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 2



“Optim's, please! Ya gotta let us go an' get 'em! Who knows what those nasty 'cons 'r up t'!!”

“Jazz, please,” the truck-former begged, turning to the saboteur. “I'm just as worried about them as you are.... but we can do nothing until we have a plan. We're still recovering as it is from the last battle.... First Aid is swamped trying tor repair everyone, but there is too much for him to do alone.”

“The oth'rs though-”

“We would only endanger them further. We don't know what's become of them, or where Megatron has them; how many guards.... without more information, any rescue mission could be easily crushed before it can be carried out,” Optimus continued, raising a hand to stop Jazz's protest. “I am not happy about this either-”

“Then let meh go sir!,” Jazz cried, cutting off his leader's next sentence. “Please, sir, 'f it's a plan ya need then let Prowler start working 'ot the details an' I'll get ya the inf'rmation ya need. Jus' let meh go an' scope 'ot what Megatron 'as done wit' 'r friends. Pleeeeease!”

The others looked from the Special Ops mech and to their Leader. They were all pretty damaged, despite the fix up First Aid had given them, but it could do nothing to quell the concern and unease they carried for their lost comrades. Prowl stepped forward, still cradling his broken arm.

“Sir, I can begin running statistics, and plotting a route from one of Jazz's previous layouts. It'll be no problem to adjust it with his new intel,” the SIC said. “As it stands, our force is nearly at half-strength without either Mirage's invisibility, Perceptor's scientific expansion or Ratchet's medical expertise. If we lose them now, for good, the chances of us being able to handle the Decepticons at all come our next confrontation are below a fifteen point six percentile.”

“I understand Prowl....,” Optimus sighed. “Jazz, you have permission to leave base. I don't think you'd listen even if I said otherwise....”

Jazz lowered his helm slightly in shame. “I'm sorry t' say that would prob'ly be an ord'r I would have t' disobey, sir.”

The truck-former nodded his helm in understanding. “Please, take care Jazz, and return with the necessary information soon. Prowl, I'll trust you'll work quickly.”

Two voices of confirmation met his audios. Bouncing with renewed energy, Jazz hurried from the room, while Prowl made a much slower exit. To the others, Optimus Prime turned, shoulders sagging slightly as he viewed his beaten and down-trodden soldiers. “Keep strong, Autobots,” he said. “We'll get our friends back, safe and sound. Focus only on getting prepared for the up-coming mission; it'll be vital to the others' safety.”

xxXxXxx

Tracks arched as he overloaded, legs wrapping unconsciously around his assailant's waist. Engine humming as it continued to work out the last of the heat, the corvette found himself beginning to go lax again in Soundwave's hold; unable and not caring to stop the servos sliding down his frame gently as the communications officer pulled his spike out of the Autobot's valve. Those blue hands continued their petting, moving downwards and manually clicking Tracks' codpiece back in place. Once both protective plating were in position and the Decepticon had gotten off of him, Tracks turned and rolled so that he was now laying face-down on the berth. He still lacked any strength to do anything too extraneous and Soundwave would do nothing beyond this point other than a simple cleaning job.

These interactions had been going on for some time now.....

It made the corvette's processor whirl, confusion and disbelief warring deep within him. How was it that the tape deck had even the slightest bit of decency within him to clean and refuel the prisoner he was, without hesitation, raping? Why go through all that bother? Certainly, none of the others did when they came looking for one of the Autobots.....

Tracks offlined his optics, fingers clenching the berth hard as he felt that familiar rag touch on his plating again; down near his pedes. After the past few cycles -or had it been orns? He couldn't tell anymore; the Stunticons had damaged his chronometer the last time they decided they wanted to have a little 'fun' with the corvette- this was basic routine. Already, Soundwave was making his way back up the Autobot's chassis, wiping away dirt and grime that had gotten stuck into the seams and scratches.

It felt almost good..... which it shouldn't have at all, making Tracks feel even more disgusted.

Why couldn't the stupid Decepticon just act like all the others!?

The multi-coloured mech shoved away the rest of his perplexed thoughts, swallowing back the moan as those careful digits finally reached his aching wings.

xxXxXxx

Mirage was gone again when he was returned.

Ratchet, coughing up transfluid after having just been returned as well, sat in the middle of the cell. For a second, it did not look like Perceptor was with him. But then Tracks noticed the scientist curled up tight in the farthest corner of the room. It was silent as Soundwave put the corvette with his comrades, but once the Decepticon had left, the CMO turned to Tracks.

“You're looking better than most,” Ratchet commented gravelly. In the darkness of the brig, Tracks practically gleamed compared to the other two Autobots.

“And you're not,” Tracks replied dully, turning away from the medic. “Where did they take him this time?,” he asked, referring to Mirage.

Ratchet coughed again, bending over slightly as his body attempted to purge. The moment passed, and the CMO sat up straight again, shoulders still trembling slightly. “....the Combaticons, I believe. Swindle was the one that picked him up this time, not that fragging glitched copter.” The white mech spat into an unseen corner of the cell. “If those crankshafts keep this up, they're gonna cause Mirage's spark to burn out from energy depletion. They haven't even bothered to refuel the rest of us, the slaggers!!”

Tracks tipped his helm thoughtfully, mulling over what the medic had to tell him. “Ratchet....,” the corvette started softly. “Could you perform an energon transfusion? Here, right now?”

The ambulance looked at the multi-coloured mech as if he had gone mad. “With what tools? They stripped us of all our possessions the moment they took us prisoner,” he growled. “And even if I did have some way of doing so, what would I transfuse? None of us have been getting any energon lately. At this rate, we'll starve and die.....”

Tracks shifted closer to Ratchet, holding out his arm for the medic. After the first little while, the Decepticons hadn't bothered to re-cuff their prisoners; they knew that the Autobots did not have the strength or will to fight back against their oppressors. This proved to be an advantage to them now, instead of a mockery of their stolen freedom.

“Trust me,” the corvette whispered. “I've got enough to spare. Besides, without it, you and the others won't make it through the next orn.”

The CMO eyed Tracks suspiciously, but eventually gave in. Joints creaking in protest, Ratchet turned to face the other mech fully, picking and pulling at broken pieces of his own plating. “This'll hurt like the pit,” he warned, “Without my proper tools or anaesthetics, this mildly annoying procedure will probably feel like liquid nitrogen through your pipes.”

“That's alright, Hatchet,” Tracks assured, purposely choosing the Twins' favoured nickname for the medic. Anything to give the exhausted mech hope. “Start with Perceptor first. The kid hasn't made a sound in a while.....”

Ratchet nodded his helm, slowly piecing his broken parts into something medically relevant.

xxXxXxx

It seemed the only way they could hope to survive was as long as Tracks was getting energon.

Ratchet had at first commented disgustingly how the corvette seemed to be exclusive only to Soundwave now, but that horrendous revelation seemed to turn into their good fortune. As long as the communications officer was being dutiful in his feeding of the corvette, then that gave Tracks energy that could then be siphoned off later to his comrades back in the brig. The pain and the wave of torn emotions was worth it all, because it meant that they lived -fought, hoped- for another day more at least.

A rescue could still happen.

But the longer they went without word or sign from their friends,  the thought of eventual redemption came less and less.....

xxXxXxx

Tracks onlined to the sound of laughter.

At first, the Autobot was confused. Hadn't he just been in Soundwave's room, recovering from another overload; one that he had probably enjoyed more than he should have..... Yet, there was only darkness around him. Optics adjusting from the unexpected change in location, the corvette found that there was still light within the darkness: coming from the open doorway just down the hall and the buzzing energon bars before him. Enough illumination to show the horror that was taking place just on the other side.

“L-let him go! Please!!” Perceptor struggled pathetically in Dirge's hold, crying weakly as his helm was forced toward the other duo; Wildrider slamming Mirage's face into the floor as he entered the Autobot from behind.

“Why should I let him go?,” Wildrider rumbled gleefully. “Look, the slagger likes it.”

Mirage was mute, even as his helm was lifted and smashed back into the floor; energon trickling past his slightly gaped lip components. If it wasn't so apparently obvious that the race-car was online, one would think he was dead.....

“S-stop!,” Perceptor screamed, unable to look away as Wildrider continued thrusting into the unresponsive Mirage. The Decepticon chuckled through his gasping intakes, servos grasping at torn plating and ripping it back with a vicious squeal. The action made Mirage choke weakly, exposed circuits crackling and spilling more energon to the floor.

“Looks like fun,” Dirge cooed sickly. His free servo groped down the crying scientist's frame. “My turn.”

Perceptor cried out and wiggled desperately as his codpiece was mercilessly torn back, the conehead shoving his thick, nasty fingers into the microscope's valve. Tracks jumped to his pedes, approaching the bars. “Fraggers!,” he growled. “Leave them alone!”

The Decepticons paid him little heed, continuing with their abuse of his comrades. Getting desperate, the corvette charged head-long into the energon bars, yelping as the electric jolt tore across his sensory net. Malevolent laughter reached his audios again, accompanied by the pitiful cries of the other Autobots. Emblazoned by their screams, Tracks got up and kept running at the bars separating them. He did not care that each hit shocked him, burned his circuitry, damaging further components within him. He was driven mad by the need to help his friends, uncaring of his own state as he continued trying to break free from his cell.

Eventually, the self-inflicted damage was too much, and Tracks fell to the floor of the cell; Perceptor's screams and Mirage's deathly silence chasing his processor down into the darkness.

xxXxXxx

“Ratchet.... I don't think we're going to make it.....” The whisper of defeat slipped from Tracks' vcoalizer, before he even had the chance to think of stopping it.

The medic lifted his helm slowly, looking over a shoulder at the corvette. Currently, he was trying to get a response out of Mirage but the race-car seemed to have drawn into himself completely with the last visit from the 'cons, just outside of their own cell. The spy kept staring unseeingly at the opposite wall, damaged servos resting in a filthy lap. In his corner once again, was Perceptor. The scientist was crying softly, as he had done often in the beginning.

Looking at them all, it was not hard to feel helplessness overcome Tracks.

“No one is coming to save us..... it's been too long,” the corvette continued, turning his own optics to the floor. “They would have come by now....”

Ratchet did not reply, giving his attention back to Mirage. A resigned silence fell over them, resting heavily on their shoulders and sparks.

xxXxXxx

The lights were dim, making it hard to see. That is, if a 'bot with regular optics were wandering around. Jazz, wearing his visor, had improved vision over the average mech and thus, the dimness meant very little to him. He tip-toed and padded silently down purple hallways, blending into the shadows and appearing as nothing but smoke to any cameras fixed in his area. All in all, invading the sunken Nemesis: not a problem. Finding his comrades, that was going to be difficult.

The Decepticon Warship's layout was pretty basic, and even underwater as it was, the brig would reasonably be positioned in the middle-lower half of the spacecraft. Jazz had swum to the very bottom of the Nemesis, where the storage rooms were usually located, brushing aside the sand and using that as a point of entrance. Even with Wheeljack's invention helping along the way, something like the hull being breached should have alerted the Decepticons by now. But there was no alarm going off, and no sign of the 'cons either. It left Jazz feeling a little uneasy, yet he was far more concerned about the others, and hurried on his way.

Maybe he should just count this as his lucky day or something? Primus watching over him or the like....

Jazz hurried up a couple more floors, slowing as his GPS readout said he was nearing the Decepticon brig. Cautiously, the saboteur checked his surroundings, and seeing no signs of the enemy, quickly punched in an override code before slipping into the brig. The darkness here was more potent than that of outside in the hallway. Letting his scanners do a sweep of the room, Jazz was grateful to find only four other signatures present. Low energy, yes, but present nonetheless. Like the silent breeze, the Special Ops officer hurried forward, a smile beginning to grow on his faceplates. It was a grin he had hoped to greet his missing comrades with.

That grin withered away once he looked past the energon bars, seeing the horrifying state the others were in. Anxiously, he punched in another override code, rushing into the cell before the bars had even fully dissipated. This action caused the bottom of his pedes to be singed, but it did not compare to the sickness that suddenly roiled through his fuel tanks.

“P-prime,” Jazz choked, lifting a servo to his comm link. “Fo'get the mission. I'm bringin' 'em 'ot now.”

The saboteur cut the connection before his superior could even utter a protest. Unable to tear his optics away from the sight of his comrades' mangled, fluid-covered, lax frames, Jazz crumpled to his knees; stuttering spark-broken apologies about not coming sooner.

xxXxXxx

Jazz was the first one out of the water as they reached the shore. Seeing the line of Autobots waiting for their friends, the saboteur stopped, mumbling back to the others to wait. His action confused those on the land, and Cliffjumper nastily made a comment implying the five of treachery. Jazz had to fight to ignore what the minibot had said, but it was obvious from his expression to everyone present that something was indeed wrong. “Sir,” the Special Ops officer started, coming to a stop just before Optimus, “I need ya t' come down t' the sh're wit' meh, please. Alone.”

“Now wait jus' one slaggin' klik,” Ironhide replied. “Why would Prime ne'd ta-”

“It's alright, Ironhide,” Optimus interjected. The red mech shuttered his optics at suddenly being cut off, unconsciously turning his vocalizer off. Turning to the saboteur, the truck nodded. “Lead on, Jazz.”

Jazz's optics dimmed, but he dutifully turned, and led the Autobot leader down the beach, to the point where the tide touched the sand. “Sir, I'mma need ya t' transform and position your trailer t' the ocean. The oth'rs 'r gonna need t' ride inside ya.”

Optimus did not question this strange request, already feeling his spark rotate in anxious whirls. With his trailer open now, the truck could feel his lost comrades shuffle inside slowly; evidently injured badly. Once everyone was securely within, Jazz manually closed the trailer doors, transforming to alt-mode. “Lead us home, sir,” the smaller mech said, vocalizer attempting its usual cheery tone. It fell widely off the mark, increasing Optimus' unease further. Silently, the Prime rolled on out; his string of soldiers transforming and following behind.

The moment they returned to base, Optimus did as Jazz instructed and drove for the rec room. He was too big to drive in alt-mode to the medbay, where the ceiling had been slightly buckled in from when the Ark had first crash-landed on Earth. The rec room was the second best place to go to, the saboteur had said, and he asked that everybody else please stay away unless they were authorized to do opposite. The wave of confusion had yet to recede, and though many were worried, they did as the Special Ops officer asked. Optimus was soon to see why.

His soldiers -his comrades- shuffled out of his trailer like frightened petro rabbits. Transforming to bi-pedal mode made at least half of them flinch, one glare and the last not respond at all. “Ratchet....,” Optimus tried to speak, but the medic quickly turned away from their Leader, guiding his companions over to the energon dispenser. Perceptor grabbed a cube and swallowed it down as if he had never seen one before; Ratchet took a cube that he sipped at once himself before trying to feed the rest of it to a distant Mirage, while Tracks merely looked at the machine.

Primus, they looked haunted.....

Servos clenched into fists, the truck turned to Jazz. “What happened?!,” he hissed, feeling rage course through him. What had Megatron done to these undeserving mechs?!

Jazz bowed his helm, shaking it sadly. “C-can't really say, s-sir,” the saboteur struggled thickly. “T-they were l-like this when I f-found 'em..... T-the ocean gone cl-cleaned off e-ev'rythin' else.....”

“Everything el-?” Optimus cut himself off, all of his anger draining out of him as suddenly as it had come. With dread, he looked at the Special Ops officer with new sight, feeling his fuel tanks twist painfully. “D-do you mean to s-say....”

“Sir?” Both mechs startled at the unexpected voice. Turning, they saw Ratchet standing a few feet away from them; close enough to his other beaten comrades, but still a safe distance away from his superiors. Seeing that he had both of their attention now, Ratchet continued. “Sir, you're going to need to call the others in now. You'll need to be debriefed on the situation.”

“W-who.... who should we comm?,” the Autobot leader inquired softly.

“As CMO, I state this as a medical emergency. Therefore, the only ones needed will be the standard officers. Everyone else can be told of the basics later, once all matters have been discussed here,” the ambulance replied back monotonously.

Hearing it ripped at Optimus' spark. “Very well, Ratchet. Jazz, please go gather Smokescreen, Red Alert, Wheeljack, Prowl and First Aid please. Tell the others to return to their quarters for now; they'll get their answers later.”

“Yes sir,” the black and white mech saluted. Silently, he turned and left the rec room, to go gather the rest of his comrades that Optimus had listed.

When the others saw the state of their missing comrades, the reaction was the same. Most mechs were able to hold in their cries of alarm; some, like Red Alert and First Aid, were not able to silence the weak sound of distress. It was amazing how the ones those sounds were being directed at did not react to such attention. At Jazz's gesture, they all grabbed seats, forming a semi-circle around the others still hovering by the energon dispenser. As if under unanimous decision, Ratchet stood before them, servos crossed behind his back struts as he faced the other officers.

“What I tell you know is all I can give at this moment,” the CMO started. “The actions done,” he added, seeing the bafflement in the other Autobots' optics, “are not going to be easily erased or written over. Please understand then, where I also stand in this situation.”

“What did happen, Ratchet?,” Smokescreen asked.

The medic inclined his head toward the psychiatrist slightly. “Everything....,” he answered vaguely. Somehow though, it was enough of an answer. “Smokescreen, I am charging you with the task of psyche evaluations for the four of us, and will be requiring you to set up daily counselling sessions for once we are all medically cleared.”

This order stunned the mechs present. Before they could comment on it further, Ratchet continued on, “Red Alert I'll need you to be upping security measures here on the Ark and ask that you keep a 24-hour surveillance on the four of us. We should be easily located no matter what time of the day it is. Wheeljack, you're in charge of helping First Aid and myself with repairs. As well, I may need you to build some memory inhibitors. Prowl, until such a time as written by myself or Smokescreen, Tracks, Mirage, Perceptor and myself are to be taken off active duty. That is all.”

“How can you say that is all, sir?!,” First Aid cried, jumping to his pedes. The young Protectobot shook his helm at the callous finish. “Sir, something is clearly wrong. I-i.....I just want to help, sir. We all do! Please, tell us- what happened?”

Ratchet turned away, unwilling to answer. “Sir?!,” First Aid cried, vocalizer filling with static as the younger medic began to cry.

“What do you think happened?!,” Tracks snapped angrily from behind the others.

“Tracks....,” the CMO threatened lowly.

“What?,” the corvette hissed, turning his helm to Ratchet. “It's not like they're not gonna find out anyways!” Returning his attention to the others, Tracks said, “They did exactly what most of you are thinking: they raped, tortured and beat us. Relentlessly, without provocation, mercilessly. So much for Autobot mentality, huh?”

No one could stutter a reply to those spat words.

Snorting in disgust, Tracks hunched his shoulder tires high, storming from the room; giving the others a wide berth as he made his hasty exit. At his confirmation, Perceptor started to cry again, lifting his servos to his helm and rocking in place slowly. Ratchet said nothing to the rest of the horrified, pitying optics resting on them; wrapping an arm around the distant Mirage and Perceptor both, leading them from the rec room and down towards the medbay.