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 7



It was like everything had gone several miles back, after they had taken just several steps forward.

Skyfire watched from beside the medbay doors, unable to move, because he knew Ratchet would need his support and yet the medic would never accept it. Smokescreen had already been there a few kliks earlier, but had left, mumbling to himself over and over again “He was getting better..... I had thought.....” with tears falling down his face unhindered. The psychologist he supposed might have gone to the control deck to talk to the others, or perhaps had found himself a secret place to hide away as his guilt ate away at him. The shuttle couldn't tell.

Out in the hallways, the Twins waited, still wary of Ratchet's wrath and uncomfortable trespassing into the room now without express permission first. Skyfire understood them there. Already, he was shifting uneasily in place, drowning in his grief, but it was hardly anything compared to the ones standing only metres away from him. Ratchet cried silently at the machines, his optics flickering in and out as he attempted to focus on the readouts but unable to suppress the tears. Perceptor was weeping loudly again, sobbing and keening in unrestrained despair as he curled over Mirage's still frame on the medical berth. It didn't seem likely that the microscope would be stopping anytime soon.

At the foot of the berth, well away of the others, was Tracks. Though any other would turn on the corvette, calling him sparkless for not crying or staying close to his comrades, Skyfire would have put them in their place right then and there. Perhaps, Tracks was not showing any outward sign of sorrow, the same as Ratchet and Perceptor were, but there was no doubting the shocked expression he wore or the way his lower lip component trembled every once in a while. His sadness was a well so deep that even he could not find the ways to express himself, sinking only deeper into that dank, cold sea.

And the shuttle did not fault him on that either.

Only several cycles earlier, Ratchet had noticed that Mirage was not holed up in his office anymore.

Smokescreen did not have an appointment with him at the time, and had at that moment been trying to corner Tracks into talking.

Everyone was aware of how terrified the spy became if he so much as took a step out of the medbay; he slipped into a sort of nightmarish trance if he was near anyone aside from the select few. It was hard then for them to believe that he had simply vanished from the room of his own accord.

Immediately, a search party had been thrown together, Red Alert sounding the alarm so everyone would  know the situation. It had taken so long for them to find Mirage..... and already, everyone had been expecting the worse......

Especially Tracks.

His tanks pitched and roiled and he thought he was going to purge right there. He held it back though with a shaky intake, keeping the nausea at bay by simple will.... and even that was escaping him quickly. He had been the first to find Mirage, having been the only one to think to look in the ex-Noble's room. Out of all the places Mirage could probably hide in the Ark, for some reason, the corvette knew it would be his quarters that he'd run to when he didn't want anyone to find him. Because, who would look in the most obvious place?

He had not anticipated the sight that met him once he had punched in the race car's door key.

There.... there had been so much energon. It was spilled across the floor, splashed along the walls. It soaked the items that had been thrown about; bright, fluorescent pink in the darkness, highlighting the shards of glass and plastic from possessions once treasured but now destroyed. It was as if Mirage had intentionally tried to tear himself apart, but when that proved impossible, the spy had opted for a simpler solution.

With the broken pieces of a photograph frame, he had shoved the shards deep into his chestplates. Through the casing of his visible spark, and piercing the fragile orb of light that was their entire essence.

It was amazing that Mirage's spark hadn't simply puttered out from the heavy abuse it had been subject too.

Now though, they stood -the three of them- around the race car's berth, incapable of doing anything but watch as Mirage's spark withered and pulsed weakly; uncertain if he would ever recover this time or if his wish to have it all end would finally be granted. And Tracks felt like he was going to be sick at any moment.

“Why......,” Ratchet growled lowly. He glanced away from the monitors showing the spy's dismal stats, optics tearing up again as he looked at the unresponsive mech. “Why? Why would he do that?!,” the medic shouted. “Why, you stupid, stupid, stupid mech..... w-what.... wh-what c-could have ma-made you do s-something like this....?”

The ambulance turned away, servos cupping his face as he cried again into his palms. No one else responded to his pain, so wrapped up within their own that they could not yet tear away from it, let alone acknowledge the rest of the world. But Tracks, he heard, and callously he stayed silent. If there was anything that could be viewed as almost helpful out of this entire situation, it was the fact that four mechs, who once never knew nor cared much for each other, had grown a bond that none could sever through their suffering. It was only because of this bond that the corvette dared to think he might know the very reasons why Mirage would have chosen to end his own life, yet could not muster the courage to speak it.

Even on the verge of death, didn't they all deserve the right to hold some fraction of their secrets?

“This is all their fault.....,” he hissed lowly. Optics turned to him warily, having caught the venom that he had spoken with. Tracks didn't bother to spare them any of his attention, his gaze focused only on Mirage in his unresponsive stasis. “All of them -they're to blame for this!”

Ratchet lowered his servos, clenching them at his sides. “Tracks,” he started, taking a step towards the corvette.

“No!,” the corvette screamed, moving backwards, increasing the distance between them. “Don't you dare tell me that it's not! None of this would have happened if they weren't involved. Frag the Decepticons -those glitches have always been twisted, demented fraggers!! If it wasn't for all of those mechs out there, calling themselves our friends, then Mirage would not have tried to take his life. It's because of them that he did this!”

“Tracks, you need to calm down this very instant!,” Ratchet yelled back. Perceptor whimpered behind them, clutching onto Mirage harder as he looked fearfully up at them both. “What do you think will happen if you just blame them, huh? Isn't it already enough that Smokescreen holds himself responsible for Mirage's attempted suicide! Do you want the others to fragging suffer as well for something that they had no part in to begin with!?”

“Why the frag not!,” Tracks retorted, wings hitching high in his fury. “Maybe they didn't rape us, but they sure as slag played a part in everything that's happened afterwards!!”

“And what about the part that you've played?!”

A cold, tense silence descended in the medbay, interrupted only by the machines as they beeped and ticked away; Tracks and Ratchet glaring at each other in a rigid stand-off. “What,” the multi-coloured mech hissed lowly, “Did you say?”

Ratchet bared his denta in return, optics flaring as his anger grew another notch. “You heard me,” he snapped. “You go on and on about the others not accepting us or making us the outcasts, and yet you never try to change things. You're happier wallowing in your anger and grief and would tear anyone down who might want to change that for us. What, are we supposed to be as bitter and misguided as you are as well?!”

Tracks looked as if he had been slapped in the face.

“....p-please......,” Perceptor whispered from behind them, “....pl-please.... d-don't fight.....”

The medic cycled a heavy intake, turning his helm to the side. It took all his effort to reign in his anger and not continue yelling at the corvette. Tracks though seemed to have had enough. His wings lowered, his face going slack as all emotion was wiped clean from it. Without another word, he twisted on his pede, marching for the door silently. “Tracks,” Ratchet sighed after him, “Tracks, you.... y-you don't have to go.”

Tracks did not pause until he was already at the door. Skyfire looked at him uncertainly, wanting to help the corvette but not knowing how to do so. He had not expected to see these any of these four fight each other and that left him feeling as if he was invading on a private matter just by merely being in the same room with them. Torn, the shuttle watched quietly as Tracks inclined his helm just the slightest in the other three mechs' direction, his words a whisper so soft it could almost be mistaken for a weak sigh.

“I can see when I'm not wanted,” was all he said, as the doors opened and he was disappearing through them; Sideswipe and Sunstreaker glancing at Tracks and the others, puzzled, before the doors slid shut again.

xxXxXxx

The shadows curled and twisted about him, cackling as they usually did.

“Leave me alone,” Tracks hissed, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. He tucked his chin against his folded knees, pressing his face into his arms. He glared at the floor between his pedes, processor running a mile a minute as he sifted through all the events that had transpired.

When had life taken such a hideous turn?

Who, in all of this mad, incomprehensible universe, had decided that four poor mechs were deserving of such misfortune? What made Ratchet, or Mirage, or Perceptor any less of a person than anyone else?

For a moment, the corvette thought he might weep. But like always, the feeling passed and he was left with an even greater hole as his emotions refused to have anything to do with him. He had only the company of his ghouls and their ill-spoken words.

“I said shut up!,” he shouted this time, as the aforementioned creatures again poked fun at him. “What do you expect me to do?! I can't take down a whole fragging army by myself!”

The darkness swelled around him, closing in tightly, suffocating Tracks. He growled, thrashing against them viciously. “I am not weak,” the winged mech denied, hissing back at them when they proclaimed otherwise. Tracks was tempted to snap at them again, but strangely, he grew quiet, a contemplative expression dawning on his face.

“Perhaps.....,” he mumbled vaguely.

The ghouls twisted and snaked around his frame, making clicking noises in confusion. They waited to see what thoughts plagued the corvette, eager for the chance to continue their mocking. Tracks paid them little attention, a grim smile coming to his face. “Maybe there is a way,” he breathed, almost gleefully. “A way to make things alright.”

He got to his pedes, grabbing his can of wax and a rag. If he wanted any hope of achieving his growing plans, then he would need to look his best. “You'll see; it'll work,” he smiled wickedly at the ghouls reflected in his mirror. “If you want to destroy a demon, sometimes you need to make a bargain with a greater one.”

xxXxXxx

“Ratchet.....,” First Aid said, gentle servos touching the CMO's forearm hesitantly. “Ratchet, please, let me take care of Mirage for a little while. I promise, he will be fine with me for just a cycle.”

Skyfire stood on the opposite side of the pair, his own servos tucked before him anxiously. He wanted to touch the older medic as well, but with how things had been the last couple days, he knew that would be wrong of him. He barely had the courage to tear Ratchet away from his post, because he understood that the other Autobot could not bear to be away from Mirage. In his spark, the ambulance blamed himself as well, convinced that he should have noticed sooner that the race car was only getting worse; that he was no longer in the medbay office as he usually was. All the same though, Ratchet had been online for 45 cycles already, not giving himself a chance to recharge or refuel. If he did not take a small break, to at least get some energon into him, he would burn out soon.

“Please Ratchet, allow First Aid to take over for a little while. You and I can grab a cube quickly and be back before too long,” the shuttle added, hopeful that the CMO would acquiesce to their concerned request.

It was only with his words that Ratchet finally responded; his shoulders fell heavily, his helm turning slowly to look first at First Aid, then Skyfire. When those dim, blue optics met his own, Skyfire was certain to smile kindly at the ambulance, holding out a servo in invitation. “I promise nothing bad will happen to Mirage while we are gone.”

Shuttering his optics, the medic finally relented, turning around and letting the scientist lead him to the medbay doors. First Aid nodded his thanks to the bigger mech, before quickly taking up post beside the spy's machines, checking that everything was stable and working properly. Not wanting Ratchet to suddenly change his mind, Skyfire, gently but quickly, directed them out into the main hallway. No words were spoken between them as they headed for the rec room, and that was fine with the scientist, who did not wish to push something when the medic obviously was still not ready. He was just happy that Ratchet trusted him and First Aid enough to leave the medbay.

A dulled chatter filled the rec room when they entered; 'bots turning their helms as Ratchet and Skyfire entered. They wore expressions of sadness and sympathy, the entire crew subdued once more after Mirage had been found following his short disappearance. Only a few could offer half-sparked smiles of greeting to the pair as the scientist pulled out a chair for Ratchet to take at a free table. “You just sit here, okay Ratchet,” Skyfire said softly to the medic. “I'll get you some energon.”

He waited until he got a nod in reply, before crossing the room and heading for the energon dispenser. Skyfire was feeling mildly better as he grabbed a cube for himself and Ratchet, filling them up to the brim, returning to the CMO's side shortly after. “The energon tastes very nice today,” the shuttle commented, taking a sip from his cube as he sat down beside the smaller mech.

“Thank you,” Ratchet mumbled, taking the offered drink. He said nothing else, sipping from the cube deeply. It warmed his tired frame, having that neon liquid running through his pipes, exciting his circuit grid until it felt like he was more alive again. It was energy he would need when he went back to the medbay. “Listen, I......,” the medic trailed off for a moment, “Just, thank you. Really.”

Skyfire smiled. “I know, Ratchet. You don't need to say anything.”

“Yes, well.....,” Ratchet started again. His vocalizer clicked off though as he looked past the flyer's wing, optics flaring brightly in shock. “W-wheeljack.....”

Slowly, Skyfire turned his own helm, looking at the engineer that had just walked into the rec room. He looked well for someone he had not seen in a while, and that confused the scientist but not anymore than the medic practically leaping to his pedes and hurrying to catch up to the lancier. Ratchet was right behind Wheeljack, blocking the other's path out of the room, before he made his presence known. “Wh-wheeljack?,” he choked out, his words echoing out in the now silent room. “Y-you're.... alright?”

The engineer stiffened, surprised by the confrontation, reluctantly facing the ambulance. “Ratchet....,” he replied. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

The CMO shuttered his optics for an astrosecond, before the disbelief and concern was wiped clear from his face, a rising anger reflecting in his optics. “Where......,” he began lowly, fists clenching at his sides. “Where have you been all this time?! Three months, THREE MONTHS, I've waited for you to not be 'busy' any longer, so you could be bothered to make those inhibitors like I asked. I've worried, and waited and paced my office all orn long and yet you never could see the point in sending me a comm! Where were you when we needed your help, huh?! When the rest of your comrades were bleeding and torn apart, and we were in dire need of extra servos? What, were you hiding in your miserable little hole you call a lab?!”

“Ratchet, stop your yelling,” Wheeljack coldly said, only glancing slightly at the others. “Before you make a fool of yourself.”

“M-me? Make a fool of myself?,” Ratchet gaped incredulously.

Skyfire rose to his pedes, anxiously coming up behind the medic. “Ratchet, perhaps-”

“No!,” the medic snapped, cutting off the shuttle. “No.... no, let's hear exactly what Wheeljack has to say about me making a fool of myself. I'm very interested to know how I'm doing so.”

The engineer tensed, optics flashing in ire. “You're doing it right now. Acting the way you are..... What is wrong with you Ratchet? Why do you have to act this way?!” Wheeljack turned his helm away a little, almost as if to spit to the side. “You've changed too much....”

It felt like someone had just punched him. Mechs shuffled uneasily in their seats, wanting to leave but unable to gather up the courage to skitter for the door. And all the while, their CMO stood in the middle of the room; stuck in a stupor that he seemed unlikely to break out of. Rage -deep, dark and overwhelming- sprang from the depths of his being, filling Ratchet's hard-lines like frigid ice, freezing everything within him as it spread its claws. “W-what..... what is wrong with me?”

Ratchet stepped forward, lip components twisting into a snarl. “What is wrong with me?!,” he roared, unleashing all of his fury. “How about the fact that I was RAPED you fragging glitch! Not once, not twice but on MULTIPLE FRAGGING OCCASSIONS!! And not just by one mech, either -oh no!- but by several fraggers, sometimes all at once as well! Oh, and let's not forget, I was starved, beaten, demeaned and degraded until the point that I barely even felt like a person anymore let alone myself. And you -you have the audacity to ask what's wrong with me?!”

Wheeljack merely shook his helm, trying to step around the medic. It was the wrong move. Ratchet bellowed like an enraged beast at the physical rejection, rushing forwards and tackling the engineer to the floor. The rec room burst into a cacophony of noise at the unexpected assault, mechs jumping to their pedes and shouting for the two Autobots to stop fighting. Ratchet and Wheeljack though paid them no attention. The ambulance was punching and kicking wildly, fingers clawed, ready to gouge out the lancier's optics. The engineer beneath him bucked and cursed loudly, yelling for the “screw-loose, fragging glitch” to get off of him that very instant, servos holding onto the medic's arms to try and keep those sharp digits from scratching his chassis any further.

Around them, waiting for the moment when he could reach in between their scuffling and pull the two apart, was Skyfire, looking on anxiously.

“Look at you! Look at yourself!,” Wheeljack screamed. “You've become some kind of hateful monster! How can anyone be expected to stand more than a few kliks in the same room with you?”

“Y-you....,” Ratchet growled, grunting as he struggled against Wheeljack's hold. “How dare you?! How can you do this to me?”

“Just what the slag is going on here!,” screamed another voice over the din. “Skyfire, pull those two apart now!”

“I-i, I'm trying to Smokescreen. I just-”

“Don't worry about scuffing him, just grab him already!!”

The medic screeched and writhed as two large servos wrapped under his arms, physically lifting him up and away from the engineer. He screamed to be put down, to be released, still spitting curses and howls at Wheeljack slowly sitting up off the floor. “Ratchet, please,” Skyfire's gentle tone was speaking into his audio as he was pressed backwards into the shuttle's chassis. “Please, calm down.... before you hurt yourself.”

Ratchet's engine turned over sharply, his intakes coming in ragged, broken bursts as he wound down; struggling only weakly in Skyfire's grasp. His optics were still fixed on the other mech across from him, coolant pooling along the glass and slipping down his cheekplates thickly. “H-how.....,” he croaked, glaring at Wheeljack. “H-how can you t-treat me like this, af-after s-so long..... w-when I-i-i-i....I w-would do n-nothing to h-hurt you.”

His gaze lowered to the floor as sobs escaped his throat. “D-do you think I wanted th-this to ha-happen to m-me?!,” he shouted, grasping the arms around his middle tightly for support. “I-i-i.... I c-cared for yo-you so much, b-but now...... Tracks was right; you're all the same. M-maybe you didn't do a-any of the st-stuff the Dec-decepticons did b-but none of you h-helped either.”

“Ratchet....,” Skyfire mumbled sadly, his optics wet with his own rising tears.

The medic did not respond to the scientist though, growing cold all over. His spark, it felt like it was no longer even there. “I hate you,” he whispered, “All of you.”

“Skyfire,” Smokescreen interjected, not taking his optics off of the mech's downcast helm. “Take Ratchet back to medbay please. I'll be along shortly.”

The shuttle looked up at the psychologist uncertainly, but nodded his helm, shifting his grip and guiding Ratchet to the door. He spared one last disapproving look over his wing at Wheeljack before the both of them had gone, leaving the rest of the Autobots in their shame and sorrow.