[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Three

[dracoqueen22]

a/n: I'm going to say this at every chapter until it gets better. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. This fic is pretty darned terrible. And also NSFW. Also, I decided to list characters and warnings on a chapter by chapter basis with the standard overall warning of slavery, noncon/rape, and triggery content.

Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Hound, Onslaught, Swindle, Jazz, Bluestreak, Blast Off, First Aid, Shockwave, Grimlock, Constructicons/Ratchet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: Humiliation, Forced Bondage, Forced Oral, Noncon/Rape, Triggery Content
Commission fic for NK

Mood Music: "Toward the End," Within Temptation

Oubliette
Chapter Three

Optimus onlined in a flash, a stinging pain radiating through his face as his optics and audials snapped to awareness. Static fizzed from his visual feed, coalescing into an image of Megatron leaning over him, as smirk on the warlord's face.

“Time to go to work, Prime,” he said.

Optimus bit back a groan and shifted his weight. He checked his chronometer, surprised to find that more than a day had passed since he was last online. That was a long time to be in recharge, but – he checked himself – nothing new had appeared since then. He still had the same shackles and collar, and was still leashed to the wall. Though now he sat upright against it, his legs sprawled out in front of him.

“I hope you rested well,” Megatron said as he stood over Optimus. One pede planted to either side of Optimus' thighs, until he could see nothing but the dark gray of Megatron's pelvic array. “You have a busy day ahead of you.”

Optimus turned his helm away, shuttering his optics. “I would rather stay chained to this wall.”

“That is not an option.” Megatron's hand landed on his helm, turning his face back toward Megatron's pelvic array. Megatron's free hand rested on the span of it, fingers tapping the panel that concealed his spike.

Optimus grimaced. Megatron truly lacked imagination.

“Your energon levels must be getting low. Open your mouth.”

“No.”

Megatron shook his helm, clicking his glossa. “Have you not learned your lesson from yesterday?”

“I have learned pain.” He looked up at Megatron, optics narrowed, but the heat behind them reflected his fury. “It is not the worst you can do to me.”

Megatron's field hit him like a blaster shot, a dizzying swamp of irritation and amusement, somehow both at once.

“You're right,” he said with a dark laugh. “It's not.” He released his hold on Optimus' helm with a sharp push and knocked his helm against the wall.

It caused a brief fuzz of static in Optimus' optics. It was a petty retort. But he supposed any damage, no matter how small, was acceptable to Megatron.

Optimus looked up, confused, as Megatron detached his lead from the wall, and hooked it to the connector at Optimus wrists. His pedes were unlocked as well, leaving him free to take off and run if he so chose. He would have to find some means of removing the shackles at his wrists and that damned shock collar first.

It couldn't be that easy.

Optimus hesitated, his frown deepening.

Megatron ignored him. Instead, he took a step back and activated his comm.

“Bring him in,” Megatron said. His attention returned to Optimus, his field thick with self-satisfaction. “You see, Prime. While you were sleeping, I've been working. Tracking down the pathetic remains of your army.”

Optimus' optics cycled wider. Dread curdled in his tanks, mingling with the warnings that he was only at twenty-five percent capacity.

He heard the outer doors open, followed by the sounds of several pedesteps before three mechs came into view, two Decepticons dragging an Autobot between them. Optimus didn't recognize these Decepticons from the Earth crew, but he did recognize his Autobot.
Of the mechs left in hiding, Hound was one of the last Optimus expected to be caught by Megatron, if at all.

The green tracker was energon-stained and bruised, as though he had been treated to the same Decepticon hospitality as Optimus. One optic was shattered, the other flickered on and off. His plating was scorched, they'd ripped his shoulder-mounted launcher off, and his armor was a pockmark of bullet holes.

Optimus lurched forward, but Megatron intercepted him with a blow to the face that felt almost casual, for all that it sent Optimus' processor into a spin. He groaned, thoughts fuzzy, catching himself on his bound wrists.

“He's alive,” Megatron said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “And since you don't want to cooperate, I'll have to find a substitute.”

He pressed the tip of his thumb to Hound's lips, sweeping away trickles of energon. “He'll probably be more cooperative anyway.”

“No.” Optimus groaned and shook his helm. His optics wouldn't focus, sending him error messages. His intake squeezed as though the collar were tightening around it.

“He's a bit on the small side,” Megatron said.

Hound's captors released him, taking several steps back, giving Megatron room to circle around Hound. He reached out, poking and prodding at the green scout as though evaluating him for future use. Hands and legs dripping with chains, Hound didn't move. He didn't speak either.

But his one functioning optic focused on Optimus. As though demanding for him to do something, to be the leader he's supposed to be.

“He'll probably need a more gentle touch,” Megatron continued, musing aloud. “But who has the patience for that?”

Optimus growled, his engine responding to his growing panic. “Megatron.”

The warlord continued to circle around Hound, once more arriving at Hound's front, his hand measuring the breadth of Hound's array. His fingers swept across it, tracing the seams of the protective panel. Hound shuddered and drew into himself.

“I think he'll do, however,” Megatron said.

“Megatron!” Optimus threw himself forward, hoping it was what Megatron wanted. Hoping that his desperation would grant him a mercy.

He couldn't sit here and watch this. Not while remembering the look in Ratchet's optics, his apology filled with self-loathing. If he could save at least one, if he could spare Hound that indignity... it would be worth it.

He couldn't let Hound suffer for his own sake. He couldn't.

His gyros still spun. Optimus half-sprawled across the floor, limited by the reach of his chains, and he heard the stifled laughter of the watching Decepticons.

Optimus only had optics for Megatron. He was the one who made the rules.

Megatron half-turned as though just noticing Optimus. “Did you say something, Prime?” He looked down at his sprawled slave.

Optimus worked his intake, his ventilations stuttering. The words felt trapped on his vocalizer. His tank squeezed.

There was no guarantee this would work. No guarantee that it would buy him anything but more humiliation and pain. But could he do nothing, turn his helm, with Hound standing there? Staring at him with one functioning optic while Megatron pawed at him as though he were some buymech on the street?

He'd failed them all once already.

Optimus' helm lowered. “I'll do it,” he said, barely above a whisper. The admission felt torn from his vocalizer and was gilded with static.

Megatron turned away from Hound and stepped closer, the sheer presence of him looming over Optimus. “I didn't hear you.”

Optimus glared, though his gaze was affixed on the floor. Submissive. Yielding.

“I said that I will do it.”

The tip of Megatron's pede nudged his chin, forcing him to look upward. “And why don't I believe you, Prime?”

His frame shook. “You have my word.”

Megatron laughed, a push of his pede urging Optimus upright before he stepped even closer, mimicking the pose he had taken earlier. He was close enough that Optimus could smell the heat of his arousal.

“Prove it,” Megatron purred, and given their current position, all Optimus could see of him was again, the dark gray of his pelvis and the seams of his interfacing array. Megatron had yet to open them.

Optimus could lean a fraction to his left and he would be able to see Hound. He imagined that his soldier wouldn't be able to look at him in return. He imagined that Hound was begging for his protection. He imagined that Hound had seen the broadcasts and maybe, it didn't matter either way.

Into the fire.

Optimus looked up at Megatron. “You'll let him go?” Why was he requesting a promise of a Decepticon? What weight did it carry? Yet he found himself asking anyway, if only to settle his own spark.

He tried. He could at least say that he tried.

“I'll let him live. Anything further depends on you.”

Optimus cycled a ventilation. Megatron still had to open his panel. He intended to make this difficult. Ugh. Optimus offlined his optics. Better if he didn't have to look.

He leaned forward and nuzzled against Megatron's panel, feeling the heat of him against his cheek. The watching Decepticons snickered. Hound's chains rattled but why, Optimus could not see.

Megatron hummed his approval. “Go on.” His hand, at least, stayed away from Optimus' helm.

Optimus braced himself and parted his lips, the tip of his glossa touching the heat of Megatron's panel. He heard the warlord cycle a sharp ventilation before Optimus continued, tracing the seams of Megatron's array with his glossa. He left a trail of oral lubricant behind.

Only the act itself was unpleasant. Megatron, at least, was clean. It did not reflect the blackness of his spark unfortunately. Optimus did not know if it was better or worse.

The rumble in Megatron's engine grew stronger, vibrating against Optimus' lips. But Megatron said nothing. He supposed the silence was approval.

Optimus ex-vented and picked up the pace. He flattened his glossa over the panel concealing Megatron's spike and stroked his cheek against the dark gray plating. He soaked Megatron's array with his oral lubricants until at last, the panel slid aside and Megatron's spike slowly pressurized, glossy as it emerged.

Optimus drew it into his mouth, the tip of his glossa playing with the transfluid slit, much to Megatron's delight. A hand rested on his helm, less to guide and more to encourage, a thumb sweeping over Optimus' audial. He expected Megatron to dismiss their audience, but no, Optimus' humiliation would not be complete without one.

He let Megatron slip deeper into his mouth, knowing well enough to keep his denta out of play. He stroked the length of it with his glossa, and applied pressure with his lips. Oral lubricant dribbled down his throat and from the corners of his mouth, but Optimus didn't want to drag this out.

A second hand landed on his helm, this time more forceful. Megatron rocked into Optimus' mouth at a faster face. He urged Optimus to take him deeper and deeper with each thrust. His spike throbbed in Optimus' mouth, pre-fluid streaming from his spike. He grunted above Optimus, hips surging forward, his spike bumping the back of Optimus' intake.

He gagged, not that it stopped Megatron. There was a noise, like a muffled laugh, before Megatron's grip on Optimus' helm become immovable. He shoved himself into Optimus' mouth without care. It was all Optimus could do to keep his mouth open, keep from scraping denta against sensitive metal, lest Megatron take it for an attack.

When Megatron finally overloaded, it was to Optimus' relief. Jets of scalding transfluid shot down his intake, giving him no choice but to swallow. He swore he could feel it coursing through him, slithering all the way down to his tanks. One spurt, then two, and Megatron pulled out enough to leave a dribble of transfluid on Optimus' glossa before the final two surges splattered on Optimus' face, narrowly missing an optic.

Megatron stepped back with a pat of satisfaction to Optimus' helm as Optimus coughed, spitting the transfluid off his glossa. Globs of it splattered to the floor as his vents heaved, struggling to clear themselves of the unwelcome spill. He could still feel it clinging to his lower lipplate, and to his face. The scent of it filled his olfactory sensors.

Megatron stared down at Optimus, lips curled with rebuke. “Che,” he said. “You’re wasting your breakfast.” He cuffed Optimus across the helm, a comparatively light blow. “Clean it up.”

Optimus brought up his chained wrists, wiping off his mouth before he let his hands settle in his lap again. He ignored the command, staring down at the splatter on the floor. His jaw ached. His tank churned.

They had been fighting for millennia. But never once had Optimus hated Megatron. He had been disappointed. He had hoped that the warlord might come to accept a truce. He had understood Megatron's original intentions. He had pitied Megatron. But the war had never been personal to him. It had been an unfortunate consequence.

Optimus had never hated Megatron.

But he stared down at the transfluid he'd spat out and something a lot like loathing coiled within his spark.

“Still haven't learned, Prime?” Megatron stepped aside, giving Optimus clear sight of Hound, who had something akin to horror painted onto his faceplate. Megatron gestured toward him. “Perhaps your Autobot is hungrier.”

Optimus' optics widened. Hound made a sound of protest and an aborted step forward, his functioning optic flicking to Megatron before he retreated that half-step.

Yes, Optimus reasoned as he looked down at the spill on the floor, some of it dripping from his face to join the mess. He could see where hate might have its roots.

His faceplate burned. His tank churned. He felt the optics watching him, three pairs of burning red, and one single, flickering blue.

He braced his elbows on the floor, bent himself in two, and he cleaned up his mess. He licked the floor clean, tasting grit and transfluid and humiliation, all of it burning as it slid like curdled coolant down his intake. He would argue that the floor was cleaner than before, and he couldn't look at anyone by the time he finished.

Megatron vibrated with approval. He turned his back on Hound, striding toward Optimus once more. His fingers made a quick sweep of Optimus' face, gathering up the last few dribbles of transfluid. He thrust them toward Optimus' mouth, wriggling his fingers.

“Remember not to bite,” Megatron said.

Optimus affixed him with a glare, but he obeyed, drawing Megatron's fingers into his mouth and licking them clean with quick sweeps of his glossa. What was one or two more globs compared to what he had already done?

Megatron grinned and patted his helm. “Good boy.”

He stepped in front of Optimus and addressed his Decepticons. “Take the Autobot to the holding pen for now. See that his immediate injuries are taken care of so that he doesn't offline. I'll decide what to do with him later.”

“Yes, sir!”

They left and Optimus did not watch them go. Instead, he stared at the floor, at the shadows against the polished metal, his mouth tasting dry and sour. Tasting, he reasoned, like shame and defeat.

His fuel tanks reported a half percent increase, marginal at best.

Megatron's hand rested on his helm again, stroking him as one might a turbofox or similar pet. “That wasn't so hard, now was it, Prime?”

He jerked his helm out from under Megatron and scuttled away from the warlord, doing his best to put distance between them. “Don't patronize me.”

Megatron laughed and pulled a mesh cloth out of subspace, tossing it in Optimus' general direction. “Clean yourself up. We have several appointments to keep.”

“More displays of your might?” Optimus asked, refusing to keep the bitterness out of his vocals. He would have rathered a trip to the washracks, but the cloth was better than nothing, even if it could do little for the mess staining his thighs from Megatron's prior assault.

“Of a sort.” Megatron left him on the floor, heading into the next room. Optimus had no doubt that the doors were locked and security around every corner. “You should be happy. You're being allowed to leave this room.”

Optimus frowned. He gave himself a cursory swipe with the mesh cloth, longing for some washracks, solvent, and a wool scrub brush. Even if it took half his paint with it.

Megatron strolled back into sight, an energon cube in hand. He tipped it back, easily draining more than two-thirds of the liquid in one pull. He smacked his lips noisily and strode up to Optimus, curling a finger under the collar. His knuckle put pressure on Optimus' intake as he tugged, forcing Optimus to stand if he didn't want to risk injury.

Megatron swished the energon cube at him. “Tell me, Prime, what do your energy levels report?”

Optimus' hands clenched into fists. “Adequate.”

“I'll decide what's adequate. Open.”

His fuel tank growled at him. His mouth filled with oral lubricant. The energon was of a shade that spoke of solar-refinement, sweet and airy to the taste. It had been a rare but welcome treat during their tenure on Earth. Optimus could only wonder if this was Megatron's special stock or if he'd somehow acquired more.

Optimus opened his mouth and Megatron tipped his helm back with a nudge to the bottom of his jaw. He trickled the energon down Optimus' intake, an action that might have been seen as servile to anyone else. But Optimus knew better than that.

The energon warmed on the way down. It was smooth and sweet when a few stray drops hit his glossa, just as he imagined it would be, and it filled his tank with warmth. Optimus almost moaned his approval before he managed to lock it back.

His energy levels climbed back up a paltry eight percent. There'd only been enough in the cube for a mouthful.

Megatron grinned and crushed the cube. He tossed it in the corner to join a stack of other crumpled containers. “I expect you'll thank me for that later,” he said, and dropped his hold on Optimus' collar.

Optimus stumbled and was quick to catch himself, focusing on the odd sensation of nice, clean energon on his glossa. It washed away the sour flavor of transfluid and grit. He swept his glossa around his mouth, gathering up every last trace of the energon.

He stared at the ground and surreptitiously watched Megatron retrieve various accessories and return.

Megatron clipped the lead back to Optimus collar and bound his arms behind his back. All the better to keep him pacified, Optimus supposed. Only then did Megatron leave his quarters, Optimus trailing along after him like an obedient slave.

There was a time and a place for disobedience. Now was not so. Despite how much it would unsettle him, he did want to see which of his Autobots had survived. And which he should begin to mourn.

They exited the Prime Residence, passed the medical facility, and headed into Iacon proper. The city was a fascinating mix of rebuild and ruin. Megatron had obviously made some attempt to reconstruct what had been lost, though to be fair, the Autobots had abandoned Iacon before Megatron could raze it to the ground. Most of the infrastructure had remained sound.

But the Decepticons had only built outward, in a circular pattern from Iacon center. Optimus could see the clear line between progress and stagnation, where they focused on current projects while other structures were tagged as next in line. He passed a few sites being directed by individual Constructicons, recognizing Mixmaster, Scrapper, and Long Haul among them.

A few businesses had taken over the buildings abandoned by their original owners. Places that sold weapons, flavored energon, detailing, and upgrades. There were Decepticons everywhere, more than Optimus could recognize, and every one of them stopped to stare. Of course they would recognize Optimus. His image had been plastered on every piece of Decepticon propaganda as The Enemy just as Megatron had been the symbol for the Decepticons.

Optimus, however, did not see a single Autobot. If they were being used for slave labor, he couldn't see where.

“You see, Prime,” Megatron said after they completed a circuit and he aimed Optimus back toward the central compound. “We have no need for Autobots.”

He set his jaw. “And yet, here I am, collared and leashed.”

“Indeed. Because we have no use for you otherwise. We will be rid of every last one of you eventually, and then I can build my empire as I please.” Megatron flashed him a grin. “No one will ever forget my name.”

Optimus paused, there on the edge of Iacon, and oddly, Megatron did not tug him along. He turned to look back at Optimus, his orbital ridges raised.

“How long do you think you can sustain it?” Optimus demanded as his hands curled into fists. “Cybertron plummets through space without end. The planet is dead and only Primus knows how you're getting your energon. And yet, all you can think about is the glory of your empire?”

“Among other things.” Megatron's optics darkened, but for the moment, it wasn't with the kind of anger that led to physical repercussions. “Lest you forget, Autobot, that it was my empire that lead to your defeat.”

Optimus scoffed, rolling his optics. “And it only took you millennia upon millennia of battle. So much for the Decepticon might. You call us soft-sparks but we stood up to you, didn't we?”

“You did,” Megatron acknowledged and he moved closer, until the edges of his field brushed against Optimus', not that he could read anything of it. “And look at what it brought you. How many of your Autobots are dead, Optimus? How many have you failed?”

Optimus' spark stuttered.

Megatron's lips curled into a slow, steady smirk. “You and your pathetic civilians were outnumbered and outclassed from the beginning. How many times did I offer you the chance to surrender and you refused?”

“You would have turned us into slaves!” Optimus spat, anger making him shake, making him lose control. “And then you would have turned your optics on the rest of the universe. I couldn't allow that!”

“Look where you are,” Megatron said, with a grand gesture of his free hand. “Exactly where you feared you would be, only hundreds upon thousands of Autobots lesser. In the end, what did you gain?”

Optimus' tank churned. “You are a hypocrite,” he bit out, the shame coiling within him. Worse because he couldn't argue with Megatron. The Slaghead was right.

Optimus had failed by every definition of the word. What had he accomplished? Nothing but the destruction of their world, the death of the mechs who believed in him, and he'd even gone so far as to drag their war to Earth! Into the arms of a whole planet of innocents.

But Megatron was not so blameless either.

“You claim you started the Decepticons to rise up against oppression, but the moment the opportunity arose, you became a tyrant yourself,” Optimus hissed out, feeling the weight of the collar around his intake. “How does that make you any better than the senators and council you slayed?”

Megatron jerked him closer, sending his ventilations stuttering.

“I am better, Prime,” he said, with a sneer and a roar of his engine, “because I am only giving punishment where it is due. Don't stand here and call yourself innocent.”

Optimus tipped his helm back as far as he could from Megatron's ex-vents. “It is not justice.”

“Well, no one said it had to be fair.” Megatron loosened his hold, a bit of his humor returning. “Now come. Our tour is not finished.”

Megatron turned once more to go, but Optimus refused. He went so far as to take a step back.

“Where are my Autobots?” he demanded. He suspected Megatron wouldn't want to shock him here. It would both make a scene and make Optimus immobile, which would be an inconvenience.

Then again, Megatron might chose to shoot him here and now and save them all the trouble. One could only hope.

Megatron's optics narrowed. “They aren't yours anymore,” he said in a low tone. “And you haven't earned the right to any of them.”

Optimus felt himself start to shake, no matter how much he fought it. “You can do to me whatever you feel I deserve, Megatron. But what you've done to my soldiers, my friends, I can't countenance that.” His spark felt as though it was swelling in his chassis. The empty mounts where his weapons had been ached. “You started this Primus bedamned war and-- erk!”

Megatron jerked the leash, yanking Optimus forward, causing his vocalizer to disengage with a squeal. The warlord's optics flashed, his grip tightening on the chain until Optimus' helm was placed lower than his, the pressure harsh on his intake.

“And I finished it,” Megatron snarled, the heat of his ex-vents boiling against Optimus' plating. “To the victor go the spoils, isn't that what your precious organics said? The moment I claimed victory was the moment you lost the right to anything, Optimus Prime. And what I do with you, with your soldiers, is no concern of yours. They, like you, are mine.”

Optimus' engine revved weakly – the throttling taking effect – but he could turn his frame, could throw himself forward, aiming the harsh ridge of his shoulder at Megatron's ventral armor. It was an action Megatron sidestepped as he gave a harsh jerk to the chain, harsh enough that Optimus' processor spun. A backhand made him stumble, but the chain brought him up short.

Megatron wound it around and around his hand until there were mere inches between them, until Optimus rose on the tips of his pedes, his face close enough to catch Megatron's oral ex-vents against it. They puffed against his unguarded lips, so close to those sharpened denta.

“Do you understand?” he demanded.

Optimus refused to answer. He affixed his tormentor with a glare, certain that no words could pierce the fog of Megatron's madness.

The rumble of a powerful engine interrupted their stand off. Optimus couldn't say that he was relieved. It only meant that Megatron's wrath would be stored for later. It was only physical pain but it still hurt.

Megatron shoved him away and Optimus staggered back a pace, managing to keep his pedes beneath him. He couldn't go far because of the leash, but the distance between them was welcome.

He, like Megatron, turned toward the approaching Decepticons, actually recognizing the two that approached. Onslaught and his subordinate Swindle, both in alt-mode, though they shifted to root mode when they were close enough.

“Lord Megatron,” Onslaught greeted in a crisp tone, his vocals thin with respect but lacking the near-worship many of Megatron's other soldiers presented. That obedience coding rankled, didn't it? “Soundwave informed me that you were here.”

Megatron made a low noise of disgruntlement. “Is there a reason you tracked me down or were you interested only in banal chatter?”

Onslaught visibly checked himself, though his visor narrowed by a fraction. He pulled a datapad from substance, presenting it to Megatron. “We have a proposal.”

“You couldn't wait to present it?”

“The window on this particular deal is, shall we say, limited,” Swindle said with that smarmy smile he was so well known for. “But I can assure you that it is worth the effort, Lord Megatron. After all, you can't win a war without weapons.”

Megatron gave them both a long look but accepted the datapad, flicking it on and skimming through the contents. The leash dangled from his fingers, tantalizingly loose. If the two Combaticons weren't standing there, Optimus could have yanked it free and ran. Though he doubted the shock collar would have let him get far.

“No, you can't,” Megatron murmured, and his gaze flicked back to Onslaught. “Have there been any further arrivals of Autobot shuttles?”

“All scans report negative. Blast Off assures me he would detect any incoming arrivals long before we see them,” Onslaught replied.

Optimus' frown deepened. He shifted his weight, which had the added consequence of rattling the chains around his wrists and intake. Swindle's gaze shifted Optimus' direction, but Onslaught didn't once pay him attention.

“Good.” Megatron tapped something on the screen and handed the datapad back to Onslaught. “I approve with contingencies. Take Laserbeak when you pick up the delivery.”

Ah, so Megatron still didn't trust them.

“Yes, my lord.” Onslaught's bow looked more than a little forced as he accepted the datapad. “Let's go, Swindle.”

“Pleasure doing business!” Swindle all but chirped and with a salute that would have been considered sloppy, followed after his commander, both of them shifting to their alt-modes and driving away.

Megatron turned his attention back to Optimus, twisting his wrist to tighten the lead and drag Optimus closer to him.

“You know,” he mused, his free hand tracing the seam of Optimus' chestplates. “I'm suddenly feeling the need to be charitable. You want to see your Autobots?”

Optimus worked his intake, fighting back a shudder. “I presume you want some coarse payment for the privilege.”

Megatron chuckled, a dark sound. “Not this time.” One finger flicked a windshield wiper with a clang of it against Optimus' windshield. His smile was all denta. “Let's go back home, shall we?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not anymore.” Megatron wrapped his fingers around Optimus' lead. “You can thank me later.”

Not fragging likely.

Optimus cycled a ventilation and followed after Megatron like a good slave. This was not going to lead to something good. He could feel it in his spark.

-INTERLUDE-

The Decepticons thought they were safe, snug in their command center, their barracks. They spread out over Cybertron, seeking the remainder of Optimus Prime's Autobots. They thought for sure that their enemy was cowed and beaten.

They had no idea what evil lurked below them.

Jazz crept through tunnel after tunnel. There was a honeycomb of them beneath Iacon. These were deeper, even, than the maintenance and transit tunnels. They harkened to a time before the Golden Age, when the surface of Cybertron was unlivable, even for a metallic lifeform. When the acid rains fell without end, and violent storms raked the landscape and huge, mindless beasts roamed the surface, their thick armor a guard against the acid.

Old stories. Stories no one listened to. That they had all but forgotten.

But Jazz remembered them and now, they were his ally. There were deeper levels, too. Levels he didn't dare traverse. Things slithered and scrabbled down there, things more beast than mech, precursors of the Insecticons. Scraplets and Dwellers and ugh.

Jazz shivered. He was brave, but he wasn't foolish. He wanted to hide from the Decepticons, not become some carnivorous creature's meal.

He couldn't stay here forever. But he could hide just long enough to form a plan. To become Megatron's worst nightmare and show the old Slaghead what fresh Pit he'd unleashed.

Jazz grinned to himself, invisible in the dark of the tunnels. He'd traded his white paint for black. He'd dimmed his visor so that it put out no light. He ran on silent, ultimate Spec Ops protocol.

For all Megatron knew, Jazz was offline. He'd not been spotted since Omega Supreme was sabotaged. Jazz planned to keep it that way.

Optimus wasn't here to tell him to be cautious, to have mercy. The Decepticons no longer deserved it. Jazz was going to do things his way from now on. He'd rather die than become one of Megatron's pets. And if he died, he was going to take as many Decepticons down with him as he could.

He'd free all of the captive Autobots or die trying.

There was no other alternative.

0o0o0

“Again.”

Bang!

“Again.”

Bang!

“Again.”

The blaster clicked, out of charge. Bluestreak slumped, his doorwings flattening against his back, exhaustion echoing through every line, strut and circuit. He'd been at this for hours and his energy levels were beginning to dip again.

The weapon was taken from his hand and another one shoved in its place, this one heavier. He sagged, almost dropping the gun before he caught himself and then cringed, waiting for the strike, the blow.

“Stop it, I'm not going to hit you,” Blast Off said, sounding disgusted. “It's beneath me.”

Bluestreak straightened, looking up at one of his five owners, feeling the weight of the shackles around his limbs and his intake. He would have spoken, but that capacity had been taken from him.

The Combaticon shuttle returned his gaze with a sigh and a hand to his forehelm. “We wouldn't have wasted our credits on a slave just to abuse it. We have plans, Autobot, and if you want to remain functional, you will ensure that you are vital to them. Understood?”

Bluestreak nodded.

“Good.” Blast Off gestured back down the range, toward the targets on the far end. “Then continue.”

Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip, his fingers shaking as they wrapped around the grip. He was exhausted.

“This is the last one for today,” Blast Off continued, consulting a list on his datapad. “You may rest afterward.”

Bluestreak's doorwings jittered with relief. He wanted to both rest and refuel. The Combaticons would allow both, once he was done. Of all the Decepticons to be his masters, he supposed he was one of the lucky ones.

0o0o0

They never screamed. That, to First Aid, was perhaps what was worse to him. They never screamed or yelled or whimpered. They struggled and resisted and fought themselves to exhaustion, but they never screamed, no matter what Shockwave did to them.

First Aid shivered, wrapping his arms tighter around his frame. There wasn't a scratch on him and that, too, was the worst part. He thought that if he could trace the scars and dents and damage, it would hurt less. But the pain was in his spark, untouchable.

Shockwave's experiments were only partially the cause. There was an emptiness inside of him, a desperate longing, places where Hot Spot and Groove and Streetwise and Blades had been. What would they think if they could see him now?

Pedesteps echoed in the hall beyond his cell. First Aid stiffened and slowly raised his helm, peering toward the door and the narrow beam of light coming through the viewing window. A shadow passed in front of it, briefly darkening his cell.

He held his ventilations.

Was it his turn again? Or did Shockwave need him to keep another experiment from offlining and it was too much trouble to summon a Constructicon?

He heard a low beep before his door slid open. First Aid curled into himself as the large frame of his captor filled the opening.

“Come,” Shockwave said, beckoning to him with his lone hand.

Shamefully, First Aid's instinct was to obey. He'd learned the consequences of behaving otherwise. Oh, how he'd learned.

He rose to his pedes, feeling the noose tighten around his spark. Shockwave's single optic was flat, his field devoid of expression. First Aid shuddered.

Back into the breach.

0o0o0

How many nights had he stood here, staring up into the sky, counting the stars and wondering which one was Cybertron? He didn't call it home, not like the Autobots.

To Grimlock, home was this dirty, organic planet full of small squishy creatures and inconsistent weather and a sun that rose and set to the same rhythm year after year. He'd been created here. He'd been modeled after the past.

Cybertron was not his home.

He hadn't chosen to stay on Earth. That was the hand dealt to him by the Autobots' rather rapid exodus and lack of space.

“We'll come back for you,” Optimus said. He must have meant it, otherwise he wouldn't have left Defensor as well.

The Autobots might not care two creds about what they considered a failed experiment on Wheeljack's part, but they'd come back for their precious Protectobots. Grimlock wasn't bitter. Much.

He'd warned Optimus. He'd told him not to listen to the humans, that they were treacherous and besides, wasn't it all a little convenient? Wasn't it strange how suddenly they wanted the Autobots gone when before they'd all been in agreement for a permanent base, for a secret project they thought the Dinobots knew nothing about?

Hah. Dinobots listened because no one knew how to keep their mouth shut. Sludge was the best listener. He brought back all kinds of tasty gossip. Fascinating how a mech that large could blend into the background.

Sludge.

Grimlock's hand closed into a fist.

When it boiled down to it, Megatron was to blame for Sludge's death. He'd ordered the attack on Earth, razing anything organic to make room for his energon refining operations. And it was his Decepticons who surrounded Sludge, outnumbered him, and struck the final blow. It was two triple-changers who dragged off Swoop because he'd had a broken wing and couldn't get away.

It was Menasor and Bruticus, working together for once, who had crushed Defensor between them, ripping the Protectobots apart at the seams. Only one survived. He went the way of Swoop.

Grimlock never saw either of them again.

He looked down at his fist, counting the two Dinobots he had left, with rage burning in his spark.

Megatron was to blame for a lot of things. But, in the depths of Grimlock's core, he blamed Optimus Prime as well.

Damned fool should have listened.

0o0o0

Unlike the Stunticons, the Constructicons had mastered the art of sharing. Tonight it was to be Long Haul, Ratchet guessed, since he was currently trailing after the much larger Constructicon, his hand firmly encapsulated by Long Haul's.

He cooperated because the alternative was far more painful and humiliating. At least if he didn't resist, he could be allowed to perform work suiting his function. He could see and repair any Autobot that came into the medbay, though he wasn't allowed to audibly speak to them.

Ratchet had seen what became of Beachcomber by the time Ramjet had carelessly dumped the minibot in Constructicon care. Ratchet had felt Beachcomber's spark gutter beneath his hands as he'd struggled to fix what the Conehead had broken. And Ratchet knew, he could have it much, much worse. He wasn't exactly counting his blessings.

It had been Scavenger's turn that night, Ratchet remembered. Because while the Constructicons were content to share a berth on occasion, given their duties, it was rare that they actually did recharge in one happy pile of construction vehicles. Ratchet was a poor substitute for an entire gestalt, but they used him anyway.

That night, he'd been Scavenger's berthmate. Maybe because the Constructions doubled as Decepticon medics, or maybe he was just feeling generous that night. But Scavenger hadn't complained when Ratchet shook and shook, both terrified over Beachcomber's ravaged frame, and grief-stricken over the loss. He'd known, from the moment he laid optics on Beachcomber, that there was nothing he could do.

He'd tried anyway.

Scavenger was, by comparison, the more gentle of the six. Hook was, by far, the cruelest, the pain he caused more incidental than intentional. Old jealousies rising up, Ratchet supposed. Not that it mattered.

Long Haul fell somewhere in the middle and Ratchet had grown to learn what he liked. He climbed onto the berth, planted himself on hands and knees, opened his panel, and waited. He was wet, of course he was wet. Any medic worth his two salts could trigger a manual override for lubrication.

There wasn't any pleasure when Long Haul slid his spike into Ratchet, but there wasn't any pain either. There was just sensation, the thick pressure of a slightly too-large spike in his valve and the sound of Long Haul's rhythmic grunts. He felt the weight of Long Haul's hands on his hips, pulling him back for each thrust. His mind never could wander, the sensation was too present for that, but Long Haul was predictable. Ratchet could almost time the number of thrusts until the Construction grunted and spilled inside of him, three heavy spurts and a light trickle.

He patted Ratchet's hip as he withdrew, signaling Ratchet to close his panel, trapping the transfluid inside. Long Haul liked to grope him in the middle of recharge. He liked to lift Ratchet's leg, prod at his valve and stir a finger in the remnants of his transfluid. Come the early hours before his shift, he'd online and frag Ratchet again before depositing him in the care of whoever was actually on shift in the medcenter.

Ratchet bore it all, not with grace or dignity, but he endured. Even beyond the day they'd dragged Optimus in, beaten and mangled, his valve a torn, bleeding mess. Ratchet's hope hadn't completely died, but it had been a near thing.

They were still alive. Wheeljack was still out there, safe and untouched. If there was any justice or mercy left in the universe, he would remain that way. He wouldn't be dragged to this house of horrors.

Megatron was too obsessed to outright execute Optimus. So their Prime would live for at least a little while yet.

That had to count for something. But what, Ratchet didn't know.

****
a/n: Interludes will happen every third chapter and present small snippets from all POVs that aren't Optimus. Hopefully, it gives enough of a hint to what's going on in the background so that later events don't come as a complete shock. ^_^

As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. I do self-beta so if you notice any mistakes, I won't be angry if you point them out to me. Thanks for reading!