he turned around, to see if there was an available seat to be found, to his muted disappointment there was no table free. The greater surprise though was when his wandering optics turned to the corner of the room, catching sight of Perceptor..... with the twins. Sideswipe leaned against his brother, chin resting on the golden armour, while he stared down at the anxious scientist curled up in Sunstreaker's lap. Every once in a while, a tremor racked through Perceptor's frame. The brightly-painted lamborghini kept his arms loosely wrapped around the microscope, while his twin would move to gently stroke fingers down Perceptor's helm crest.

The slow, innocent touches helped ease whatever horrors troubled the scientist, calming him down again until he leaned back into Sunstreaker's chassis easily.

That.... probably should not have been that shocking of a turn around, Tracks tried to tell himself. It had already been obvious that Perceptor was slowly getting better, especially after he had come out of hiding just to fix the two warriors following the Autobot's dreadful loss in the last battle. From there, their interactions were slowly becoming more frequent. Whatever distance had been keeping Sunstreaker and Sideswipe apart from their lover had finally been bridged and now they were working to overcome this ordeal, together.

He should have felt happy for Perceptor.

So why.....

Why did he feel almost hateful towards the trio?

Tracks quickly tore his gaze away, glaring down at his cube for a moment before he subspaced the ration. He suddenly did not feel like refueling and wanted only to get out of this packed room with its over-bearing mechs and their kindness.

xxXxXxx

“Here, allow me.” Ratchet stiffened a little in surprise when large arms rose over his helm, reaching into the cupboard and pulling down the scanner he had been trying to reach. Why he would have placed it so high to begin with when he was too stubborn to use a ladder baffled the medic. But before he could ponder on that oddity any further, Skyfire had pulled the device down from the shelf. Ratchet turned to face him, already expecting the caring smile the other wore as he held out the scanner.

“Where would you like me to put this, Ratchet?,” Skyfire asked, glancing quickly around the medbay.

“J-just....,” the CMO flustered for a moment, waving his servo vaguely, “Just set it over there by the terminal please. I'll take a look at it later and see if it's up to par still, or if it needs fixing.”

The shuttle nodded his helm in understanding, crossing the room quietly for a mech his size, making sure to duck his helm or tuck in his wings when passing by various things. For a moment, Ratchet was unable to tear his optics away from the other Autobot, but he managed it just before Skyfire was turning around to face him again. Needing a distraction, Ratchet started counting the items he still had within the cupboard, deciding that he needed to take inventory anyways. He scowled at the results.

“We're getting low on materials.....,” he grumbled, pulling out a datapad from subspace and jotting down his findings.

“We have needed them a lot in the past while,” Skyfire commented, directly behind the medic. The smaller mech jumped a little, not having expected the shuttle to move up behind him and so silently as well.

Catching the other's surprise, Skyfire quickly circled around Ratchet, making sure he was within the CMO's sight before resting a gentle servo on his shoulder plating. “My apologies,” the scientist said, looking oddly contrite. “I had not meant to startle you.”

Ratchet gaped for an astrosecond, unable to think past the warmth of that touch. It took all of his strength and a concerned look from Skyfire for the medic to finally tear himself away from the shuttle. Back-pedaling quickly, Ratchet hurried to put distance between the two of them, his helm turned to the floor and his shoulders raised about his helm defensively.

“Ratchet.....,” the other started, his worry growing at the violent response. “Is everything okay?”

“Leave.....,” the CMO hissed. “....You should leave Skyfire....”

The cold demand hurt and Skyfire felt his spark ache. “If..... if that is what you wish, Ratchet,” he replied, “Then I will do so. But, please, if it's something that I have done, won't you tell me first so I can learn from my errors?”

“Why do you have to be so nice?!,” Ratchet shouted. His helm snapped up when he realized that he had said that thought out loud, a shaky servo rising to cover his mouth. Skyfire merely shuttered his optics in confusion, not having expected the outburst or what it meant.

“I.....,” he hesitated, attempting to answer the sudden inquiry, “I suppose it's because I am c-concerned for you. I don't want to leave you alone to fight these monsters Ratchet. Everyone deserves to have someone to help them.... even when they've been so strong all on their own until now.....”

Coolant collected in the CMO's optics, falling down his cheekplates thickly at the kind words. “I.....I'm not strong,” he protested, folding into himself a little when the pain started to become too much. “I'm weak! I'm violent, hideous, I-i-i-i......” His vocalizer broke off into a burst of static, leaving the rest of his self-deprecating words unspoken.

Skyfire wanted to rush forwards to offer comfort to Ratchet, to deny everything negative that he believed of himself. But would that be the right move? He hesitated, torn between wanting to hold the mech and the knowledge that the medic may not want his touch at this moment. Through his tears, Ratchet could see that the shuttle stayed back, respecting his need for space even now. The revelation caused him to cry harder, crumpling to the floor entirely. This time, Skyfire did not stay back.

He approached Ratchet slowly, lowering himself to his knees; servos hovering over the medic's shoulder plating anxiously. “Ratchet.... please....,” he said softly, his own vocalizer pitching slightly.

The CMO's servos reached forward, clutching at Skyfire's cockpit desperately. The harsh grip made the shuttle wince, more so from surprise then actual pain. “Ratchet, I.... I just want to help.....”

“I know.....,” came the spark-broken keen. “I know! Th-that's why I need y-you to leave.....p-please! B-before I fall a-anymore in love w-with you.....”

Ratchet broke off for a moment, more static streaming out of his mouth. His helm lifted sadly, his grip tightening on Skyfire's cockpit. “I-i-i.... I know it's wrong,” he sobbed, “I-it's not real; n-none of this is! I-it's just a s-simple hero sy-syndrome case, m-making my c-circuits think t-that I love you..... b-but I-i c-can't..... can't st-stop it...... Yo-you're so nice..... s-so nice to me....”

“Ratchet.....” The soft voice came again, gentle and caring, just like it always was. It washed over the ambulance, stirring up his spark until he was almost overwhelmed by the misplaced feelings he had growing for the bigger mech. Shuttering his optics against his tears, Ratchet missed the warm smile that tugged at Skyfire's lip components; as the shuttle finally wrapped his arms around his shaking frame, resting his cheekplate against the other's helm.

“If that is the only reason that you wish me gone,” Skyfire continued, “Then forgive me when I say that I can not simply go. Maybe you are just beginning to feel something for me because I am simply available, but I have always cared for you Ratchet. Before any of this ever happened. Nothing changes that.”

And it was true. The scientist had always admired the medic from afar since joining the Autobots, but had just brushed aside his small affections, having assumed that Ratchet would not want him. It was better to love and care for someone from afar, then push your own feelings into their path and become a hindrance to them, the shuttle believed. He had never expected the smaller mech to say such words to him and though he knew it was partially wrong himself, Skyfire couldn't help the warm pulsing it drew from his spark.

The red servos clutched him harder, and Skyfire tightened his own hold on the CMO. “I will always be here for you, Ratchet,” he added, following his confession, “Whether you choose to except a humble 'bot's feelings or not. That is the depth of my love.”

Only the spark-jerking cry of a mech who'd finally found his small redemption was his reply.

xxXxXxx

He should have known it was just a matter of time before Smokescreen came and cornered him again. Tracks growled as he was literally walked back into a corner, right in the junction of a barely used hallway; losing any chance of escape or excuses to avoid the psychologist's interference. Smokescreen himself held his doorwings loftily, the panels tense and immobile, as serious as the expression he wore.

“Tracks, I believe it's about time we talked again,” the Datsun started.

“How about 'no',” the corvette responded.

The winged Autobot tried to step to the side, possibly duck past the smaller mech, but Smokescreen quickly copied his motion, cutting off his retreat. “Let me rephrase that then,” he said, doorwings inching higher, “It's about time that we talked. As a soldier of the Autobot faction, and under medical note, you are ordered to heed your superior's command and take active part in your counselling session. These are for your benefit only, not mine.”

Tracks sneered at the hypocritical words, resting his servos on his hips. “Really now? My benefit? I believe the only one I've seen benefiting from your silly charade of shrink is yourself and all the rest of the idiots who didn't have to go through rape after violent rape.”

Smokescreen's optics flashed, but this time he did not back down. “If that is really how you feel, then I am sorry. But the truth of the matter is that I am helping everyone. The world just doesn't revolve around you Tracks,” he ground out, “And if you can't see that through your selfishness, then obviously you are in need of a lot more help than I had anticipated.”

The urge to hit the Datsun was almost over-powering. The corvette hissed, speaking venomous words to the shadows laughing at his back struts silently, before returning his whole attention to the provocateur standing in front of him. Even with his optics turned away from them, those miserable ghouls picked and prodded at his plating, cackling in his audios softly.

“How dare you?!,” Tracks replied lowly, the air rushing through his intakes in a long, hateful burst. “I have never thought that I was the only one. Who do you think had to watch, while I waited 'my turn', as the others were taken and brought back, time and time again?! Who else had been there when I had been forced to watch as two of my comrades were raped, brutally, before my very optics, trapped behind bars and unable to do anything to stop it?! I am more than aware of the other three that endured this with me AND I WILL NOT HAVE YOU INSULT ME WITH YOUR STUPID LIES OF VANITY!!!”

Slowly, the smaller mech shuttered his optics, seemingly unfazed by the other's screaming at the end there. “Finally,” Smokescreen quipped dryly, “Some progress.”

The winged Autobot spat in contempt, shoving the psychologist out of his way and storming down the hall. If he stayed any longer in this place with the infuriating Datsun, he'd kill him. He did not doubt that for an astrosecond.  “Tracks!,” Smokescreen called after him, grunting as he picked himself up off the floor. “Tracks, stop running away slaggit!”

“I am not running!,” was the impatient response.

“Yes, you are!,” the psychologist snapped, feeling his own patience wane. “All this time you've been running around, refusing to face your problems head on. Tracks, how long will you persist on using your anger as a shield before you realize you are only imprisoning yourself further in those horrid moments!? How much more poison will you feed yourself until you realize that this is no way to spend the rest of your life?!”

He'd had enough! Metal clanged and screeched as Tracks turned on his heel, lunging for the Datsun. Caught off-guard by the assault, Smokescreen grunted as the full weight of the corvette slammed into his abdomen; the two of them crashing to the floor. Optics flaring brightly in panic, Smokescreen wrestled with the other mech, trying to keep those clawed servos from scratching out either his optics or his vocalizer. For a moment, their gazes connected, and a chill ran through the psychologist's circuits as he saw only roiling madness reflected in the blue glass staring down at him.

“G-get, get off me!,” he yelled, trying to shift the angle, to give himself the advantage. “Tracks, I swear I'll-”

“Tracks! Tracks!,” a voice screamed down the hallway. Pounding pedes followed the desperate cries, forcing the two mechs apart, just as Perceptor ran around the corner. The microscope came to an abrupt stop, fans whirring loudly as they attempted to cool down his heated frame; not even once taking notice of the awkward situation he found Smokescreen and Tracks in. And they did not even bother offering any explanations or lies, fixated solely on the tears cascading down Perceptor's cheekplates and the wide, frightened expression twisting his face.

“T-tracks....,” he sobbed. “I-it's Mirage. H-he..... He's gone!”

Above their helms, the alarm started blaring.