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 5



It was quiet when Skyfire landed outside of the Ark. Transforming, he headed into the half-buried ship, a soft smile on his face. His exploration trip had been a disaster in terms of scoping out reusable fuel sources for energon conversion, but the scientist had still been able to find and catalogue many different organisms during it. He was most eager to get back to his lab and evaluate the specimens he had found with the proper tools at hand. The space shuttle thought to even invite Perceptor, knowing that it would also delight his crewmate.

Lost in his pleasant thoughts, the white mech almost didn't notice the somber silence that filled the halls. “What are you smiling about?,” came a vicious growl. Skyfire started at the unexpected verbal assault, turning his helm down to see the minibot Cliffjumper at his left.

“I'm sorry,” the scientist began, “Have I done something wrong? I can see that it is very quiet- am I disrupting a memorial or something of the nature?”

The red mech almost spat at the other 'bot's naivety. “Would be better if that was the case,” he grumbled, turning around and going down a separate hallway. Confused, Skyfire followed after him for a few short pede-falls.

“I don't believe I quite understand. Would you be so kind as to explain to me, Cliffjumper?,” the space shuttle requested politely.

Skyfire knew in part that the minibot could be very volatile, but he never expected the beetle to whirl around on him; tugging a large blaster from subspace and aiming it at the giant mech's face. “Go,” Cliffjumper hissed, “Bother someone else.”

Satisfied that he had made his warning clear, the smaller Autobot once again faced the other way, quickening his pede-falls as he stomped away. Grumbles of 'Decepticons' and 'tyrants' slipping out from beneath his intakes. Confused, and slightly unnerved now, Skyfire turned in the opposite direction, ducking his helm as he entered into another hallway. Perhaps Ratchet would be more kinder in explaining the things that had happened since he had left, once he visited the medic for his standard check-up.

xxXxXxx

Beep......

Beep, bip, beep......

.......beep......

Be-

Trembling fingers moved away from his comm link, wrapping around the edges of his wrench. Ratchet tried to focus on his tools, cleaning them as he had meant to do, but he was too distracted in his thoughts to give them the same amount of dedication that he usually did. The medic's attention span only lasted that of a few more astroseconds before he was reaching for his comm link again. The sound of it trying to make a connection rang through the empty medbay; loud and almost mocking.

When he gave up this time, Ratchet waited almost a full klik, before he tried again. The small click on the other end announced that the call got through. “'Ello?,” came Wheeljack's voice.

For a moment, the CMO didn't know what to say. Silence stretched over the comm link, as both sides didn't speak for a few astroseconds. Wheeljack was the first to break it. “Ratchet......? Is that you?”

“Y-yes,” the white mech replied hoarsely. “Wheeljack, I've been waiting patiently for you to finish those memory inhibitors, but I haven't heard or seen a word of you since. If there is a problem developing them, I will be more than glad to assist you in the medbay. Repairs, as you might know or not, have been completed on the rest and Smokescreen has already begun counselling sessions, which means that the space necessary for any of your inventions is once more available if that is what's kept you for stopping by. It would probably be best if you did come in for a check-up. Primus knows what sort of injuries you have received while building your contraptions and we know you always brush them off, despite the fact that so many of them are more serious than you give them credit for. And another thing-”

He was rambling, he knew. The words were just gushing from his vocalizer without restraint, suppressed for so long; a shield for the real things Ratchet wanted to say. He wasn't so surprised then when the engineer finally did cut him off. What twisted and tore at his spark was what the other Autobot said itself.

“Ratchet,” Wheeljack cut in. His tone was flat, almost cold. “Don't bother me again.” And he hung up.

The CMO didn't know how long he stood there afterwards; his servo having dropped back down to his side shortly after the connection had been brutally cut. His sense of reality was slipping, shattering, and he could barely focus on it, let alone his own self.

“.....Ratchet? Ratchet, is everything alright?”

Large, warm servos were turning him around gently, sympathetic -if not surprised- blue optics meeting his own. “Ratchet? What happened?”

Ratchet realized he was crying only then. It took him another few astroseconds to notice that the mech facing him was Skyfire. Quickly, the ambulance tore himself away from the shuttle, putting distance between them as he turned his back to the scientist, wiping hurriedly at his face. “S-skyfire...... What are you doing here?,” he snapped, more harshly then he had meant to.

He caught the giant Autobot flinch slightly at his words, servos lowering to his sides in apology. “My apologies Ratchet, I did not realize that I had overstepped my boundaries. I've only just returned, and I know that you are rigid in your wishes that a 'bot come in for the standard check-up after returning,” Skyfire tried to explain himself.

“Perhaps..... I should come back at another time....?”

Ratchet had to refrain from laughing bitterly. Out of all the mechs who'd ever actually listen to him, it had to be Skyfire. “You haven't reported in, have you?,” the medic asked, glancing coolly at the scientist. Only a dumb-founded expression met his gaze. “No.....of course not. Otherwise, you would not be here. No one would be.....”

Skyfire was becoming increasingly worried. He'd never seen Ratchet so..... he hesitated on the word sad. He could sense a deep well of sorrow within his fellow Autobot, but it seemed wrapped up tight in a whole web of other things. Things that made the medic lash out and snap like he was. Now, the scientist was certain that something had happened while he was away, something drastic enough to even make the most sensible of the crew suddenly mistrustful and cold.

“Ratchet....,” Skyfire started, speaking softer than he usually did. He took a step forward, but when he noticed the ambulance stiffen at the action, quickly withdrew again. “I..... would very much like to know what happened. Might you be willing to tell me?”

The medic eyed him warily, as if not believing the shuttle's sincerity. “You wouldn't want to know.....,” he hissed, “....believe me...”

The flyer responded to that by gently sitting on one of the medical berths nearby. “I think you might be surprised,” he replied kindly.

Ratchet didn't know what to do. He turned fully, staring at Skyfire in shock, stunned by the compassion, concern and sympathy he saw being reflected in the other's optics. And that was all directed to him, and him alone. The mention of a willing listener though took the cake for the CMO. Unable to fight it any longer, Ratchet broke down.

xxXxXxx

Teletraan I's alarm going off startled almost all of the mechs aboard the Ark. Tracks, sitting in the rec room, dominating a corner as he choked down a ration, watched as everyone around him cringed at the awful noise; gazes flickering between the intercom and each other anxiously. The computer kept repeating over and over in its monotonous tone, announcing that a human warning had been dispatched from an oil rig off the west coast and that the Decepticons were there, attacking as usual. At first, no one moved. It took Ironhide getting to his pedes, and grumbling under his intakes, before anyone else could respond.

Every mech in the room, with the exception of Tracks, headed for the door; some hurrying out to prepare for the battle ahead, while the others lagged behind hesitantly. Jazz, surprisingly, was one of these stragglers. “Tracks.....,” he said, coming up to the corvette's table. He met the other Autobot's gaze head on, his lip components pressed into a tight line. “We'll do everything we can to make them pay.”

Tracks did not reply.

Nodding his helm, the saboteur slunk out of the rec room, heading after the others. The winged mech waited about a klik, before he stood up as well. He walked out into the hallways, wandering away from the exit and down to his quarters. Even from where he was, he could hear the others talking and clanging about loudly as they rushed to respond to the SOS. The Twins were most vocal......  If Tracks cared, he would probably have sworn that he heard Sideswipe shouting that he'd tear a certain seeker apart, piece by agonizing piece.

But their words and promises of harm meant nothing to the corvette. They did not carry the same burning, crippling flames of hatred in them like he did; they did not thirst for vengeance like the damned sought the life-energy of the living.  With such weak, flimsy emotions spurring them on, the Autobots were likely to fail.

Tracks knew though that he wouldn't.

He couldn't afford to.

xxXxXxx

If anyone thought that things couldn't have gotten worse, the Universe turned around and proved their pitiful hopes were also useless. The Autobots had lost to the Decepticons -and hard. The medbay was filled to the brim with injured mechs, just like it had been the day that Ratchet, Tracks, Mirage and Perceptor had been taken prisoner; the only difference this time being that no one was captured during the fray and taken back to the Nemesis. Unable to deny access to the ones who needed it most, Ratchet had opened the medbay doors, him and First Aid doing their best to tend to the most injured.

Skyfire was there as well. Since finding out about the evil that had occurred, he had been most horrified and devastated that such a thing could happen -even worse, that a mech he had once cherished dearly as a close friend and scientist would also be part of this cruelty. The shuttle had taken his own pledge right then and there to help these poor souls as best as he could, giving the comfort and support they needed, that no one else seemed to be willing to give them. Since then, he'd never strayed far from Ratchet's side. Though no medic, Skyfire was determined to do the best that he could, hopefully making up for Wheeljack's much needed help in this moment.

“First Aid! I need the clamps- NOW!,” Ratchet roared, trying to stem the excessive energon flowing out of Hound's mangled frame. The bright, pink liquid -turned a dirt-streaked magenta now- splashed to the floor from the gaping wound making up most of the tracker's left side, as he continued to howl in agony. The protectobot scrambled to answer the demand, while the CMO fought with his own demons.

The scent of fresh energon and scorched metal was getting under his plating. Flashes of a much longed to be forgotten scene crackling across his vision; his dirty, damaged servos trying to peel back red plating, fluorescent, pink liquid trickling brightly through the dank and darkness of their prison. “Ratchet..... Ratchet, it's alright,” a soothing voice assured, gently brushing his servos out of the way.

Ratchet relented to Skyfire's intervention, allowing the bigger mech to clamp down the ruptured fuel lines, stopping Hound from bleeding out right there on the table. Cycling a deep intake to calm himself down, the CMO nodded his helm to show that he was alright, taking control of his patient once more.

“First Aid,” he snapped, grabbing a set of tools off of the waiting tray. “First Aid, get started on Ironhide. He needs a shot of morphine and a neck brace to steady his helm. Check for cranial damage and if you find nothing serious, strap him down to keep him from jostling himself when he wakes up, then move on to someone else.”

“Y-yes sir!,” First Aid saluted. “R-right aw-away, sir.”

“Is there anything you need me to do Ratchet?,” Skyfire asked, already scoping the rest of his injured comrades. There was a lot of work to do, for just three mechs, and the others that were more qualified for this were out of commission or just missing. At the very least, the scientist was confident enough that he could administer anaesthesia and do small patch-jobs on the less damaged.

The CMO didn't reply to the question right away, too busy with his servos deep inside of Hound's ragged wound. “I may need you Skyfire,” he eventually answered after a moment, grunting as he dug a nasty piece of shrapnel out from the jeep's interior. “Scratch that- I will need you. Run and go get me a transfusion from the storage closet, middle-grade. Second door on the left there.” Ratchet pointed vaguely over a shoulder.

“Understood,” the scientist replied, hurrying to get the required item. He headed in the general direction of where the medic had pointed, looking uncertainly at the three doors before him. Ratchet had said the left..... but which left? Skyfire just shook off his thoughts, grabbing the first handle within his reach and opening the door. This was not the storage closet he was seeking. “Smokescreen.....?”

The Autobot's psychologist glanced over a doorwing at the shuttle, standing tensely before Ratchet's desk. The Datsun shuttered his optics slowly, turning his focus back to the corner of the room he had been previously staring at. Skyfire's silent inquiry as to what the other mech was doing here, instead of out with the others, was answered when he noticed the flickering light. Streams of pixels kept fading in and out of view, offering glimpses of white and blue plating of a frame huddled tightly in the corner. It took only one guess to deduce that it was Mirage. Sharing a look of understanding with Smokescreen, Skyfire shut the door, turning to the next one. This was the one he was looking for.

xxXxXxx

Sunstreaker grit his denta tightly as another wave of pain tore through him, increased by his frame's sudden jolting; the basic programming's will to escape the torture it was experiencing. He could feel Sideswipe fold beside him, spitting a wad of muddy energon to the floor. With the damages they had taken this time, both warriors were stuck on the floor, waiting for when the berths and attention could be spared for them. The pain was worth it though, because they had Starscream's twisted face looping through their processor; the seeker screeching in pain as they pounced on his back, ripping his wings off and crunching his cockpit glass. Each of the seekers, except for that tricky teleporter, had been given the jet judo treatment -Demolition style. The Twins' servos were mangled and dirty, covered in energon and streaks of paint, but at least their need for revenge had been quelled some.

“Told you I'd bash that stupid cone of his in Dirge's face,” Sideswipe mumbled weakly, cradling his cracked forearm. Skywarp had gotten in a lucky hit when the red lamborghini had attempted to make another swipe at the downed Thundercracker. Sunstreaker silently assured him that they would get the teleporter back ten-fold.

“Should have shoved it up his greasy valve,” the yellow twin grunted back.

Sideswipe chortled painfully at that. “Look at the Hatchet go,” he commented after a moment, optics following Ratchet from across the room. “Shouting and threatening like usual.....” Sideswipe did not make note of how it felt almost good to have some sort of normalcy return, even if it came out of another horrible situation. Anyone in the medbay would have willingly attested to that.

Sunstreaker made some sort of sound in the back of his vocalizer, shifting gently against his brother. His optics were still roving the helms of the crew gathered in the packed medbay, hoping to see a familiar rosy red frame. No one needed to tell them that they were looking in vain. The red warrior exhaled slowly, pushing tighter against his brother. It hurt, doing so, but the steady, solid frame of his twin offered the comfort he was desperate for at this moment.

He knew that the same could be said for the yellow lamborghini.

Something heavy dropped onto the floor in front of them, startling the two mechs, optics onlining in a rush. They watched, dumbstruck, as a mech followed the path of the medical bag he had dropped; trembling servos pulling out various tools and soldering materials. “P-perceptor?,” Sunstreaker was the first to say, his servos automatically lashing out and grabbing hold of the scientist's arm.

The smaller Autobot looked up at them and the Twins were surprised to see tears tracking down Perceptor's cheekplates. But the look of determination and overwhelming worry on the microscope's face told them that he would not be running away this time. “J-just.....,” Perceptor croaked softly, gently pulling out of the yellow warrior's grasp, “L-lie down, alright? I need t-to tend to your i-injuries.”

Sideswipe nodded mutely as Sunstreaker leaned back against the wall with him; the lamborghinis allowing the scientist to shuffle a little closer, carefully grasping the torn plating on one twin's side and easing it apart to get to the damaged circuitry within. It was quiet between them as Perceptor did their repairs.

Eventually, after the shaking mech had welded his side plating back together and had moved on to clean and bang out the dents in Sunstreaker's servos, Sideswipe decided to speak. “Perceptor.....?,” he whispered, gaze fixed on the microscope intently.

Perceptor cringed a little at the call of his name; turning his helm slightly and glancing up at the red mech anxiously.

Though the reaction made his fuel tanks twist in ill, the prankster twin shoved all those emotions aside, making sure that none of his anger, or disgust or sadness reflected in his optics. Instead, he smiled softly to the scientist, continuing in a gentle, caring manner with a simple, “Hi.”

Surprise flashed across the smaller Autobot's face, before tears were again trailing down his cheekplates, but this time accompanied by a small smile on Perceptor's lip components. “Hello,” he replied, in just as quiet a hush.

Sideswipe's smile grew an inch in relief and hope; Sunstreaker's optics dimming as a look of gentleness  made itself known on the usually scowling mech's face.

xxXxXxx

Tracks tossed and turned on his berth, rolling onto his back and glaring up at the ceiling above. Memories and dreams, both unwanted and hated greatly, plagued him, swirling about his helm and laughing like poltergeists. He growled lowly, shuttering his optics, intent on driving them away with just his will. But perhaps his will was not as strong as he thought, or maybe it was still trying to regain force after pushing him on for so long while he had been a prisoner, because he could not push the visions away.

With his vision black, they seemed even stronger and he couldn't help the moan that escaped him as he felt phantom servos trailing down his chassis; arching on the berth as his sensory network remembered the sweet torture he had been privilege to. He could almost recall the other's heavy frame above him, intakes brushing against his neck cables as his legs were gently nudged apart, his partner rocking in him in a slow, burning pace.

It was even better when those blue fingers tickled up his spinal struts, wrapping delicately around his wings, intent on bringing him to overload, screaming to the heavens above 'Sou-'

Tracks tore away from his thoughts and demons right then and there, rolling off the berth as he physically tried to run away from his ghouls. Huffing and puffing angrily, the corvette pushed himself off the floor slowly, silently cursing everything from the dust on the corner of his room to the very moisture in the clouds above. Why wouldn't these visions leave him alone?!

It was as if he had just swapped one prison for another; one that his monsters were certain he would not be able to escape from.

The multi-coloured mech let out a scream of rage this time, kicking his berth as his processor brought those dreadful images and sensations to the forefront of his thoughts again. He just wanted to recharge, slaggit! In the one space and plane where nothing mattered and he could not be bothered. Or shouldn't have been bothered.......

Tracks glanced over a shoulder tire, to the door of his quarters. For a moment, he contemplated on leaving, but he shook that idea off quickly. There would no rest to be found tonight, not while the rest of the Ark was occupying the medbay and rec room, the crew still dealing with the after-effects of their horrible loss earlier in the day.

The corvette didn't know whether to scoff or sigh.

Shuttering his optics at his berth blankly, Tracks scooted backwards until he was sitting against the wall, helm tipped up to the ceiling as he resigned himself to a night of waiting and thinking.