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 4



Perceptor and Tracks were listed as physically fit two days after they returned to the Ark, and were given permission to leave the medbay. Both did so, hesitantly; one, not wishing to be out of his place of refuge, while the other didn't want to have to deal with the cold comforts the others would force upon him. It was not surprising then, that both Autobots restricted themselves to their quarters. Ratchet himself, after finally having let First Aid tend to him, was also well enough to leave. But, despite his own orders, the medic refused to stop working until Mirage himself was given a clean bill of health.... and that, the CMO knew, would take hours of more labouring over the distant mech. The rest of the Autobots scarcely walked the halls anymore.

None knew what to say, or how to respond to this sudden tragedy.

The Ark, for the first time in its function, was silent like the catacombs of Cybertron.

xxXxXxx

“First Aid..... where's Wheeljack?”

The protectobot startled at the sudden inquiry, dropping his tools to the floor. The clanging echoed in the silent medbay, drawing a scrupulous glance from Ratchet. Mumbling apologies, the smaller medic quickly gathered up his fallen items, placing them back on their tray. “W-what was that, sir?,” First Aid stuttered, anxiously looking towards his superior.

Ratchet kept his optics fixed on Mirage; exchanging one tool for another. “I asked where Wheeljack was,” the CMO said. “He should have been here by now to help. There's still the matter of those memory inhibitors I've asked him to build as well.... Those will need to be installed as soon as possible.”

First Aid bit his lower lip component, dropping his gaze to the floor. He shuffled uncomfortably when he sensed Ratchet stop his work, giving his protege his full focus. “H-he..... he's not coming,”the protectobot confessed softly. “H-he sa-says that h-he can't g-get away from h-his work at t-the moment....”

Whatever small emotion that was on Ratchet's face was wiped clean from the white plating. “I see....,” he replied shortly. He turned back to Mirage. “First Aid, kindly bring me the torch please, and the spare plating.”

“Y-yes sir.....”

“And when you're done that, disinfect those tools before putting them away.”

“Of course, R-ratchet, sir.”

xxXxXxx

“Tracks..... welcome.”

Smokescreen stood up from his seat as the corvette entered his office, gesturing slowly to the chair waiting just across from him. He did not sit himself until the other mech had done so; folding his servos, the gambler stared at his comrade.

“You're the first one to see me-”

“I feel so honored,” Tracks cut in snidely.

Smokescreen cycled a deep intake, trying to keep his faceplates neutral. He could feel it though, the sorrow and sympathy rising up within him. “The others are not yet ready to see me, but they all will in time. For now, as you are the strongest, I will need to speak with you.”

The corvette turned his helm to the side slightly, looking about the room indifferently. “What do you want me to say?,” he asked, tone flat. “I believe I've already given you the basics of our imprisonment.”

“Yes,” the Datsun agreed, “If it is too painful.... then please, do not force yourself. We have two cycles together, everyday. We can talk about whatever you'd like.”

Tracks turned his face back front, optic ridge lifted. “So that's it then? Your so called 'counselling' is to let me jabber on for the next two cycles about anything from the birds and the bees to paint colours, until I'm free to go back out there, with the rest of this ramshackle crew? To avoid them like they avoid me?” The winged mech snorted. “What kind of psychiatrist are you?”

“Tracks..... please.....,” Smokescreen said. The words the corvette had tossed at him hurt; as they were intended, they cut past the metal and alloy of his plating, twisting deep into his spark. “This is a delicate matter. How each of you heals, varies on the me-”

“Delicate?,” Tracks interrupted again. He laughed, short and joyless, fixing his optics with the Datsun's. “How is anything of this case delicate? You see this....” The multi-coloured mech pointed to a jagged weld across his chassis. “First Aid had to tear the plating open here to fix it. Poor lil' thing could barely muster the strength..... he sobbed the entire way through. The metal was all torn and slammed back together from when Brawl decided I wasn't being 'loud' enough to his liking. 'Con thought he was going to be funny and rip right down to my spark. He overloaded before he got that far.....”

Smokescreen tried not to shudder at the revelation.

“And this?,” the corvette continued, pointing to yet another mark. This one was a recently filled fracture mark smack dab in the middle of his wing. “Motormaster did this one. He was afraid his thrusting would send me flying. He was right in a sense..... That giant brute thrusts like a drilling rig. Lots of swing in one powerful motion. I thought he would tear me in half just having that spike of his inside of me, but it didn't compare to the pain of my wings when his brilliant processor decided the best way to keep me in place was to pin me down. By ramming steel pipes through each wing.”

Black fingers were moving on to the next, still visible wound. “And this is from Ramjet's-”

“Stop!,” the gambler cried. Smokescreen buried his face into his servos, unable to halt the quivering of his doorwings as the images filled his processor. The detail.... it made his fuel tanks roil uneasily, and the Datsun seriously thought he might purge. “S-stop it....”

“But, Smokescreen,” Tracks quipped in mock innocence, tilting his helm to the side. “I thought that's what we were supposed to be doing in a counselling session: talk things out about my rape. Don't you want to know about all the other, interesting little circumstances in which I got each of these scars?”

“Not like this!,” the other mech yelled back, jumping to his pedes. He looked at the corvette, stunned, not seeing even a hint of guilt on those red faceplates. “I'm trying to help you.... and you're making a mockery of it! Why can't you just cooperate?”

The multi-coloured Autobot rose to his pedes slowly. Leaning across the desk, he growled, “Why can't you just mind your own business?”

Smokescreen shuttered his optics, entirely lost. Snorting again, Tracks pulled back, heading for the door. “Try and see if you can help the others, doctor,” he called back over a wing, “See if you can't save them. But as for me.....”

Tracks stopped at the doorway, glaring back at Smokescreen. “Don't you ever try to pretend as if you understand; could even begin to grasp where I'm coming from. I want nothing to do with your presumptuous 'help'.”

He turned back to the front, exiting the office.

“...what could you possibly do to save me anyhow....?”

xxXxXxx

The silence of the hallways was disrupted by a persistent rapping. Annoyed, more than curious about the source, Tracks altered his course on his way back to his room. His path eventually led him deeper into the Ark, getting increasingly closer to the labs and the scientists' quarters. Knowing how this next played out, the corvette was not all that surprised to find the Twins at Perceptor's door as he rounded the corner. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe looked horrible..... Both mechs were covered in a fair layer of dirt and scratches, no doubt the end result of endless hours racing out in the desert. Their usually high-held helms and strong shoulders were bowed in defeat, as they huddled weakly outside Perceptor's door; Sideswipe lightly knocking on the metal every five kliks.

“Please..... Percy....,” the red warrior whispered desperately. “We just want to talk...... please..... let us in.....”

As before, Tracks was guessing, there came no answer. Sunstreaker curled his servos into tight fists, hunching against the wall as some strong, undefinable emotion ripped through him. His twin bit back his own burst of static that slipped past his lip components, pressing his palm flat to the door as he dropped his helm further. It appeared as if they might break down and cry at any moment....

His last pede-fall must have been too loud.

The lamborghinis turned their helms in his direction, expressions tightening as they glared at the corvette. It only lasted a moment before they quickly dropped their gazes again, turning stiffly and walking down the other end of the hall.

Only after they were gone, did Tracks walk forward, coming to a stop before Perceptor's door. The mech remained silent, looking over each wing, checking to see if anyone else still lingered in the hallway. Of course, no one did, and only Skyfire and Wheeljack had rooms here as well. One of whom was now avidly avoiding the lot of them, and the other who happened to be away on a mission during this unfortunate circumstance.

There was the soft hiss of the doors opening, and the corvette was engulfed in shaking arms. They wrapped around his chassis tightly, blunt fingertips practically digging into his back struts as Perceptor buried his face into the blue finish of his chestplates. Silently, Tracks responded, setting a strong servo on the bowed helm arch.

“Let's get you to Ratchet.....,” he said softly, turning the both of them down the hall.

Perceptor did not reply, but gripped the taller mech tighter; allowing himself to be led away.

xxXxXxx

Intakes spluttering, Tracks wrenched himself out of recharge, flying upwards on his berth. He stopped -pedes to the floor, and servos gripping the edge- as he slowly realized that he was all alone, within his own room and certainly not chained. The fear and anxiousness seeped out of his energon lines within that moment, leaving nothing but the roiling hatred and disgust to fill him.

Why had he thought about those things while asleep?

Why did he have to think of S-

The corvette quickly flicked his helm to the side, derailing that train of thought right there. He archived the file, pushing it to the farthest depths of his memory banks and burying it behind more and more files of mundane slag. Keeping a lock and an alert on the folder, Tracks hoped that his processor would never wander down that path again. No longer affected by the wayward memories, his cooling fans began to settle down again; heat escaping his frame and charge dissipating into a harmless, little buzz across his circuitry.

With an exhausted groan, the multi-coloured mech laid back on his berth..... and found that he was too wound up now to return to recharge.

Cursing lowly, Tracks rose fully this time, storming from his room none too quietly.

xxXxXxx

“Here again?”

The corvette greeted Ratchet with the same bland glare the medic gave him, before turning and promptly plopping himself in the nearest chair. Ratchet did not comment on the action, returning to his tools, where he had currently been cleaning them. Tracks, in the meantime, took a moment to survey the dimly-lit medbay. He recognized the new, gleaming paint on Mirage's frame; in the back of the room, curled on a berth, Perceptor's recharging form.

“He came back,” the multi-coloured Autobot remarked, having yet to remove his optics from the scientist's back struts.

The CMO looked up, following Tracks' line of sight. “Yes,” he replied softly. “He couldn't recharge. Same as you. He was in recharge barely ten kliks afterwards.”

“That makes it, what? A decacycle now.”

Ratchet sighed quietly. “Just about.”

“And Mirage,” Tracks went on, turning his gaze to the ex-Noble. “You've finally finished all the repairs?” He got to his pedes again, walking up to Mirage's berthside.

“Yes,” the medic answered again. “He's completely repaired now..... in terms of wounds in either case. I don't know how long it will before he can ever be labelled as mentally sound. Perhaps Smokescreen's sessions can help him reach that point, considering Wheeljack has been too preoccupied to complete the memory inhibitors that I asked of him.”

At Ratchet's last comment, the corvette snorted. Scowling, the CMO turned to the other mech. “What?,” he growled, immediately jumping onto the offensive. His servo curled around the handle of a wrench.

Slowly, Tracks looked up from Mirage, leveling his optics with Ratchet's. “Nothing,” he replied. “I was just thinking that Smokescreen might make things worse. Psychologist he may be marked as under the duty roster, but that mech has no idea what the frag he's doing.”

“He hasn't had to handle a situation like ours.....,” Ratchet tried to defend the Datsun.

“And that excuses him?!,” Tracks was quick to snarl back. The CMO forcibly withdrew his servo, leaving the wrench on the tray with the other tools.

“No,” he quipped dryly.

“But,” the medic added, when the corvette returned to his study of the white spy. “He is trying.”

“I suppose when compared to the rest of our so called, 'comrades', it's nice to know that he doesn't treat us like we've got the cyber plague.” Ratchet frowned further at the callous comment, but decided not to speak on it. Though it seemed his mouth had other ideas.....

“That's not the case.....”

“Oh, is it?,” Tracks said, cutting off the CMO. He turned to face the white mech, wings held stiffly behind his back. “Tell me Ratchet, have you even been outside of medbay these past weeks? Have you gone to the rec room, yourself, to get a cube? Have you bothered to even try and go see Prime in the control room?”

No response.

“No.... I didn't think so.” The corvette shook his helm, turning his back to the medic. “Believe me Ratchet, things are better within this room. At least no one skirts around you, gazes fixed on anything but you. Or worse.....their optics pitying as they stare relentlessly at you, when they can be bothered to remember that you exist.”

Ratchet could not reply to that. He wanted to -a part of him, deep within- wanted to fight spark and chassis over such a declaration. But even the medic had been aware of the glances First Aid constantly shot him; how desperate the younger protectobot seemed to take all of Ratchet's duties on to himself, trying to force the CMO into resting.

He could only imagine how much worse it was outside of his medbay.....

Tracks was keeping silent vigil over Mirage still. Quietly, hesitantly, the multi-coloured mech lifted a servo, barely resting it on the ex-Noble's helm arch. “.....At least you managed to get him to recharge eventually.....”

The medic shifted, unnerved by the comment. He was grateful when people could be bothered to thank him for his work, but this had been a task that he rather not be mentioned again. He never wanted to have to fix anyone -especially a comrade- of wounds of this kind of nature.

“Go back to recharge, Tracks,” he instead said, turning around tersely. He occupied himself with his tools, taking them back to their drawers. “You can sleep on any of the berths you like.”

Exhausted now, the corvette decided to take Ratchet's offer instead of fighting him on it. With drooping wings, he headed to the farthest one, a good distance away from either of the three other mechs in the room. It did not take him long either to slip back into recharge.

xxXxXxx

With Mirage completely repaired now, medbay really did not need to be sanctioned off from the rest of the crew. But even if its doors had been open again to the general public, it seemed unlikely that any of the other Autobots would have dared tread inside. Ratchet was glad for it, if only because it became more and more apparent that they still needed a refuge to call their own.

Perceptor, unable to handle the Twins' constant confrontation, escaped every orn to the medbay; curling up on whichever berth he chose that night and recharging that way. Still reminded of their banishment from last time, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe steered clear of the medbay and its hallways.

Mirage was not yet able to handle being out in the rest of the Ark himself yet. The following morning that the spy had woken up, Tracks and Ratchet had attempted to guide him to the rec room for some energon. They had made it all the way into the room, before the ex-Noble broke out into convulsions, refusing to go any further. Ratchet slipped a sedative into the hysteric race car's systems, knocking Mirage into stasis, before lifting him up and bringing him back to medbay.

The spy still had yet to leave, though Smokescreen had been making it his business to come and see Mirage in the medbay for his counselling sessions. A very quiet affair, since the Datsun couldn't get a word out of the other mech.

Ratchet tried to go and get his own fuel rations during these moments when Mirage was under another's supervision, but found that even he couldn't stomach being watched by those few optics. He eventually gave up entirely, retreating to the sanctity of his domain once more, letting First Aid continue bringing him his energon.

Tracks could care less. The corvette strode where ever he pleased around the Ark, wings high and optics narrowed. He hated the looks he was given, but a glare in that 'bot's direction quickly turned that attention the other way. Fury waged within him, thick and sludge-like, clouding his spark with its murky darkness. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear and break something until everything he felt inside just stopped. But there was no outlet for him to find, and despite growing increasingly annoyed and disgusted with his crewmates, the multi-coloured mech was not about to release that chaos on the others.

It would only give Smokescreen more incentive to badger him....

With this evidence set before them, the futility of recovery started to cement itself in the Autobots' processors, darkening the gloom that hung over the Ark like a burial shroud.

xxXxXxx

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes?,” Smokescreen called, turning away from his datapad. The door opened, granting admittance to the yellow and red lamborghinis that stood just on the other side.

“Smokescreen..... can we talk?,” Sideswipe started, coming into the office. He paused immediately, upon seeing Perceptor, hunched over timidly in his seat.

“Sideswipe, Sunstreaker. Can it wait? I'm just finishing up with Perceptor.”

“N-no.....,” the scientist whispered meekly. The Datsun turned to him curiously. “I-it's alright, S-smokescreen. I-i-i'll just g-go now.”

“Are you sure Perceptor?,” the gambler asked. “You've still got a few kliks left....”

Perceptor shook his helm, slowly rising to his pedes. “N-no, i-it's okay. Th-they w-wish to talk t-to you, a-and I'm d-done an-anyways....” The microscope held his arms close to his chassis, turning to the doorway.

“Well, alright, Perceptor,” Smokescreen sighed. “Please, take care. I'll see you again, same time tomorrow.” The scientist did not linger any longer, quickly making for the exit. He paused some as the twins moved out of his path, looking up at them anxiously before dropping his gaze to the floor and practically fleeing from the room.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker watched him go, expressions withdrawn. Smokescreen stood up, coming up  behind the two burly warriors and resting a servo each on their shoulder armour. “Just give him time,” the Datsun said. “It....it's been hard on him, on all of them, and this is just the first step in their recovery. He'll speak with you again soon enough.”

“.....I just wish it was sooner,” Sideswipe muttered brokenly. Sunstreaker said nothing, tearing away from Smokescreen's comforting touch. “W-we just..... we lo- care for him. We don't want him to ignore us like this.”

There was not much the psychiatrist could say to this; no matter how he wished it. “Come,” he invited, walking back to his desk. “Take a seat.”

Slowly, the two mechs did so.