BESEECH YOU

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Warning: Physical torture

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"The only sound,
Is the battle cry,"

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Vince carefully worked the sodder around the edge of the main energon line, his eyes squinting in concentration while sparks flew around him.

    His position was cramped, one leg braced against some kind of metal stabilizing structure, the other dangling while his body remained wedged between the T-cog and protoform lining. He was one of the few psychotic enough to take such a position; if Cyclonus woke up, he'd surely be cut in half by all of the moving parts.

    June Darby stood just outside of the new cavity carved into Cyclonus' side, her hands holding a clipboard with multiple papers attached, all of which had various diagrams she could use to help Vince work around the biomechanism. Having hands-on experience with attaching one - an impressive combination of duct tape, gauze, and Starscream's own mechanisms - she was one of the few considered qualified for giving such instructions. The only reason Vince was doing the work was because it was his job; some silly laws and regulations prevented June from putting her hands on the mech. She was a human caretaker, not a Cybertronian mechanic. It was stupid, and they both knew it, however their complaints would fall on deaf ears.

    It was a silently awkward affair, to say the least. June was well aware Vince used to bully her son in high school, and he challenged Jack on multiple occasions to illegal street racing. Vince was far from a "good model" for anyone. And while she seemed to really like their Cybertronian counterparts, Vince despised them. It's why he volunteered to cut out one of their most precious organs; just so he could stick a metaphorical middle finger up in the air.

    "I'm almost done," he announced, already burned through three-quarters. "What's next?"

    "There will be a few wires that will have to be cut," June answered. "As long as Cyclonus remains in stasis, they should be dead." There was a pause as she looked towards the stasis-team, which gave her a thumb's up. "His vitals are looking good, and stable."

    Vince shimmied through the Decepticon's gut, various entanglements of energon lines and wires providing plenty of temptation to cut something vital. Instead he restrained himself, settling next to the T-cog and looking around. He saw the attachments, quickly snipping each one. The biomechanism hissed softly in protest, then fell into its cavity with a finalizing ping, the removal process complete. Taking a breath, Vince began moving towards the exit wound, having been pressed on the opposite side of the surgical site.

    Sliding past the T-cog, the young man reached for the next handhold. In the same motion his foot slipped on the smooth metal, flailing for a brief moment before he grabbed onto something.

    "Scrap!" He cursed as whatever he had snatched came loose with a pop, the ground coming way too fast as liquid splashed onto his skin.

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Only soft beeps fragmented the silence surrounding the makeshift medical bay, Wheeljack's optics closed as the occasional hiss of artificial ventilation joined the spark monitor. His digits ached, wondering how Ratchet could stand doing medical work for so long.

Optimus' spark had flickered out for a brief moment, scaring the scrap out of everyone present to witness it. When it came back Wheeljack had seized the moment to stabilize it, using his own EM field and spark to buy precious time as the rest of Optimus was stabilized by Ultra Magnus and the humans. The Matrix of Leadership most likely also played a role, as it seemed counterintuitive to let one of the most powerful devices in the Universe to let its host expire.

Optimus was, for all intents and purposes, dead. He had artificial breathing to prevent his repairing frame from heating up, his spark was barely able to function on its own, and though they could not know for certain, Wheeljack was willing to bet his brain activity was limited. There was some guilt; maybe Optimus was better off staying in that lake, where he had enough energon to replenish his diminishing resources.

At the same time, however, he was safest here, in the Autobot base. Bumblebee found him by chance - Primus forbid, a Decepticon could have done the same thing. Then Prime would have certainly died, if not repaired only to endure unfathomable pain.

Taking a deep ventilation he opened his optics again, checking the vitals and seeing they had not moved since he last watched them five minutes ago. Still, Wheeljack was paranoid, not wanting all of their efforts to be for naught. His muscle cables ached, but he refused to rest at this time.

Miko had gone some time ago, hearing the news that the guerilla team had returned. She wanted to check on Jack and make sure he was okay; Wheeljack assumed they were chatting, as it had been a while since she had returned. Everything appeared to go as according to plan as it could, which they had to be grateful for.

Optimus Prime's sparkbeat jumped up just a little, jolting Wheeljack for a moment. He looked at the Prime, the beat returning to its slow, dependent pace before he could ascertain whether the change in pace was a good or bad sign. The Wrecker stood and checked the Autobot leader's chassis, placing a servo on his broken window.

"Come on, Prime," Wheeljack sighed. "If you're gonna make a comeback, you better do it fast. We need all the help we can get."

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Mirage groaned as he came to, optics flickering online. The first thing he noticed was how everything ached, his joints especially throbbing in pain. He craned his neck to look around, realizing he was restrained to a table in a laboratory-like room.

Jerking at his restraints, the spy hissed in frustration as he could not slip out of his manacles. Even with his strongest efforts the energon cuffs held him fast, his efforts drawing the attention of the other resident in the room. Mirage also noticed them, his optics widening.

"Ratchet?" He gaped, taking in the medic. He looked . . . strange, though part of it was due to his glowing purple optics. Yet as he moved, Mirage realized his body language mirrored that of his master, Megatron.

Slow, calculating steps moved the medic toward his prisoner, his optics not breaking contact with his former Autobot ally.

"Mirage," the medic acknowledged. He sounded the same, however there was a more sinister tone underlying his words. "Comfortable?"

"What has he done to you?" Mirage continued to struggle. "Ratchet . . . you were Optimus' closest friend. What happened?"

There was a brief flicker, Ratchet setting his jaw as, for the briefest of moments, he broke optic-contact with the Autobot.

"What happened was Megatron showed me the truth," Ratchet retorted, pausing in front of Mirage. "Optimus Prime lied to us, Mirage. He lied to all of us. If we had only let Megatron do what he wanted, if only the Council had just listened . . . Cybertron would not have had to suffer."

"He poisoned our core! He slaughtered billions of lives, both Cybertronian and organic . . ." Mirage stared at him. "If we had given him what he wanted, who knows what he would have done if he had power?"

"You see what he is doing now," the medic snarled. "He is restoring Cybertron and finally bringing order to our world, something the Council never did unless it was for their own benefit. His Cybertron will be a better Cybertron, but you Autobots are so blinded by loyalty you can't see it."

Though Mirage had heard plenty of yelling from the former Autobot, he had never heard such seething hatred directed at anyone aside from Megatron. Now, Ratchet was vehemently defending the Decepticon warlord, his spark filled with unwavering loyalty for him.

A mech who, according to Jack, had beaten, destroyed, and manipulated Ratchet into full obedience. The medic's purple optics were telling, though; without the dark energon in his symptoms, Mirage believed Ratchet would not be this way. He could not be, not after a hundred millennia of staying at Optimus Prime's side and defending his friend at every turn.

"What are you doing?" He questioned as the medic moved to the side, towards a table full of various tools. The spy tugged at his restraints, starting to panic a little.

"Lord Megatron wants information," Rachet said simply. "And though he wants to use a cortical psychic patch, we know you are very skilled at resisting it. So, you will need to be whittled down."

"And . . . you're going to torture me?" Mirage felt his voice box glitch just a little. There was no way, no way. He was a medic. He would never-

Ratchet picked up a surgical tool, which Mirage did not know the name of, but easily recognized it as medical related. Ratchet's servos were all too familiar with it, digits gracefully slipping around it until it fit snugly in his palm. He gazed over at Mirage.

"Ratchet . . . don't," he begged. "This isn't you!"

"You could answer my questions, and be spared a lot of pain," Ratchet reasoned. "We have narrowed down the location of the Autobot base, but we have yet to outright discover its coordinates."

Mirage stared at him, the energon in his veins going cold.

"I can't," he said. "You know we can't give up the base's coordinates."

"You can. You just won't," Ratchet bared his denta a little.

"If we give up the base's location, then the war is over," Mirage said desperately. "And Megatron will destroy Earth, and eventually Cybertron will be gone too."

"He told me he would not," Ratchet snapped back, "He would only do what is necessary to keep Earth and Cybertron in line. No more, no less. Humanity is safer with him than with any of the Autobots."

"He's a Decepticon," even though Mirage knew he was past this, he still tried to reason with the mech. "He will make false promises to you and then break them behind your back."

"Megatron has never lied to me," Ratchet hissed. "He has done nothing but show me the truth, and expose the Autobot deception. Now, will you give me the location of the Autobot base, or will we need to do things the hard way?"

Mirage grit his denta, his digits curling into fists. He could not - would not - betray his faction. If Megatron knew where Area 51 was, it would spell the end of their cause.

He was not surprised Megatron still lacked the knowledge of the base, even after three Earth years. The Autobot interference spread across enough territory to leave the Decepticons guessing, leaving them with hundreds of possibilities for the true HQ of the faction.

"I won't tell you anything," he answered, shuttering his optics. "Even if you cut me into tiny pieces, Ratchet."

The medic merely seemed disappointed, letting out a sigh. "If that is your final decision."

He approached with the tool, the sterile gleam much more sinister now that Mirage was well aware of its user's intent. The medic paused, his practiced optics tracing the spy's frame as he considered his first move.

"Ratchet-" Mirage hissed as soft digits pressed against his chest armor, gripping along the seam. He tried to clamp the armor down, though Ratchet beat him to the punch as the tool came beneath and snapped one of the hydraulic hoses that would have allowed him to do so, the chest piece going slack. It sent a slight jolt of pain through him, making him cringe.

With six more painful snips, each one a little worse than the last, the chest armor was surgically removed, and Mirage was left with half of his spark chamber and wiring exposed. His protoform was separated from the armor with unreal precision, still intact along his more sensitive energon lines and wires.

He grunted with each snip of the other chest plate, not yet screaming but in extreme discomfort. This torment was almost worse, the systematic removal of his protection leaving him increasingly distressed. The true agony had yet to begin, but he could likely expect it to go from tolerable to borderline fatal in the span of a few seconds. Especially with Ratchet . . . he knew how to make it hurt.

The medic worked apathetically, little expression on his face as he worked. When he finished with the chest plates he moved and set the tool down, carefully selecting a different one - that one Mirage recognized as a scalpel.

This time he cried out a little more, keening as Ratchet sliced his protoform open and roughly peeled it from its hold on the various structures, some of his more delicate energon lines rupturing and creating minute pools of blue. The pieces of protoform were equally discarded, leaving Mirage's inner parts open to the cold, unsterile environment. He could easily catch rust, which would latch onto his energon tanks and spark, eating away at it until he offlined.

He had been tortured before, but never with this level of body horror.

"You are free to answer at any time," Ratchet said evenly. "What is the location of the Autobot base? What is the pattern associated with your attacks? Why did you attack base ID 430-115? And perhaps allow yourself to be captured?"

Mirage bit his glossa as he watched energon leak from his severed lines, grimacing in pain.

"If I had wanted to be captured, I would be acting much more cocky," he snipped back. "And I would have made sure there wasn't a human in my passenger seat!"

"A human?" Ratchet narrowed his optics at him.

Mirage stared for a moment, realizing Ratchet was being serious. He did not know.

"You might be familiar with him," he began, though he had no need to finish his sentence.

"Jack." Ratchet almost dropped his scalpel, his optics widening and mouth hanging open for the briefest of moments before closing again. Mirage guessed correctly that Megatron had never told him that the human was on the ship . . . but where, Mirage did not know. The spy became aware that the thought terrified him; where was Jack? And what was Megatron doing to him, if not killing him?

Ratchet set the tool down, and without a word he exited the room, leaving Mirage in his lonesome, his chest cavity still exposed to the elements.

"Guess Megatron might not lie . . . but he does withhold the truth from you," Mirage muttered into the empty room.

The medic entered the cold halls of New Darkmount in pursuit of his master, his spark reverberating in his chest.

Jack was here? In New Darkmount? But why had Megatron not mentioned anything? He had merely dragged the spy into Ratchet's lab and told him what he wanted: the medic to get information in any way he could.

Ratchet was no stranger to torture. Smokescreen's death no longer haunted him, thus Megatron allowed him to occasionally extract the information himself from the Autobots.

It started out slow. Megatron would take prisoners and use his usual methods to break them, but sometimes he had Ratchet join him, his venomous words snaking through his audio receptor and coiling around his processor. Before too long, Ratchet learned how to enjoy torture as much as his master, though he had a few more reservations about the practice. He, at the very least, asked questions.

A part of him wondered if Megatron was torturing Jack again, and an even smaller part of him became angry at the notion. He reasoned, though, that Jack was now more involved in the war than ever. It was no secret the human boy had participated in multiple attacks against the Decepticons, Megatron having made it very clear that any injury to Jack's frame would result in severe consequences.

Ratchet was not disillusioned; Megatron merely wanted to destroy the human for himself. He had no care for Jack in the slightest.

Using the bond he sought Megatron out in the main core of Darkmount, where Earth activity was heavily monitored by Soundwave and the Vehicon helpers. Megatron barely tilted his helm to glance at his servant, already able to sense something was troubling him.

"Mirage told me that Jack was captured too. Where is he?"

Ah. Megatron supposed he should have anticipated this. He did not want Ratchet to know immediately, concerned that he would object to the human's torture, which would set back his efforts quite a bit. However, Mirage had prematurely revealed Jack's presence.

"He is in his own cell," he did not bother to lie. "Resting."

Ratchet digested the information momentarily. "Why did you not tell me he was here?"

"Jack must be punished for his crimes against the Decepticon cause," Megatron replied, turning to fully face him. "And as you have sentiment for him, I did not believe you would . . . appreciate learning of his discomfort."

"I do not have -" Ratchet stopped short, realizing he was lying to his master. Yes, he did have sentiment for Jack. He cared for the human. Instead he tried a different tactic. "May I see him?"

This time Megatron hesitated, debating his options. He had just promised Jack that he would see no one but himself for the duration of his torment, however Ratchet was technically an extension of himself. Yet he did not want the sight of Jack to undermine his efforts to keep Ratchet under his control.

Whether the medic knew it or not, every decision Megatron made about his interactions with the Autobots and their human allies centered around if he believed the medic would not revert back to his resistant pre-Dark Energon state. As much as he wanted to believe the medic was 100% beneath his control, he had his doubts.

"I will take you to him," he finally said. The medic would see him regardless of his master's permission; he still had some semblance of free will after all. Megatron would just prefer it was under his supervision.

Barking orders at his inferiors, he then took Ratchet out and into the halls, his powerful presence a comfort for the medic. They made their way to the prison cells, unsurprisingly, Megatron typing in the passcode at one particular door.

Jack jolted open as the door opened, not having expected Megatron to return so early. He grit his teeth, but his expression was wiped clean off his face when a new voice called his name.

"Jack?"

"Ratchet," he breathed.