[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Six

[dracoqueen22]

a/n: I'm going to say this at every chapter until it gets better. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. Because even with the warnings for this particular chapter, it's still not the worst chapter. NSFW.

Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters this chapter: Megatron, Optimus, Scrapper, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Motormaster, Overlord, Soundwave and his cassettes, Starscream, the Combaticons, Bluestreak
Rating: NC-17
Warnings this chapter: aphrodisiac in the form of a virus, mentions of character death
Commission fic for NK

Mood Music: "Dance with the Devil," Breaking Benjamin

Oubliette
Chapter Six

Megatron was true to his word in one aspect. He wanted Optimus to be fully-functional. After Barricade was done, he dumped Optimus in Constructicon care and left him there, setting out to arrange Optimus' punishment.

Hook promptly put Optimus in stasis before he could so much as protest or put up a fight or ask about Ratchet.

Optimus welcomed the dark. There was no pain in stasis but his own mental agony. The purges were worse now, memories of all the terrible decisions he'd made that had led them to this point intermingled of what he'd endured under Megatron's hand and what he'd seen his Autobots endure.

He lurched online in the middle of a cycle, disorientated, immobile, and confused. How long had he been offline? His chronometer suggested days, but surely not that long?

The entire medbay was dark, save for the lights from various equipment. Optimus rebooted his entire sensory net and that was when he realized he wasn't alone.

There was a cassette sitting on his chestplate.

He opened his mouth, but his vocalizer wouldn't engage. He couldn't move his arms or legs; he couldn't move his helm. He could only stare as Frenzy – or perhaps it was Rumble, Optimus always had difficulty telling them apart – perched on his windshield, a smirk on his face.

“Ya can't move cause I won't let ya,” the cassette said, leaning forward and bracing his hands at the top edge of Optimus' chestplate. “Can't have ya thrashing around and makin' noise and callin' Scrapper back in here. We need ta chat and it's better ta do it without overhearin' audials, if ya get what I'm sayin'.”

Optimus cycled his optics.

“Yer vocalizer's off cause I didn't want ya shoutin' either. But I'll turn it back on if ya promise not ta scream. So do ya?”

Why would he scream? What purpose would it serve? Surely Soundwave was too loyal to kill Optimus against Megatron's wishes. After all, had he not prevented Megatron from doing it himself earlier in the orn? Optimus also doubted that the cassette – Frenzy, he was sure it must be Frenzy – had come to make use of Megatron's slave either. Not without Megatron's express permission.

Optimus couldn't move his helm. He winked his optics, first one and then the other.

“That's what I thought.” Frenzy grinned and reached for Optimus' intake, pulling a small device away.

Functionality returned. Optimus rebooted his vocalizer, felt it engage. He supposed Hook had fixed it.

“W-what do you want?” Optimus asked, clearing out a few burrs of static and keeping his vocals quiet.

“Just to chat. Ask a few questions. We're all a little curious.” Frenzy braced his elbows on Optimus' windshield and cupped his jaw in his hands. His visor flashed. “No one knows I'm here, 'cept the boss, so I'd appreciate it if ya keep this to yerself, too.”

“Or?”

“Or Soundwave'll have to do somethin' unpleasant and I don't think any of us want that.”

Optimus grimaced. “He's already done so.” What else would they call that mental intrusion? It had hardly been done with Optimus' consent.

Frenzy waved a hand of dismissal. “That little poke? Hah. That was the gentle treatment. A show. For our master's benefit.”

Master. Optimus repeated that term to himself, focusing on it. Was there a reason Frenzy had selected it or was his language as lazy as his accent? Optimus doubted it, given his carrier.

“Besides, what would ya gain from rattin' us out to Megatron or Shockwave? Not like yer their friend or anythin'.”

“Nor am I yours,” Optimus pointed out. Given their current circumstances, and the fact he couldn't move, he hardly considered Frenzy any better than the aforementioned two. Though he did find it curious that Frenzy spoke nothing of Starscream.

“True. But we could be. Friends, that is.” Frenzy flashed another grin and he shifted position, sprawled on top of Optimus' chassis as though it were a comfortable platform. His legs kicked in the air. “We gotta few questions and how ya answer them could mean good news for everyone.”

Optimus cycled his optics down. “I'm listening.”

“Of course ya are. I didn't give ya much of a choice about it.” Frenzy paused, helm tilting, his field flickering with irritation. “Yeah, yeah. I'm gettin' to it. Sheesh.” He looked down at Optimus. “The boss is impatient.”

“I suspect you are on a time limit,” Optimus said. He didn't know what time it was or how that mattered in the shift cycles. Or how Frenzy was going undetected. Though considering how often they had found the cassettes in the Ark, it came as no surprise.

Frenzy inclined his helm. “True.” He kicked his legs again and laced his fingers under his jaw. “So here's the deal. Gotta hypothetical question, okay? What would ya have done, say, if the Autobots had won the war instead?”

Optimus blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“It's an easy question, Prime. If, say, you'd beaten Megatron and won the war and got back our planet, what would you have done to us Decepticons?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It just does.”

Optimus huffed a vent of frustration. “I do not know what answer you are looking for Frenzy, because that is beyond the scope of my imagination. But I can answer with certainty that I would not have forced any surrendering Decepticons into becoming slaves.”

“Prison fer life then, right? Or maybe reprogramming? Execution?” Frenzy's tone remained light, but his words were far from it.

Where was this coming from? Why did it matter? It was all a moot point! The Decepticons had won; the Autobots had lost. There was no purpose in discussing hypotheticals.

Optimus shuttered his optics and performed a systems check. Frenzy would not be asking these without a reason. In fact, he should better consider that it wasn't Frenzy asking but Soundwave.

“I suppose,” he began, unshuttering his optics, “that it would have depended on the Decepticon. Imprisonment would have been standard. But I always hoped that Autobots and Decepticons could one day live together in peace.”

“Ya still hope that?”

Optimus' tank churned. His valve, though repaired, ached in remembrance. “I am finding it difficult to see how it could be possible,” he admitted.

Especially given Megatron's current rate of execution. There would be no Autobots left to live in peace. Or what few did survive Megatron's wrath had nothing to look forward to. For what was a life that existed within chains?

Frenzy inclined his helm. “Yeah. I see what ya mean.” He flexed his fingers, drumming them on his faceplate. “So, hypothetically speakin' mind, say ya were to be freed somehow. Think there's still a chance?”

“For peace?”

“For Autobots and Decepticons ta work together.”

Optimus cycled a ventilation. There was no point in being anything less than honest. “No, Frenzy, I do not. Working through the grudges of war is one thing. What has become of the Decepticons now cannot be attributed solely to what is necessary for war.”

“Huh.” Frenzy's expression betrayed nothing, but his pedes stopped their playful bounce and his helm straightened. “You'd kill us?”

Optimus flinched. Even now, the thought of brutally taking a spark was still unappealing. He'd like to think that he could easily shove his fist into Megatron's chassis and tear out the warlord's pulsing spark, but even the thought of doing so made him ill.

He was a Prime. He had never been meant for taking a life. That was only what the war had made of him and he regretted every Cybertronian who had died by his hand.

That regret, that mercy, he knew, was what had doomed them. Still he could not change his way of thinking.

He did not deserve to be Prime. He did not deserve to leave the Autobots. He had failed them all.

“No, I would not,” Optimus admitted with a quiet sigh. “But the chance for the two sides to negotiate a peace has gone. If, by some stroke of luck or Primus gift, the Autobots were to find their freedom, it would not be to share a home with Decepticons.”

It was a moot point. There were no living Autobot shuttles or spacecraft. They had no means of leaving Cybertron. Even if they could find some means to escape their shackles, there was nowhere to run.

Frenzy pushed himself upright, curling his legs beneath him though he didn't immediately remove himself from Optimus' chestplate. “Ya'd leave Cybertron?”

“We are outnumbered,” Optimus said. “I do not see the Decepticons choosing to leave instead. Yes, we would leave. There are other places to find refuge.”

Frenzy frowned, lips pinching together. He fidgeted as though listening to some internal connection. Optimus, his comms disabled if not removed, could not even detect the presence of signals.

“Okay,” Frenzy finally said with a defining nod of his helm. “That'll do.”

Confused, Optimus cycled his optics. “What do you mean?”

“I got all the answers I need.” Frenzy flipped backward, braced his weight on his hands, and then leapt off the berth, landing soundlessly beside Optimus' berth. “Mebbe we'll chat again. Mebbe we won't.” He flicked a hand in a wave and whirled toward the far door. “Catch ya later.”

“Wait!” His vocalizer protested, unhappy with any volume above a whisper. If Optimus could move, he would have.

Frenzy, at least, paused to look at him. “I'm kinda on a time limit here. Whaddya want?”

There were a million questions Optimus could ask but only one of them mattered at the moment. “My Autobots. How many?”

Again, that look of intense concentration stole over Frenzy's face. His optical band darkened before he sighed. “Ten.”

So few. Did he dare ask who they, for lack of a better word, belonged to? He knew of Ratchet's fate at least. But what happened to Hound after his appearance in the arena? Who else labored under Megatron's thumb?

He half-feared knowing.

Frenzy suddenly stiffened. “Scrap,” he hissed and darted for the door. He opened it and was gone before Optimus could call to him again.

He lost his chance.

A shadow shifted in front of the door to Optimus' recovery room, perhaps the reason for Frenzy's abrupt exit, and then the door slid open. Scrapper stepped inside, his optical band a dull red gleam in the dim of the room.

“Oh,” he said with a startled look at Optimus. “You're online.”

Scrapper was alone, Optimus noted. “Where is Ratchet?”

The Constructicon commander gave him a placid look. “He's not yours anymore,” Scrapper said and brought the lights up to eighty percent before he moved further into the room. “But to prevent you from badgering me, you won't be seeing him. It's Mixmaster's turn.”

Optimus' frown deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Scrapper held up a hand and a finger.

“No,” he said. “It's none of your business. As I said, Ratchet is ours, and you are Megatron's. Keep quiet or I'll be forced to disable your vocalizer. Am I clear?”

Optimus performed a systems check. “Yes.”

Mixmaster's turn. The very term made Optimus' internals flipflop with disgust. The Constructions were sharing one of his oldest and dearest friends. And all he was doing was lying in this berth, waiting for sensation to return before Megatron came and dragged him off to his own terrible fate.

Frenzy had the gall to ask what he would have done. To engage in hypotheticals that had no bearing on his current situation.

“Good.”

All at once, the numbness vanished from Optimus' frame and he was able to move. He didn't know if it was something Scrapper had done or Frenzy had undone from a distance, but he wasn't going to ask. It was, so far, in his best interest to keep Frenzy and Soundwave's visit a secret.

For now.

Scrapper slid a finger between Optimus' intake and the collar, giving it a little tug. Optimus grimaced, but was unable to move away from the touch.

“Still solid,” Scrapper said, as if to himself. He ceased examining Optimus' collar to tap his fingers along the shackles welded to his wrists and ankles. “These are good, too.”

Optimus bit down on a bitter retort and tried to ignore Scrapper. The Constructicon kept up a running commentary, mostly on the state of Optimus' repairs and the skill with which they had been completed. None of it required Optimus' response.

Optimus frowned.

What had been the purpose behind Frenzy's questions? They were nothing but pointless hypotheticals. They meant nothing.

And why was Soundwave of all Decepticons the one to present them? What did it mean?

Laughter in the hallway made Optimus stiffen. He knew those vocals and it was with no small amount of trepidation that he turned his helm toward the door. It slid open to admit Megatron, the warlord striding into the room in much higher spirits than the last time Optimus had been conscious.

Megatron's fury was gone, either buried or completely dismissed. He grinned as his very presence filled the room.

“Is he ready?”

“He's repaired,” Scrapper said and the medberth adjusted itself, propping Optimus upright. “Energon levels at thirty-five percent as you requested.”

“Good.” Megatron hooked a hand on Optimus' chestplate and yanked him from the berth.

Optimus staggered, struggling to maintain his balance. Newly replaced joints scraped together, uncomfortable. His processor spun.

“We wouldn't want to keep his fans waiting,” Megatron said.

“Fans,” Optimus repeated, the dread in his tanks twisting into a discomfiting knot. The urge to purge crawled up his intake.

Megatron grabbed him by the shoulders, thumbs digging in between armor plates, pressing down on cables. His gaze raked Optimus from helm to pede, approving or disapproving, Optimus couldn't say which.

“A leader shouldn't be so selfish,” Megatron said, his smile shifting to a leer. “A leader should share the wealth.” One hand dragged down Optimus' front and cupped his interface panel, giving it a squeeze. “Isn't that right?”

Optimus made a strangled noise, lifting a hand to swat at Megatron, but everything felt as if it were in slow-motion. He felt sluggish and restrained, but also... hot? Optimus shook, his internals twisting into themselves, and a flush of random heat spread through his frame.

“What... what did you do to me?” He swayed, optics cycling slowly in and out.

Megatron removed his hand from Optimus' plating, and clapped it on Optimus' shoulder. “It's called incentive, Prime.”

The warlord's jovial mood was more than a little unsettling. Megatron was radiating heat, which only added to the warmth Optimus felt. Even as his plating flared and his vents kicked on, Optimus received no overheating warnings.

His processor spun. Optimus pressed a hand to his helm, rebooting his exterior sensor suites in an attempt to calm the disarray. His tanks flipped again.

“I want a show,” Megatron continued.

He stepped closer, his knee nudging between Optimus' thighs and pressing hard on his array. His hand moved to Optimus' aft. He got a handful and squeezed, pulling Optimus tight against his frame.

“You drugged me?” The dawning realization filled him with disgust as a system scan reported the presence of alien code, an executable program that would purge as soon as it had run its course.

In other words, a virus. Megatron couldn't permanently alter Optimus' core coding, but apparently the matrix provided no protection against temporary viruses.

To Optimus' growing horror, his interface systems came online with an audible whirr. His hips rocked forward, against Megatron's knee. His valve cycled into readiness, the first trickles of lubricant slicking the mesh walls. His spike stirred, twitching in his housing.

Megatron chuckled and grasped his jaw, tilting his helm up to nip at Optimus' intake. Optimus' fingers twitched, arms bewitched by a languor that left him unable to do anything but push weakly at Megatron's chestplate.

“As I said,” Megatron purred, “incentive.” He ground a steady pressure against Optimus' panel.

A moan escaped Optimus' mouth, a full-frame shudder rippling through him. His panels twitched, more lubricant filling his valve.

“I am almost tempted to take you now, as receptive as you are,” Megatron continued, crushing Optimus against him, Megatron's frame hot and vibrating with lust. “But I promised my soldiers a show.”

Optimus offlined his optics, the dizziness getting worse.

“I hate to interrupt, Lord Megatron,” Scrapper said and Optimus startled. He'd completely forgotten the Construction was there. “But if you do intend to put the Prime on display, it is approaching the time you set.”

“You do make a valid point, Scrapper.” Megatron rocked his frame against Optimus' once more before withdrawing, his free hand gesturing to Scrapper. “The leash.”

Optimus stood there, shaking, as Megatron attached the lead to his collar. His knees wobbled. His internal temperature soared and then held steady, not tripping into the dangerous realm, but hovering just below it.

“I expect to see you there,” Megatron said, his vocals sounding distant to Optimus.

Scrapper might have said something in return, but Optimus didn't hear it. Or if he did, his processor couldn't translate it. The majority of his focus was on the insidious virus, on keeping his hands fisted at his side so that he didn't reach down and paw at his own panel. His spike further thickened, pressing at his panel.

Movement helped.

Megatron tugged and Optimus followed like the pet he was, stumbling after Megatron as they exited the medcenter and headed toward the arena. Optimus had seen it from afar during the first tour of the reconstructed city, but it seemed to loom even larger and more imposing now that they headed toward it.

By the time they entered the main doors, Optimus heard the crowd long before he saw it. Every Decepticon on Cybertron must be present for there to be so much noise. The stomping of pedes. The clamor of shouting and conversation. They passed more than a few leering Decepticons, though no one was brave enough to try and cop a feel.

Megatron likely wouldn't have stopped them. If they weren't expected somewhere, he probably would have told Optimus to drop to his knees, to service the Decepticon as Autobots were meant to do and Optimus would have refused. Then there would have been pain and in the end, Optimus would find himself where he hadn't wanted to be, more Decepticon spill on his glossa and in his valve.

He shuddered.

His interfacing systems didn't mind the mental image. They offered more vivid ideas, and he felt the lubricant in his valve thicken and gather behind his panel. His calipers cycled with restless need. His spike throbbed within the confines of its housing. The pings to open, to spread his legs, grew more urgent.

These, too, he ignored and dismissed.

The noise only got worse as they entered a short corridor and emerged through a door into the arena center. This had obviously been modeled after a gladiatorial arena, hearkening back to Megatron's origins. The irony was not lost on Optimus.

Optimus' befuddled senses quailed at the onslaught of noise. Worse were the vibrations the cacophony caused. They traveled through the atmosphere and the floor, rattling up through his pedes and into his frame, making his interface system stand up and take notice. His engine weakly revved as his spike again demanded to be released.

The noise of the crowd turned into an outright roar once it saw Megatron. Optimus lifted his gaze and all he could see was a sea of faces, the gleam of red optics with the occasional blue or gold shade intermingled, and more purple badges than he could count. There were so many Decepticons, far more than Optimus could have ever expected. At least several hundred.

Where had they all come from?

Some of the dizziness eased. Optimus straightened as a bit of his strength returned as well. The heat remained, as did the unrelenting urge to interface, but he could at least stand on his own two pedes without swaying. Perhaps the fatigue had only been a result of the sedatives the Constructicon had given him.

“My fellow Decepticons!” Megatron held up his hands for attention as they stood in the center of the arena. Doing so jerked Optimus upright, the pull on the collar tight against his intake. “Never let it be said that I am not a generous leader.”

The cheering quieted but not enough to ease the ache on Optimus' audials. Nevertheless the Decepticons seemed able to hear their leader just fine.

“If I could, I would allow each and every one of you down here to partake in the spoils of our victory.” Megatron grinned and made grand gestures, each one jerking on Optimus' lead, forcing him to move in response. “But there is not an Autobot who would survive that much attention, I don't think. Not even this one.”

Megatron chuckled darkly, provoking a low tremor of laughter from his watching soldiers. The anticipation in the arena was palpable. It prickled along the edge of Optimus' waning energy field.

“There are rumors of rewards and I stand here before you today, my Decepticons, to confirm those rumors. If this performance inspires then remember, any Decepticon who brings me a living Autobot may be permitted to keep that Autobot.”

Optimus whipped his gaze toward Megatron, anger and revulsion tearing through him. Handing out his Autobots like chattel! How dare he! Megatron had made murmur of this a few days priod, but to come directly out and say it? Was there nothing Megatron wouldn't do?

To the Decepticons, it was an announcement to celebrate. The shouting would have caused a minor quake on Earth. As it was, the foundation shook and Optimus' interface pinged another demand for relief. He ignored it.

“Rest assured that while I cannot allow each and every one of you into the arena today, I have suitable candidates who have volunteered to provide entertainment. Each of these Decepticons were pivotal in our victory over the Autobots and they deserve this privilege and this gift.”

Megatron turned toward Optimus, his grin so broad as to be frightening. He must have sharpened and polished his denta for precisely this occasion. Megatron coiled the lead around his wrist and gripped Optimus' jaw with his free hand.

“Does that anger you, Prime?” he asked with false concern. His vocals were quieter, meant for Optimus' audials alone. “Do you feel the urge to rip out my spark yet?”

Optimus didn't dignify him with an answer.

“Maybe you'll change your mind when you see who I have in store for you.”

Megatron released his jaw and unhooked the leash from Optimus' collar. He tucked the lead into a subspace pocket and turned back around, showing Optimus his back.

He could attack. He could humiliate Megatron in front of this audience. He could rebel, cause damage, perhaps receive a beating in return.

And then he heard the roar of multiple thrusters.

Optimus looked up to see four Decepticons entering the arena from the open roof, two in their flight-modes and the others in root-mode but engaging their anti-grav thrusters. They entered the arena to the crowd's celebration and landed with strut-jarring thumps in a circle around Optimus and Megatron. All four, save one, easily outmassed Optimus.

Optimus worked his intake. He counted. Of those present, he recognized several faces, a couple of whom he had hoped to never encounter again.

Astrotrain and Blitzwing grinned at him, licking their lips, no doubt eager for a second chance at bending Optimus beneath them.

Overlord, too, was here. Larger even than the triple-changers. Was it Optimus' anxiety making Overlord seem much larger? Or perhaps it was because of his reputation as one of Megatron's super soldiers.

Overlord had been the one to finish off Omega Supreme. The Decepticons as a whole had helped bring Omega Supreme down, but it was Overlord who fought Omega back to the ground. It was Overlord who pummeled Omega into scrap. And it was Overload who peeled back the armor around Omega's spark chamber and fired several shots.

Motormaster, too, was present, clearly still smarting over the fact he didn't have a slave of his own. Or if he did, Optimus had not heard. Megatron had not bragged about capturing any more Autobots of which Optimus was grateful.

Megatron had left him unbound. Optimus knew that wasn't a mercy. He, like all the other Decepticons, wanted Optimus to fight back and wanted to watch him fail. It wasn't an opportunity for escape. It was a chance to point and laugh.

He had no weapons. He didn't have his t-cog. He was barely fueled. His engine had been throttled. There was no defense against Overlord. He stood a chance against Motormaster and perhaps the triple-changers separately, but not all four at once.

He doubted any of them were skilled at taking turns.

He could barely stand. The heat was wreaking havoc on his stabilizing gyros. Focusing was out of the question. His knees wobbled. His spike pinged for release. His spark felt engorged and hungry.

There was a part of him mere seconds away from dropping to the ground, spreading his legs, and begging. Anything to cleanse his frame of this unrelenting need.

He locked down the urge, buried it deep. Perhaps this was why Hound had not struggled so hard or for too long. Perhaps his frame had taken the choice from his processor.

Optimus cycled a slow ventilation. Megatron had not yet given the signal to start. But it was coming.

Hound had survived this. So would he.

Megatron would not break him, Optimus vowed.

But he was going to come damn close.

“And now,” Megatron shouted, “let the games begin!”

INTERLUDE

The ping at his quarters was unexpected. There were few if any who would visit Soundwave, and of those few, none would approach his personal quarters at this time. He paused in the midst of cleaning Buzzsaw's seams, sending a querying ping to his cassettes.

None of them expected a visitor either. He accessed his external cameras and his optical band flickered. Buzzsaw took off from his lap with a squawk of distrustful confusion. Laserbeak didn't stir from her recharge in Soundwave's dock.

“What the fraggity frag does he want?” Frenzy sneered, bristling on a nearby couch. Next to him, Rumble jerked out of recharge.

“Wha? What did I miss?”

Soundwave waved a hand to silence them and rose to his pedes. It wouldn't do to keep his visitor waiting. He sent the command for the door to open and waited within sight of it, which had the added benefit of blocking further entrance into his quarters, a necessary precaution considering that Starscream was now striding inside.

“About time,” he huffed.

Soundwave tilted his helm, frame angled in a defensive posture but his hands hanging loose at his sides. “Reason for visit?”

“Can't a mech swing by to pay an old friend a visit?” Starscream asked with a dismissive wink. He leaned past Soundwave, openly ogling Soundwave's habsuite. “Cozy place you got here. It's kind of infested though.”

“Hey!” Rumble bristled and Frenzy beside him.

Soundwave projected calm. It was in Starscream's nature to be contentious. They could not have expected anything less.

“State purpose,” he repeated.

Starscream ex-vented a long, aggrieved sigh. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, right. Since when do ya have somethin' to talk about with us?” Rumble demanded, popping up from the couch, armor bristling.

Frenzy hopped up beside him, jaw stubbornly set.

That this would occur an orn after Frenzy's visit to Optimus Prime was most unsettling. Soundwave had covered their tracks well, and was certain neither Frenzy, nor Ravage, had been spotted. Nor had the conversation been recorded.

But it was still an eerie coincidence.

“Quiet,” Soundwave said to them and he returned his attention to Starscream. He drew heavily on a well of patience. “Cassettes not wrong.”

Starscream scowled. “You don't trust me, I get it. We're not friends, I get that, too. But we have a lot in common, Soundwave. Our dear master, chief among them.”

There was something in the emphasis he laced into the glyphs that resonated with Soundwave. He stared at Starscream for a longer moment before angling himself to the side, granting Starscream entrance without another word.

“Thank you,” Starscream said and if his polite tones weren't a novelty, the way he slipped into Soundwave's suite without badgering his way inside certainly was one.

Then again, Starscream wanted something. He was well known for behaving very sweetly when he had a goal. Case in point: the current Decepticon victory. Soundwave wondered how hard Starscream had to swallow his pride and put on a meek front to get Megatron to listen to him.

Soundwave let the door close behind Starscream and activated the privacy shielding he'd wired around his quarters. He'd get a ping if someone tried to contact him, but no one would be able to overhear.

Starscream stood in the middle of the room and turned in a low circle as though taking in the sights. He eyed Frenzy and Rumble before dismissing them, wings twitching in minute flicks. He was agitated, Soundwave realized, and while agitation for Starscream wasn't new, this didn't seem to have an origin in being thwarted by Megatron.

After all, Starscream had been the perfect second in command for the past year. Ever since his plan had helped Megatron defeat the Autobots, reclaim Cybertron, and raze Earth to cinders.

“Frenzy, Rumble, return,” Soundwave commanded. He didn't want their commentary to interrupt Starscream or send the volatile Seeker off on one of his rants. He didn't answers, not to hassle Starscream.

The twins whined and harrumphed, but obediently folded into cassette mode, slotting beside their brother and sisters.

“You didn't have to stow them away,” Starscream said, one lip curled with amusement. “I wasn't going to eat them.”

Soundwave inclined his helm. “State purpose for visit.”

“Primus, Soundwave. Are you ever a broken record.” Starscream sighed and shook his helm. He planted his hands on his hips. “Fine. You. Me. We have a problem. Well, Cybertron has a problem and I thought the Autobots would take care of it for me, but Optimus Prime was too soft-sparked and now look where he is.”

Soundwave absorbed the rather cluttered statement, picking apart the details. “Starscream wanted Autobot victory?”

The Seeker waved a dismissing hand. “No. But I did want Megatron dead and the only way to make sure the Decepticons didn't completely revolt was to let the Autobots do it.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chestplate. “That failed.”

“Purpose of plan?”

“We were starving. The war had to end. Even if meant giving Megatron the victory.” Starscream shrugged, but it wasn't as dismissive as he thought it was. Something like guilt reflected in the Seeker's expression. “Megatron's lunar. Always has been. But how was I supposed to know he'd do this?” Another wave of his hand, encompassing all that was beyond Soundwave's quarters.

So, Starscream was also disturbed by Megatron's treatment of the Autobot soldiers. It was one thing, Soundwave reasoned, to fight a war and win it. To imprison or execute the defeated army's leaders was also expected. But as for the rest? There were few enough Cybertronians as it was! All Megatron was doing was further seeding resentment, making it impossible to function outside the war.

Megatron clung to the war. Soundwave was tired of it. He wanted to live beyond it. But he couldn't, because Megatron wasn't interested in rebuilding Cybertron or developing a stable economy. He wanted industrial plants to create more weapons, to build a greater army. Cybertron was his, now he wanted the rest of the universe.

Soundwave's weight shifted. Starscream had taken a big risk coming here, revealing this to someone considered to be Megatron's most loyal soldiers. If one didn't count Shockwave.

“Query,” Soundwave said, staring at Starscream. “Purpose in coming here?”

Starscream tilted his helm, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “Because I did a little digging after I noticed you didn't have a slave of your own. And what I found led me to believe that you would find this as distasteful as I do.” His wings flicked before settling against his back. “Don't get me wrong. I have little love for the Autobots. I'd have been fine if Megatron executed every last one of them. But I can't rule a Cybertron without Cybertronians living on it, and I'm tired of only being a soldier.”

A sentiment Soundwave could appreciate. Though he wondered if the prospect of serving under Starscream was any better than what serving under Megatron had become. He did not like Starscream, despite their current alignment of opinion. Soundwave did not think he would ever like Starscream.

He supposed he could have a worse ally. Because if Megatron got wind of this, Soundwave could point fingers at Starscream and no one would be surprised. He could protect his cassettes and find another way.

It was a start.

Soundwave fully disengaged his defense protocols. “Understood,” he said, and he gestured Starscream toward a chair. “Explain plan.”

Starscream smirked, smug to his very spark. “I knew you'd see things my way.”

0o0o0

All of Cybertron was buzzing with the news.

Onslaught sent Bluestreak to his room and ordered him to recharge. There was no need for him to witness Megatron's newest show. He didn't, for one second, think that the gunner was too weak-minded to handle it. But he'd gotten Bluestreak to the point where the mech no longer flinched away from him.

He didn't want a relapse.

To be frank, Onslaught didn't want to watch either. None of what Megatron did in that arena could be called entertainment.

How long, he wondered, until Megatron ran out of Autobots to torment? Who would he turn to next? Starscream, for sure.

The obedience code crawled through his processor as though it had physical weight. Onslaught just barely stopped himself from scratching at his helm as though that could ease the itch.

He would be expected to put in an appearance. He would have to feign his interest, cheer along with the others. He could not give the impression that he disagreed with Megatron. Though there was little worse that Megatron could do to him.

Unless, of course, he decided that the threat of the Combaticons outweighed their worth as Bruticus and did unto them as he had the Autobots he allowed to live. There were things worse than death.

Onslaught refused to become a berth pet again.

He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the dark monitor. There was no point in turning it on. There was only one channel on broadcast and Onslaught had no interest in bringing that display into their home.

There was a tap along the gestalt bond. He turned to find Vortex shuffling into the main room, plating lax, rotors drifting, and his field speaking of fatigue. Swindle came in after him, all but bouncing on his pedes, his optics lit up with the glee of success.

“I take it all went well?” Onslaught asked.

“Better than we could have hoped,” Swindle declared. “Our lord and master has his shipment in hand and we, dear leader, have ours.”

“Where's Blast Off?”

“Rinsing,” Vortex answered and he flopped down on the couch, rooting around for the remote. “Sand. So much sand.”

Swindle cringed. “Could use a little rinsing myself.” He patted his shoulder, flakes of grit falling out. Onslaught could hear it trickling through the salesmech's internals. “Where's Brawl?”

“I have the remote,” Onslaught said. “You won't want to watch what Megatron is showing tonight. Brawl is gathering intel.”

Which was actually a task that suited Brawl. He'd take up a position in the corner of one of the many dive bars located around Cybertron, and he'd listen. Mechs would talk to him, too, because he had the reputation as the big dumb brute. As a result, not only was he Megatron's favorite of their team, but he was well-liked throughout the Decepticons in general.

Brawl was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a lot smarter than he let on. And Onslaught used that to his advantage.

Vortex's engine gave a tired rev. He shifted in the couch to look at Onslaught, expression hidden behind mask and visor. “Another Autobot.”

“Optimus Prime.”

Both of his subordinates sucked in a sharp intake.

“Whoa,” Swindle said, and he backpedaled. “His own personal pet? What did Prime do to justify that punishment?”

Onslaught's tank churned. “He suffers for the actions of one of his own. The storage at Protihex was raided. One of the Autobot survivors, we suspect.”

Vortex thumbed his chin, visor dimming. “It was Jazz.”

“You know?”

“Who else would it be? Yeah, the Autobots are good at hiding, but only spec ops would be so bold as to actually strike at Megatron.” Vortex rolled his shoulders in a shrug, rotors lazily turning. “So if not Jazz, then on his orders. Had to be.”

Swindle gave Onslaught a shrewd look. “You thinking of making contact?” He immediately winced, optics dimming as he clutched at his helm.

“I'm thinking that capturing the Autobot third in command would make Megatron proud of us,” Onslaught was quick to growl as Swindle's seemingly innocent statement caused the behavioral coding to stand up and take notice.

They all froze, even Vortex, ventilating slow and careful. Onslaught did not know what methods Swindle and Vortex used to calm the vicious rake of admonition, the abrupt and immediate reminder of their place.

Onslaught chanted to himself.

I live to obey. I am loyal to Megatron. I am his humble servant. Everything I do, I do for his glory.

Over and over and over again, until the pain eased, the clamp around his intake softened, his tanks stopped clenching, and his spark beat to a normal rhythm.

Sadly, of all of them, Brawl was the best at mastering his thoughts. He rarely, if ever, suffered the brunt of the coding. Though that did not make him any less ready to be free of it.

“We should investigate,” Vortex suggested, his visor gradually brightening as he pushed back up from the couch, leaving a rain of sand behind.

Onslaught shook his head. “Not without Lord Megatron's command. He may have another task for us. And that will have to wait until tomorrow. He's... otherwise occupied.” It was difficult to keep the distaste from his vocals, even more difficult still to justify his distaste to the coding.

“In that case, I'm due a trip to the washracks.” Swindle planted a smile on his face as he stretched his arms over his head, grit audibly grinding through his gears. “I'll transmit my report, but I'm sure our lord and master will want to see us in person later.” He wriggled his fingers and excused himself from the room.

“I guess that means I'm stuck with the squirt,” Vortex grumbled, picking at his seams where more sand flaked out. “He in his room?”

Onslaught inclined his helm. “And he'll stay there.” He hooked a finger in his subordinate's chestplate, dragging Vortex closer. “What are you to remember?”

The light behind Vortex's visor shifted, annoyance huffing from his vents. “Not even if he asks,” he recited, though the wriggle of his rotors reflected his exasperation. “Not like I would anyway. You know I ain't into that, Ons.”

“I am aware of your proclivities, Vortex. But I am also aware of your preferences.” He tilted his helm downward, pinning Vortex with his gaze. “Court him all you like later.” He was vague on purpose, unable to fully delineate what he meant by later.

Vortex was a smart mech, no matter what anyone else said about him. He understood.

The rotary huffed another aggrieved sigh. “Not even if he asks,” he repeated again. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Onslaught patted him on the chestplate. “I'll be back as soon as I can leave without insulting anyone.”

Vortex snorted.

He knew, just as Onslaught did, that Onslaught would be there for the entirety of Megatron's show.

He was expected to enjoy the abasement of an Autobot just like everyone else.

***
a/n: The next chapter is pretty darn brutal. From start to finish. I would definitely heed the warnings when I post it.

As always, constructive feedback is welcome and appreciated.