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 3



The crew had to be told of what had happened.

Jazz had been elected as speaker to break the news to them, with Prowl and Smokescreen volunteering to be advocates. Red Alert had returned to his security hub after the officers' meeting, a confused Inferno trailing after him. First Aid and Wheeljack went directly for the medbay, intent on helping Ratchet begin repairs. Optimus himself tried to remain, determined to speak to his troops himself..... but it was easy to see that the big Cybertronian was ready to fall apart at the seams. This revelation.... who would have guessed that the Decepticons would stoop that low?

Even after all these years, they had never resorted to simply “playing” with their prisoners; raping and beating them without reasonable motive.

It was disgusting and shocked them all.

Jazz himself didn't seem to be the strongest. He was pacing nervously before the energon dispenser, where the others had stood earlier, shoulders tense and no smile to be found for miles on the saboteur's face. Everybody noticed this straight away when they filed into the room, but wisely did not comment on it. Even if they asked, Jazz would not answer. He had already said that he would not speak until the entirety of the crew was assembled. It was obvious that he didn't want to have to repeat this news twice.

“Whose still missing?,” Smokescreen asked, leaning towards Prowl. The part-time gambler, part-time psychiatrist scanned the gathered mechs.

“Only Sunstreaker and Sideswipe now,” Prowl replied, watching as Huffer finally stumbled into the room. “They were out on patrol when the rest of us went to go collect Jazz. I commed them immediately after the debriefing. They should be here in another klik or so.”

The blue and red Datsun nodded his helm. “They'll be most vocal about this....,” he sighed. “I'm worried Sunstreaker especially might do something drastic.”

The SIC did not reply, merely frowning in acknowledgement. Nobody would take this news well....

xxXxXxx

It was silent in the medbay.

Never mind that there were a total of six mechs in there; not a sound was made, even as Ratchet set out his tools, Mirage sitting on the berth beside him. The entire area was cloaked in a misery that snuffed out all noise -impossible to break and just as suffocating. First Aid, helping set up things alongside Ratchet, kept shooting fervent glances towards Wheeljack. But the engineer had his own helm turned down, arranging a tray of medical tools near the berth that Perceptor sat on. Tracks, glaring at nothing in particular, stood in the darkest corner of the room; arms folded across his chassis.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be, First Aid cried silently. Ratchet's and the others' return should have been a joyous occasion. Maybe a little more somber, depending on some of the injuries they might of sustained. But not this.....

Things should not have felt like a funeral march.

So lost within their own thoughts, no one heard the pounding set of pedes racing down the hallway until the medbay doors were flung open, a red blur rushing into the room. “Perceptor!,” Sideswipe cried. The lamborghini took only an astrosecond to scope the room before he hurried towards the scientist, cheekplates stretched with a relieved smile. “Perceptor! I'm so glad-”

Perceptor screamed as the warrior attempted to make a grab for him, falling over the side of the berth as he hurried to get away. Sideswipe was shocked by this reaction and pushed forwards. “Perceptor, please-”

“GET OUT OF MY MEDBAY!,” Ratchet roared, coming out of his stupor. The ambulance charged the lamborghini, body-checking the warrior. The unexpected strike and power sent Sideswipe flying back to the doorway; the red mech growling as he got back onto his pedes.

“What the FRAG Ratchet!?!” Sunstreaker appeared in the doorway as well, just as Sideswipe screamed at the medic. The yellow twin narrowed his optics sharply at the tense scene, making to move forwards. Ratchet though was having none of this and quickly grabbed his wrench.

“GET OUT! GET OUT I SAID!” He flung the projectiles with all the force of a tank, making it hard for either of the lamborghinis to stop them, let alone dodge. But the CMO did not stop his assault, hurriedly grabbing for anything heavy once he ran out of wrenches. All the while, Perceptor wailed from behind the berth; arms over his helm and rocking in place.

“Let us see Perceptor!,” Sunstreaker yelled, swatting away an incoming machine. It cracked into a hundred pieces against his forearm, scratching the golden paint. Not that the warrior noticed, he was too enraged that he was being denied from seeing the smaller mech.

“You can't stop us Ratchet!,” Sideswipe added, charging back into the room. His brother copied his motion; the both of them intent on knocking the medic down. Ratchet though stood his ground, meeting the lamborghinis head on. The deafening crack of their colliding frames made everyone present cringe. Amazingly, the CMO remained standing, arms spread wide as he tried to wrestle back the two warriors.

“You.... are.....not......getting.... in..... HERE!,” Ratchet bellowed, pushing at the Twins. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe attempted to fight against the medic's well of unbelievable strength, but found themselves floundering. They stood no chance when Tracks charged forwards as well, slamming into the lamborghinis and using his own force to shove the two larger mechs out of the room.

“You two are not allowed in here anymore,” Ratchet hissed dangerously, standing in the doorway, breathing heavily like an enraged beast. “Don't attempt to come back.”

Before Sideswipe or Sunstreaker could even reply, the medic stepped back, palming the door shut and locking it. Intakes still coming in large, choking gasps, Ratchet stood at the now closed doors; listening to the chaos settle around his audios again. From behind him, Wheeljack watched, torn.

The engineer had never seen the CMO so violent before.... especially not towards his own crew. Sure, the Twins had a habit of fragging him off royally, but Ratchet always dealt with them patiently, with maybe an insult or wrench thrown here or there. He'd never acted as if he wanted to tear the two warriors apart, like he did just now. Tearing his optics away from his friend's back struts, Wheeljack found his attention falling to the rest of the mechs present. First Aid had his face buried deep into his servos, no doubt crying once again. Mirage stared unblinkingly ahead, apparently unaffected by anything that had just occurred. As for Perceptor.... he was still curled up behind the berth, but in the silence that had followed the Twins' entrance, Tracks had made his way to the scientist; placing comforting servos on the microscope's shoulders as he wept.

It was the strangest sight that Wheeljack had ever seen.

Just how were they supposed to carry on when everything was suddenly different?

xxXxXxx

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe came storming into the rec room after their brutal rejection from the medbay. “What the frag happened to Perceptor!?!,” the red warrior shouted, heading for the back of the room.

Prowl scowled by Jazz's left, doorwings hitched high behind him. “You were supposed to come here directly upon reporting in. You weren't supposed to go loo-”

“We were just fragging THROWN from medbay by RATCHET!,” Sideswipe continued, ignoring the SIC. He ground to a stop just before Jazz, denta bared. “Why the slag are we being banned from seeing him!?”

“'Sides, norm'lly I wouldn't argue wit' ya, but ya were told 't c'mere when ya return'd,” Jazz answered tersely. “Ya bein' kick'd outta medbay is fair consid'rin' the circumstances-”

“HOW IS ANY OF THAT FAIR?! I DEMAND TO SEE PERCEPTOR NOW!!”

Tension filled the room. The Autobots watched as Sideswipe -usually the calm, care-free twin- loomed over the saboteur, growling like a mad turbofox. Sunstreaker stood behind his brother, with all the composure of a building storm. Jazz himself glared up at the red warrior, scowl deepening.

“Don't,” he hissed, “Ya dare yell at meh. Yer not gonna see Percept'r any time soon 'nd that's final.”

“This is all your fault!,” Sideswipe shouted, anger gushing forward. “If you hadn't-”

“If I 'adn't WHAT, Sideswipe!?!,” Jazz finally snapped. “I was the one that disregarded Prime's ord'r, I made the call 't get them 'ot o' there. It was meh that saved them when they were on the brink o' offlinin'! If ya 'ad seen the state they were in..... what the Decepticons did.....” Static cut through the saboteur's vocalizer as his intakes suddenly heaved, coolant pooling just under the rim of his visor. Weakening before their very optics, the Special Ops officer dropped his arms by his sides, shoulder plating quivering as he mumbled to himself.

“I-i-i....I-i should have gotten t-there soon'r.... b-but i-it was two w-weeks. T-two slagging w-weeks.... I-i-i-i-i t-thought.... I-i di-didn't think..... I mean, t-they nev'r..... T-they we-were da-damaged so b-bad and j-just c-cover'd.... a-and the-their optics, P-primus.... i-it's like t-they thought w-we'd aba-abandon'd 'e-em.....”

Prowl hurriedly stepped forward, wrapping his arms tight about Jazz and turning the saboteur away from everyone's prying gaze. Sheltered in the SIC's grasp, Jazz broke down fully, servos clawing desperately at the Datsun's back. “P-primus! I-i-i-i-i.... I-'m sorry! I'm s-so sorry! I should 'ave s-saved 'em sooner, I should 'ave-!”

“Ssh....,” Prowl murmured, pressing his face to the other mech's helm. “Hush, Jazz. It's not your fault. You didn't know..... you didn't know....”

“....w-what..... what is he talking about?,” Bumblebee asked nervously. The beetle turned to Smokescreen, the only mech really giving them anymore attention. The gambler glanced at Jazz and Prowl momentarily, before sighing softly and lifting pained optics to the rest of the crew.

“As of this moment, Ratchet has put the Ark under Emergency Medical Protocol,” the red and blue Datsun explained. “There will be twenty-four hour surveillance watch on all areas of the ship, including various quarters. All items are to be studiously marked and inventory stats checked regularly. Medbay is out of bounds until further notice. If you need something fixed, First Aid is the one you will comm, and he'll meet you in your quarters to do the repairs. As for the others..... you will keep yourself in check at all times. Follow standard procedures and be considerate to your fellow mechs once they are released from medbay. Is that understood?”

Helms nodded slowly in reply.

“But.... what happened, Smokescreen? Why are we on lockdown?” The psychiatrist couldn't tell who had asked the question. It sounded like either Windcharger or maybe Hound.

The Datsun cycled a deep intake, trying to mentally prepare himself for his answer. But nothing he knew could ever really prepare him, or them, for what he was about to say next. “Megatron has proved his ruthlessness..... Under his command, Tracks, Mirage, Ratchet and Perceptor were..... raped. Continuously, brutally, and -from the looks of it- by more than one mech at a time.”

Silence.

Utter silence.

Smokescreen shuttered his optics, doorwings on his back lowering with his despair. “That is all,” he said to the other Autobots. “Prowl, if you'd be so kind to bring Jazz to my office please.”

The SIC nodded his helm in understanding, lifting the weeping saboteur into his arms and following after the other Datsun. Once they left, the rest of the crew looked at each blearily, feeling almost strangely detached from their own frames. Was it true? Had Megatron really sunk so low?

Sunstreaker turned, punching the closest wall as he screamed in his rage, pounding the metal relentlessly. Sideswipe did nothing to stop his brother. Silently, the red lamborghini sunk to the floor, servos rising up to cradle his helm.

xxXxXxx

“You should get some sleep.”

Ratchet lifted his optics from Mirage's chest, glancing briefly at Tracks before returning to his work. “I could say the same for you,” the CMO replied, setting aside one tool for another.

The corvette shrugged. “Can't recharge. Besides, I'm not the one that's been bent over an unresponsive mech all orn,” he pointed out. “You haven't even taken the time to repair yourself. You still speak in that hoarse croak.”

“They don't matter,” Ratchet said. “And what about the scratches and dents you've got? You going to take care of those?”

“They don't matter,” Tracks retorted. The medic stopped his work, this time glaring at the multi-coloured mech. Tracks met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down or instigate the CMO further. After a moment, Ratchet turned back to Mirage's repairs with a huff.

“The work needs to be done,” he explained after a couple of kliks. Tracks did not comment, arms folded across his chassis as he stood on the other side of the berth. “I'm the only one who can fix Mirage -neither Wheeljack or First Aid have the expertise.”

“Not true....,” the corvette mumbled, denying what the medic had to say. “First Aid is more than capable..... you just refuse to let him do anything to Mirage.”

Ratchet fixed one last broken cog inside of the spy, shutting Mirage's chestplates with a deft click. In the background, Perceptor stirred on his berth, before falling back deep into recharge. “And so what if I don't want First Aid repairing Mirage?,” the ambulance hissed. “Do you really think that he can handle somebody else touching him at this moment. Do you really think-”

“No, I know he cannot,” Tracks replied, cutting off the medic before he could break into another angry tirade. The corvette looked at the still conscious mech sympathetically. “It's the reason why you haven't put him under, though you would usually do so during such a procedure. You don't want to lose Mirage to those demons filling his helm right now. He's safest awake, here, where he can see us.....”

Ratchet swallowed the rest of his words, glancing at Mirage's slacken faceplates. He had nothing to dispute against Tracks' statement. “Go back to recharge,” he said after a klik, circling around the berth and manually retracting the spy's codpiece. He paused immediately after, expecting a reaction. Nothing came from the ex-Noble and slowly, the CMO continued, feeling anger and sadness well within his spark. He had to stop a breem afterwards though, once his study of the damaged area was complete.

“Slaggit..... Damn them all. Damn those fragging glitches to the farthest regions of the Pit!!”

Tracks turned his helm up at the medic's furious growl, frown on red lip components. “What's wrong?,” he asked, slowly stepping to Ratchet's side.

The medic stepped back from Mirage, collapsing into a nearby chair. “The fraggers..... Mirage, his seal was broken.”

“What does that have to do with anything?,” the corvette inquired, confused. He glanced at the ex-Noble's bared interface equipment, before respectfully turning his optics aside. It was ghastly, seeing the vicious, brutal state the Decepticons had left such an intimate area in.

Ratchet dropped his helm into a servo, folding weakly in his seat. “The fact that Mirage even had a seal is what's troubling. It means he's never been touched before. Should have expected it really.....,” the CMO mumbled to himself, “The Tower mechs were real snotty about preserving their creations' seals until the time that they were bonded to their designated mate..... but I had thought that Mirage might have, after the War had started..... I mean, he would be full-grown and with urges, and no intended left for him to wait for....”

“Oh....,” Tracks said softly, finally having caught on to what Ratchet was muttering about. He looked to Mirage again, studying the dead mech before him. “They took his virginity. Those nasty, fragging glitched Decepticons.....” Tracks bit his bottom lip component angrily. “They don't deserve to have been his first. They shouldn't have had that victory.”

Ratchet sighed, lifting his helm again. “Why.....,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why are we the only ones able to still stand? After all of this..... why is it that only you and I can even function on a semi-normal basis.....”

Tracks turned to the CMO. “Because,” he replied, shrugging. “We're the type of mechs who've slept around some. There have been multiple partners in our life; most being relationships that didn't extend past the night. Mirage and Perceptor, they haven't had the same experience as us. Mirage's never interfaced before, as we now know, and Perceptor can count all of his sexual interactions on one servo. We're different than them. So something like this.... it's almost the same for us.”

“No..... it's not the same,” Ratchet protested. “Not at all.” The medic sighed again. “It's unfair how the younger ones must suffer this. If perhaps it had just been me, maybe-”

“Ratchet,” Tracks intervened, cutting off the CMO's desperate reasoning. The corvette walked forward, gripping the medic's shoulder plating and giving it a good squeeze. “Don't drown yourself in 'what ifs'. What happened, happened. Now, we've got to move forward, and keep strong doing it. If not for ourselves..... then, at least, for them.”

The multi-coloured mech paused, glancing back at Perceptor and Mirage. “If we don't stay strong for them, then they'll never recover from this. Do you understand me?”

Ratchet cycled a shaky intake, offlining his optics against the coolant that arose. “Yes....,” he agreed softly. “You're right.”

Tracks smiled wearily. “Now, get some recharge,” he ordered. “You're getting low on energy. Don't worry, I'll watch over Mirage until you wake.” Looking up at the corvette, the medic nodded his helm, settling back further into his chair and activating his recharge protocols. It wasn't long before the ambulance had almost fully shut-down, finally resting after so long.

His own limbs heavy, Tracks returned to Mirage's berthside. He looked into his comrade's dim optics, servos clenching at his sides as no response came from those blue orbs. “They'll pay for what they've done Mirage,” he whispered to the prone mech. “I promise you, they won't get away with this.”

xxXxXxx

The cycles passed and when the hum of waking 'bots beyond the medbay began to sound, Ratchet too stirred slightly in his seat. Onlining slowly, a servo was set upon his shoulder plating, startling the medic for a moment before he recognized the touch. “I'll go get us some energon,” Tracks told him dryly. “Mirage has remained the same the whole night through.”

Ratchet nodded his helm, intakes spluttering in a yawn-like pattern. “O....okay,” he mumbled, still not fully responsive.

Tracks did not wait to see what else the medic might have to say; heading immediately for the exit. He palmed the doors open, making sure that the locking mechanism was set on Auto-lock, before leaving. It meant that he would not be able to get back into the room at his own volition, but considering Ratchet had not given him the combination for the lock, it was the second best alternative to making sure that no unwanted mechs tried sneaking into the medbay while the CMO was still somewhat indisposed.  Silently, Tracks headed down the hallways, making his way to the rec room.

It must have been some sort of blessing in disguise. Despite the hour, there were only a handful of mechs present in the rec room. Each and every single one of them fell silent upon the corvette's entrance, staring uncertainly at their fellow Autobot. Tracks did not mind. The looks he knew he could handle.... everything else..... Well, that was yet to be discovered. Ignoring them all, he strode purposefully to the energon dispenser, grabbing at least six cubes and beginning to fill them up. He had finished little more than two-thirds before the expected interruption came.

“Tracks! You're out of medbay.”

The corvette hunched his shoulder tires high, glaring as First Aid sidled up to his side, the meek little medic glancing at the other mech anxiously. “I didn't think that you'd be out and about so soon,” the protectobot continued, playing with his fingers nervously. “Y-you haven't yet been repaired....”

“I can wait,” Tracks replied, starting to gather the already-filled cubes. He subspaced them, impatiently waiting for the last cube to fill so he could escape First Aid's attention, and henceforth, his inappropriate confrontation.

“But, your arm!,” the medic protested. “I noticed it last night -the metal, it's all warped! You've been repeatedly removing those panels haven't you? Ratchet mentioned that you were giving the others transfusions, to keep them functioning. Without the proper tools and in the brig, where all sorts of rust and decay abound, the risk of infection is high and without proper treatment, you-”

First Aid choked as he was suddenly shoved against the wall, thick arm pressed against his neck cables, restricting the flow of energon. “Shut up,” Tracks hissed, looming over the smaller mech, “Just shut up!”

Behind them, mechs slowly got to their feet; worried that they might have to intervene. Tracks noticed this and snorted disapprovingly. He backed up, releasing First Aid, gathering his final cube and heading for the doorway. “W-wait -Tracks!,” First Aid coughed weakly behind the corvette. “Please, I didn't mean to upset you! What you did -it was a very heroic thing. You saved the others' lives! You're a hero!!”

“A hero....?,” the multi-coloured mech sneered, pausing in the doorway. He turned his helm back into the room, glancing at each of the mechs present. “Heroes are the ones that end up dead. We weren't so lucky, were we?”

Scoffing again, Tracks hurried from the room and back to the medbay.