[TF] Sins of the Family
Jul. 9th, 2020 06:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Sins of the Family
Universe: Transformers Amalgam
Characters: Prowl, Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Original Character(s)
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Non-Consent/Rape, Forced Oral, Nonconsensual Body Modification
Description: Actions have consequences, and they don’t always fall on the mechs most deserving, as Prowl and Smokescreen both discover when their younger brother is forced to pay the price.
Commission for SunnySidesofBlue
Smokescreen hated paperwork.
It was, perhaps, the worst part of the job, and the main reason he occasionally reconsidered his decision to go legit. Sure, there were perks. Prowl no longer glared at him for one, and Bluestreak was proud to call him brother now.
But the paperwork.
Ugh.
He leapt on any opportunity for a distraction. So much so that when his comm chirped at him, Smokescreen didn't check the ident code. As long as it wasn't Prowl, Smokescreen was guaranteed to have a good time.
"Smokescreen here."
"My, don't you sound official."
Smokescreen's engine growled at the familiar voice, his mouth twisting into a scowl his caller couldn't see. "What do you want, Swindle?"
Swindle chuckled. "You're so rude. Is that any way to treat an old friend?"
Smokescreen put down the stylus and rubbed his forehead. "I think you're remembering our relationship very differently." He glared into the distance. "I'm not in the business of doing you any more favors. I'm legit now."
"Oh, I know. I remember all too clearly the day you went legit." Swindle's voice echoed disdain. "I made you a promise then, didn't I?"
"An empty threat, more like," Smokescreen muttered, but a low curl of unease began in his belly, and Smokescreen wasn't one to ignore his gut.
He locked his console and left, heading for Prowl's office two floors up and a few corridors over.
"Now, I think you're the one underestimating me," Swindle purred, and Smokescreen knew that tone, knew the danger buried under the flirtations. "I promised that you'd regret turning on me, didn't I?"
Smokescreen's armor crawled. "I'm not afraid of you."
"I know. I remember." Swindle chuckled. "But there are things that do scare you, and you do have weaknesses. You were so happy to share them with me when we were partners."
The unease turned into shards of ice. Smokescreen jabbed the liftcall a little harder, as if that would make it arrive faster.
"How is that brother of yours, by the way?" Swindle asked, casual as you please. "And no, I don't mean the block of ice currently glaring his way up the career ladder. I mean the cute one. What's his name? Silverstreak?"
The lift arrived, and Smokescreen darted inside, shoving past the two mechs stepping off.
"He has nothing to do with this," Smokescreen snapped as he alternated between jabbing the button for Prowl's level and 'door close'.
"He's in the academy, isn't he?" Swindle continued as if Smokescreen hadn't spoken. "Training to be just like his big brothers. And it looks like his last class ended... oh, thirty minutes ago? There's a little cafe on the corner, too. He always stops by there on his way home. He likes to surprise you two with treats, such a sweet kid."
Ding.
Smokescreen dashed out of the lift, running straight for Prowl's office. "Swindle, you--"
"I wonder what he picked out today," Swindle said. "Let's ask him, shall we?"
Click.
Only, the comm didn't go dead. Instead, there was another sound. Harsh venting. Pings of metal on metal. Rhythmic.
"How's the jaw?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"I'll live. Didn't think he'd be so feisty," answered another voice, rough and amused. "Good thing you had the prod, eh?"
"Knocks ‘em down every time. Fragger’s heavier than he looks, too.”
A dark chuckle slithered into the audio. "At least his mouth is a sweet consolation prize." He grunted, and a small whimper rose in the background.
Smokescreen's knees wobbled. He pressed against a wall to keep from toppling over, his vents coming in sharp bursts.
No.
"He any good?"
"Not really. But it ain't about that, is it?" An airy laugh, static on the audio feed. "Sweet thing like this probably never been touched before."
"Oy, Cork. He's glaring. Think he resents that remark?"
"Let's find out."
Wet sounds.
"Well, little sweetspark, are you more experienced than I think you are?"
"Frag off!" Bluestreak's voice, strained and raspy.
"Now that's just rude," said Cork with a sharp slap of sound. "Your mouth should be used for more polite things. Like taking care of me."
Muffled noises. Gagging noises. Pained noises.
"I hope you enjoy the show, partner," Swindle purred. "I got paid a pretty bundle of creds to arrange something I’d have done for free. Who knew settling a score would’ve made me a tidy profit, too?" His delighted laugh burned like sour energon in Smokescreen’s tanks.
Smokescreen pushed himself off the wall, his spark hammering, ice sluicing through his lines. He staggered toward Prowl’s office, wishing he could hang up on Swindle, knowing he didn’t dare. They’d need to trace the call; they had to find Bluestreak…
“You just had to walk away and turn your back on us.” Swindle clicked his glossa with disapproval. “We could’ve had something great, you and I. It’s a damn shame.”
Click.
“I ever tell you how much I like sensory panels?” one of the voices asked.
“I don’t really care,” Cork grunted.
“Not even if I do this?”
Bluestreak made a pained noise, and someone gasped with pleasure.
“Okay, I’ll admit, that works.” Cork vented a moan. “Frag, I’m close. Should I make him swallow me or paint that pretty face of his?”
“I vote for painting,” said a third voice. “It’ll look better in the video.”
Smokescreen burst into Prowl’s office with all the subtlety of a train collision and whatever look he had on his face caused Prowl’s chastisement to die on his lips. He stood from his desk, sensory panels arched and defensive.
“What is it?” Prowl demanded. “What happened?”
~
Three essays were a bit much, in Bluestreak’s opinion. He was studying to be an Enforcer, not some researcher or scientist. Why on Cybertron had the powers-that-be decided essays were a necessary part of the educational experience?
He wasn’t good at essays. He supposed he could ask Prowl for help. Prowl was always happy to lend a hand when it came to his schoolwork.
Smokescreen was better as a distraction when Bluestreak needed a break.
Both of them could be easily swayed by delicious treats, like the ones Bluestreak currently carried, selected and boxed with care from their favorite shop.
Was it a bribe? No. Never. Not at all.
Bluestreak grinned. Okay, maybe a little.
“Excuse me?”
Bluestreak paused at the polite query. A mech – shades of orange and white – gestured to him, his field bleeding worry and agitation.
“I need some help. I’m lost and…” The stranger chewed on his bottom lip, looked up at the sky, and tangled his fingers together. “Everyone else keeps walking by.”
Well, this was Praxus. Bluestreak wasn’t surprised. The bigger the city, the easier it was to forget about the individual mech. It didn’t help that half the roads were barely more than alleyways, and some of them changed names halfway through, and the massive buildings grew so high into the sky, they overshadowed all else.
“There’s an information kiosk on the corner,” Bluestreak said with a smile. He moved closer to the mech, out of the flow of foot traffic and into the shadow of a nearby shop, ‘going out of business’ hanging crooked in the window. “You should be able to catch your bearings there.”
The mech grinned at him, his visor flashing a pale gold. “You really are the sweetest thing,” he said. “If I had a spark left, this would be a shame.”
Wham.
Something slammed into Bluestreak’s back, right between his sensory panels, hitting a nerve cluster. He spasmed, stumbling forward, the box of pastries hitting the ground with a wet splatter as his neuralnet went haywire. Audio and visual feeds glitched, striping with static, nausea pooling in his tanks.
He went to his comms, of course he did, dialing Prowl and Smokescreen on automatic, but there was no tone, no indication the call went through. There was only white noise.
There was a tug to his arm, and Bluestreak jerked away from it, overcorrecting on destabilized gyros, reeling, the world spinning. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Bluestreak grabbed it, twisting and yanking, like he’d been taught.
Voices streaked through his audials.
“Grab him!”
“Stop playing around, Cork!”
Bluestreak went down under a heavy impact, two different frames, hot and heavy, with grasping arms. He snarled and retaliated -- palm to the chin, elbow to a joint, wishing he was allowed to carry a pistol.
Pain.
Bluestreak choked on a shriek as electric fire coursed through his frame, a prod jabbed into his midsection. Everything glitched, his vision a grey-static blur, and his awareness turned numb. He distantly felt himself being dragged, feet scraping the ground, pastries crushed behind him.
The world was a wash of input -- colors smearing, sounds behind a thick curtain, the air at once musty and pungent. The noises of the city dulled to nothing. A loud thud sounded ominous and final. Strong hands lifted and shoved.
Bluestreak landed hard on his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back. He tilted forward, until someone gripped his chevron, yanking him back upright, pain a flash-fire through his receptors.
“Fragger!”
Bluestreak bit his glossa as the slap made his audials ring and stars dance in his optics. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place, as another gripped his jaw.
“Open up, pretty,” said the orange and white blur in front of him. Fingers shoved into his mouth, prying him open, lodging something between his denta. Bluestreak tasted plastic and rubber, his jaw wedged uncomfortably wide. “And now you won’t bite me, will you?”
What the frag was going on?
Bluestreak tried to thrash free, his spark pounding in his chassis, but another smack forced him into a dizzy reset. He surfaced to fingers gripping his jaw mere seconds before a spike shoved into his mouth, firm and hot, sliding to the root in a harsh thrust.
Bluestreak gagged, tried to pull away, but the hands on his head were stronger. He clenched down on the wedge, but it held fast, his denta grinding uselessly on the hard rubber.
The mech above him, orange and white and unfamiliar, smirked and ground deeper, pushing against Bluestreak’s intake.
“That’s better,” he said.
“How’s the jaw?” asked another voice, a fuzzy purplish shape in Bluestreak’s peripheral vision.
The orange-white mech looked down at Bluestreak. “I’ll live. Didn’t think he’d be so feisty.” He pushed into Bluestreak’s mouth again and again, deep enough to bruise the back of his intake. “Good thing you had the prod, eh?”
“Knocks ‘em down every time,” said the other voice proudly. “Fragger’s heavier than he looks, too.”
“At least his mouth is a sweet consolation prize,” the orange-white mech declared as he yanked Bluestreak onto his spike and held himself deep, rocking his hips in little, bruising circles.
Bluestreak choked, a whimper escaping before he could stop it, his vision fritzing. There were more hands on him than mechs he could see. He knew they were in a building somewhere, but shadows surrounded him, making identification impossible. There was only a wide pool of light above, and the blinking biolights of his assailants.
Purple mech stepped up next to his companion, optics bright with hunger. “He any good?”
“Not really. But it ain’t about that, is it?” Orange mech laughed and withdrew, leaving Bluestreak’s intake to spasm and ache, the foreign spike throbbing heavy on his glossa, his denta grinding on the wedge. “Sweet thing like this probably never been touched before."
Bluestreak gave them a watery glare, his hands pulling into fists. Yes, he was young compared to his brothers, but he was not innocent nor was he inexperienced, as the mech with the dented jaw ought to know.
"Oy, Cork.” The purple mech elbowed his friend, grinning widely. “He's glaring. Think he resents that remark?"
"Let's find out." Cork withdrew, the tip of his spike painting Bluestreak’s lips. Fingers crammed into Bluestreak’s mouth, yanking out the wedge, as Cork said, “Well, little sweetspark, are you more experienced than I think you are?"
"Frag off!" Bluestreak snarled, and he jerked against the hands on his shoulder, on his head, his knees grinding sparks on the dirty ground.
Cork’s mouth twisted into a moue of disappointment. “Now that’s just rude.”
A hand came from nowhere, slapping Bluestreak hard across the face, his right audial ringing. Cork said something else, but he didn’t hear it through the static.
Bluestreak’s head spun, the disorientation dizzying, giving Cork enough time to shove the wedge back into his mouth, between his denta, before Bluestreak had thought to bite down. His spike returned a vent later, plunging into Bluestrak’s mouth, harder this time. Faster. His array housing smacked against Bluestreak’s lips, smashing them against his own denta. They went hot, swelling, the taste of energon blending with the hot-metal-prefluid reek of Cork.
Bluestreak’s visual feed was a smear of shadows and color.
“I ever tell you how much I like sensory panels?” the purple mech asked. He moved out of Bluestreak’s visual feed, though his panels tracked the mech, along with others, clustered just out of view.
“I don’t really care,” Cork huffed as he thrust, faster and faster, his spike leaking trickles of pre-fluid over Bluestreak’s glossa.
“Not even if I do this?”
Bluestreak jerked as a sensor-cluster was abruptly pinched, flooding his neural lines with sensation. He groaned, pain flashing through his system, oral lubricant leaking from the corners of his mouth.
“Okay, I’ll admit, that works,” Cork said. “Frag, I’m close. Should I make him swallow me or paint that pretty face of his?”
“I vote for painting,” said a third voice from behind Bluestreak, fingers digging into his shoulder joint, another hand sliding over his sensory panels, groping them, and nausea clenched his tanks at the onslaught of unwanted feedback. “It’ll look better in the video.”
Cork grunted, slamming brutally into Bluestreak, as if he was an empty hole and not a living mech. “Good point,” he said, and abruptly pulled out, Bluestreak’s intake spasming.
He coughed, trying to curl into himself, but the hands held fast, held him in place for the hot, wet splatters of transfluid that striped his face, dribbling down his cheeks and across his lips.
“My turn,” the purple mech decided as he elbowed Cork out of the way, grabbed Bluestreak by the jaw and shoved himself inside, far rougher than Cork had been.
Bluestreak choked, purge threatening to rise up from his tanks, Cork’s spill sitting tacky and wet on his face.
“You’ve got a pretty mouth, Bluestreak,” his rapist purred, thumbs sweeping Bluestreak’s cheeks, his vents exerting sharp bursts. “Should thank your brother for this. Sure am glad he fragged off the wrong people.”
A pale gray arm came into view, swatting the purple mech’s shoulder. “Gotta tell him which one, Turnstile. He’s got two, remember?”
“It’s definitely both, but Smokescreen’s old pal’s the one who hired us. Getting Prowl’s just a two for one.” Turnstile laughed and pulled Bluestreak onto his spike, grinding deep, visibly shuddering. “Damn, I could frag him all night.”
Bluestreak’s hands pulled into fists, his jaw aching, his vision glitching, but the sensations were too raw, too vile for him to check out. Heat banked behind his optics, so he locked his emotions down, locked it all away. He thought about what Prowl would do. What Smokescreen would do.
The mechs laughed and chattered above him, words flowing in and out of his audials, mixing with static.
“--paint his face--”
“--got a nice aft--”
“--make him swallow--”
“--my turn next--”
Bluestreak squeezed his optics shut, until another slap forced them open, startled him into awareness, in time for more transfluid to decorate his face as he sucked in gulp after gulp of stale air.
Turnstile was jostled aside by a bigger mech, who grinned down at Bluestreak, stroking his proportionally larger spike with eager fingers.
“They wouldn’t let me go first, in case I ruined you for everyone else,” he said, squeezing out a thick glob of pre-fluid, his girth enough to make Bluestreak quiver. “But I’m done waiting.”
Bluestreak didn’t whimper. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure. But it was a very near thing.
~
The audio had a dull, hollow echo to it. The voices were tinny, the whimpers even more so, and Prowl hated how easily he recognized the timbre of it. He made himself listen to every pained noise his brother made, and every vile comment spilling from his attackers.
The rage burned and boiled in his tanks. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Smokescreen, for fear it would show on his face, including the fury he felt toward his brother. It was not Smokescreen’s fault.
Except where it was.
“--my turn next, so get out of the way,” the third voice insisted as coughing echoed in the background, louder somehow than the murmur of conversation as Enforcers scuttled around, trying to trace and track the call.
“Frag, Offload, do you think you’re going to fit?”
Offload. Another name. Prowl immediately whirled toward his console, bringing up a search. Surely someone like this was a repeat offender.
Laughter ran through the speaker. “Swindle says Smokescreen can swallow an armored truck, so I’m pretty sure the younger version can handle Offload,” said Cork with the slick sounds of someone stroking themselves faint in the audio feed.
“We’ll find out,” said Offload’s voice as footsteps tapped on a smooth surface, the very distant sounds of vehicles passing to indicate they weren’t far from the street, but certainly indoors, judging by the acoustics. “They wouldn’t let me go first, in case I ruined you for everyone else, but I’m done waiting.”
“Let’s make it easier,” said Cork, and there was a deep, malicious glee in his vocal patterns. “This crate’s about the right height.”
“Sure is.” Offload chuckled. “Put him on his back, that way he can take every inch. Use that bigger wedge, too. He’s gonna need it.”
“Get your fragging hands off me!” Bluestreak’s voice was faint, raw, exhausted. Armor clattered, like the sounds of a struggle.
Grunting. Laughter. Metal on metal. Slick noises.
“--damn, he’s quick--”
“--still, have that prod?--”
“Frag you!”
Thunk.
Prowl flinched. Peripherally, Smokescreen did as well. He was pale, gnawing on the knuckles of one fisted hand as he listened, the other gripping the chair tight enough for his joints to creak. Guilt cloaked him like a black cloud, so thick in the room it was nauseating.
“Hold that wedge for me,” Offload demanded as a few curses echoed in the background. “Come on, sweet thing. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
Prowl’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His screen flashed, bringing up Offload’s profile, along with an image capture of the mech, and his various specs.
Ice dripped into Prowl’s tanks, his spark squeezing to a tiny ball. Offload was massive, easily twice Bluestreak’s size, the treads suggesting he was a military build, perhaps a tank. Surely, his spike was proportional, and Prowl could only pray it wasn’t further modded.
Prowl felt ill. His head spun.
He forced himself to bring up the other profiles alongside Offload’s, to think of something other than how large Offload was compared to Bluestreak. Cork and Turnstile smirked at him from their own image captures. All three mechs were in the system, all three mechs had ties to Swindle, and worst of all, Swindle had ties to Lore.
The very same blackmarket chief whom Prowl had enlisted Smokescreen’s assistance in capturing and locking away. This was about Smokescreen as much as it was about Prowl, and Prowl couldn’t decide who he despised more in that moment.
“Get away from me, you--”
Prowl flinched as Bluestreak’s demand cut off, to be replaced by muffled, slick noises. Pained sounds. Delighted groans.
“Slag, Offload. He’s taking you,” said Cork, something like awe in his voice.
“All... the way... down.” Offload grunted with each pause. “Primus, his intake is so tight. Good thing I didn’t go first. Dunno what he’s gonna have left by the time I’m through with him.”
A low whine filled the room. It took too long for Prowl to realize the sound wasn’t coming from the feed, but from Smokescreen, who was gnawing on his knuckle, his engine throttled to conceal his emotions.
“Pity he’s stopped squirming though. Kind of takes the fun out of it,” Offload complained as a low, reedy whimper spilled through the feed.
“Well, you told him to,” Turnstile pointed out with a laugh, and something went click-click, like a recording device.
Prowl ground his denta so hard he tasted sparks. His jaw ached. He stared at the screen, the image of the criminals starting to blur before his optics.
“Yeah, but no one ever actually listens,” Offload griped, the slick, steady sound of thrusts filling the pause before he said, “Takes the fun out of it when they just lie there and take it.”
“You want him to squirm?” Cork asked with a low laugh. “Oh, I can fix that. Hold on.”
Clatters. Thumps. A click, then the thin, shrill whine of a power tool crackled through the audio. Prowl couldn't identify which one until the distinct sound of metal grinding against metal followed it.
That and muffled screams, a struggle, thrashing. An engine made distressed noises, revving and idling in hiccuped pulses.
Offload chuckled. "That's much better. Thank you."
"My pleasure," said Cork as the drill droned on and on, the high-pitched drag of it coming in arrhythmic intervals. "I'm an artist, you know. It's not often I get to practice my craft."
Turnstile barked a laugh. "That's one way to leave your mark."
Crunch.
Smokescreen stood and started to pace in short, jerky motions around the conference room Prowl had commandeered. His sensory panels were high and arched, a clear sign of his agitation, his hands in fists at his sides.
"Prowl--"
Prowl held up a hand, silencing Smokescreen with a look. They were all doing the best they could. Enforcer resources had a vast reach, but there were still limitations. It didn't help that their opponents were smart enough to bounce the comm signal off several different relays along with hacking into the various surveillance systems.
"Do not rush in," Prowl said, despite the urge he felt to do so himself. It would not help Bluestreak in the slightest.
"Should I leave our designations? So he knows who to contact the next time he wants to suck spike?" Cork asked with a snicker. "I think we can turn him into a pretty good buymech, how about you?"
"Shut up. Trying to concentrate here." Offload grunted.
The drill cycled up again, grinding against metal. The following whimper was pained, muffled, wet.
Someone whistled. "Huh," said Turnstile. "He did take all of you. Guess it does run in the family."
“I’ve got it!”
Prowl startled, jerking out of his chair and to his feet before he fully registered the motion. He whirled toward Reverb who ducked his head sheepishly while still waving a datapad.
“I tracked down the signal,” Reverb repeated. “We found it.”
Smokescreen snatched the datapad from Reverb’s hand, fingers flying over the screen. “I know this area,” he said, and shoved the datapad back at Reverb. “I’m going.”
“All available units converge on the coordinates,” Prowl snapped, circling around his desk to follow Smokescreen, already rushing out the door at a steady clip. “Reverb, keep an audial on that signal.”
"Sir!"
"Smokescreen, do you still have the audial feed?" Prowl asked.
Smokescreen's jaw was right, his armor clamped. "Of course I do.” He glared at Prowl over his shoulder. "I'm going to kill Swindle."
"That's not how this works," Prowl said, shoving down every part of him that wanted to see Swindle taken apart, piece by piece, and thrown into the nearest smelter, right alongside that conniving fragger Lore. "That's not the law."
"Frag the law!" Smokescreen whirled, his armor slicked tight to his frame. "The law is what got us here! If I hadn’t listened to you, and taken care of things my way, this never would have happened!"
Prowl's optics narrowed. "It was your association with Swindle which brought him into our lives.”
“You asked me for my help to take them down, remember?” Smokescreen demanded, his optics dark and haunted and as full of guilt as much as they were full of blame. “You arrested them and publicly dismantled their syndicate.”
He jabbed a finger toward Prowl’s chassis. “I warned you they wouldn’t go quietly. I told you not to make a show of it, but no, Special Enforcer Prowl had to prove to the criminal underground how smart he is.”
Prowl restrained himself from batting Smokescreen’s hand away. “If you had been more forthcoming with relevant data, I could have been better prepared.” He lifted his chin. “Or was giving Swindle personal information about our brother that important to you?”
Smokescreen reared back, sensory panels going high and arched. “That’s ridiculous! It’s no secret I love Bluestreak. You’re the one who’s supposed to keep him safe. It’s your damn job!”
“You should have never been involved with Swindle in the first place!” Prowl snapped, and forced himself to suck in a vent, regain the control slipping through his fingers. “I helped you fix it. I kept you out of prison. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you. Both of you.”
Smokescreen’s jaw set as he gritted out, “Well, you’ve failed at that.” He spun on a heelstrut, his sensory panels a sharp, dividing line.
Prowl went still, the weight of his words like a physical blow.
They were brothers. They knew too well how to hurt each other.
“We don’t have fragging time for this.” Smokescreen’s field pulsed disgust, and Prowl no longer knew if it was only aimed at himself. “We have to get Bluestreak.”
For once, Smokescreen was right.
Prowl swallowed his anger, the urge to throw it all back on Smokescreen, spew his poison until it eased the guilt clawing up his intake.
He knew it wouldn’t help.
He set his jaw and followed Smokescreen out the door.
~
It was three blocks from Bluestreak's favorite bakery, and just around the corner from their shared apartment. Thirty more seconds and Bluestreak would have been home. Safe. There were many alleys in the area, here at the heart of Praxus, where the buildings grew tall and arched, creating dark, shadowed hallows in between if they hadn't grown together. Here, far too many small businesses had died, leaving dark, empty storefronts.
Cork, Turnstile, and Offload were gone by the time the Enforcers arrived. Teams were sent to try and track them down, using the many monitoring and surveillance systems, but Prowl and Smokescreen both held little hope.
This had been planned. It was not a spontaneous action. The criminals were career. They knew what they were doing.
They left Bluestreak behind: unconscious, dented, splattered with transfluid, his armor scored and notched, evidence of at least two assaults with an electroprod decorating his frame. His lips were swollen and bruised, caked with fluids, oral and transfluid alike. One sensory panel sat at an awkward angle, dislocated at the least while the other was partially crushed, as if a mech of Offload’s size had repeatedly stomped upon it .
The drill sound, Prowl realized, had been that of an etching machine, one in poor condition and wielded by an unsteady, untalented hand.
'buymech in training'
'public use'
'spikesucker for hire'
'will spread for creds'
And more. The worst was lower, the most rushed of the lot, etched over Bluestreak's otherwise untouched interface array panel.
'Next time' it threatened. Promised.
Prowl was ill to his very spark, cursing himself for not having seen the possibility his and Smokescreen’s sins would fall on Bluestreak. He should have been prepared for this, protected Bluestreak better, considered the ramifications of his actions on his most vulnerable sibling. Smokescreen, on his knees next to Bluestreak despite the medics trying to shoo him aside, cursed himself for much the same reason. Hated himself for getting on the wrong side of the law in the first place.
He wondered if Bluestreak would ever forgive them.
He feared most of all Bluestreak would do exactly that.
***
Universe: Transformers Amalgam
Characters: Prowl, Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Original Character(s)
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Non-Consent/Rape, Forced Oral, Nonconsensual Body Modification
Description: Actions have consequences, and they don’t always fall on the mechs most deserving, as Prowl and Smokescreen both discover when their younger brother is forced to pay the price.
Commission for SunnySidesofBlue
Smokescreen hated paperwork.
It was, perhaps, the worst part of the job, and the main reason he occasionally reconsidered his decision to go legit. Sure, there were perks. Prowl no longer glared at him for one, and Bluestreak was proud to call him brother now.
But the paperwork.
Ugh.
He leapt on any opportunity for a distraction. So much so that when his comm chirped at him, Smokescreen didn't check the ident code. As long as it wasn't Prowl, Smokescreen was guaranteed to have a good time.
"Smokescreen here."
"My, don't you sound official."
Smokescreen's engine growled at the familiar voice, his mouth twisting into a scowl his caller couldn't see. "What do you want, Swindle?"
Swindle chuckled. "You're so rude. Is that any way to treat an old friend?"
Smokescreen put down the stylus and rubbed his forehead. "I think you're remembering our relationship very differently." He glared into the distance. "I'm not in the business of doing you any more favors. I'm legit now."
"Oh, I know. I remember all too clearly the day you went legit." Swindle's voice echoed disdain. "I made you a promise then, didn't I?"
"An empty threat, more like," Smokescreen muttered, but a low curl of unease began in his belly, and Smokescreen wasn't one to ignore his gut.
He locked his console and left, heading for Prowl's office two floors up and a few corridors over.
"Now, I think you're the one underestimating me," Swindle purred, and Smokescreen knew that tone, knew the danger buried under the flirtations. "I promised that you'd regret turning on me, didn't I?"
Smokescreen's armor crawled. "I'm not afraid of you."
"I know. I remember." Swindle chuckled. "But there are things that do scare you, and you do have weaknesses. You were so happy to share them with me when we were partners."
The unease turned into shards of ice. Smokescreen jabbed the liftcall a little harder, as if that would make it arrive faster.
"How is that brother of yours, by the way?" Swindle asked, casual as you please. "And no, I don't mean the block of ice currently glaring his way up the career ladder. I mean the cute one. What's his name? Silverstreak?"
The lift arrived, and Smokescreen darted inside, shoving past the two mechs stepping off.
"He has nothing to do with this," Smokescreen snapped as he alternated between jabbing the button for Prowl's level and 'door close'.
"He's in the academy, isn't he?" Swindle continued as if Smokescreen hadn't spoken. "Training to be just like his big brothers. And it looks like his last class ended... oh, thirty minutes ago? There's a little cafe on the corner, too. He always stops by there on his way home. He likes to surprise you two with treats, such a sweet kid."
Ding.
Smokescreen dashed out of the lift, running straight for Prowl's office. "Swindle, you--"
"I wonder what he picked out today," Swindle said. "Let's ask him, shall we?"
Click.
Only, the comm didn't go dead. Instead, there was another sound. Harsh venting. Pings of metal on metal. Rhythmic.
"How's the jaw?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"I'll live. Didn't think he'd be so feisty," answered another voice, rough and amused. "Good thing you had the prod, eh?"
"Knocks ‘em down every time. Fragger’s heavier than he looks, too.”
A dark chuckle slithered into the audio. "At least his mouth is a sweet consolation prize." He grunted, and a small whimper rose in the background.
Smokescreen's knees wobbled. He pressed against a wall to keep from toppling over, his vents coming in sharp bursts.
No.
"He any good?"
"Not really. But it ain't about that, is it?" An airy laugh, static on the audio feed. "Sweet thing like this probably never been touched before."
"Oy, Cork. He's glaring. Think he resents that remark?"
"Let's find out."
Wet sounds.
"Well, little sweetspark, are you more experienced than I think you are?"
"Frag off!" Bluestreak's voice, strained and raspy.
"Now that's just rude," said Cork with a sharp slap of sound. "Your mouth should be used for more polite things. Like taking care of me."
Muffled noises. Gagging noises. Pained noises.
"I hope you enjoy the show, partner," Swindle purred. "I got paid a pretty bundle of creds to arrange something I’d have done for free. Who knew settling a score would’ve made me a tidy profit, too?" His delighted laugh burned like sour energon in Smokescreen’s tanks.
Smokescreen pushed himself off the wall, his spark hammering, ice sluicing through his lines. He staggered toward Prowl’s office, wishing he could hang up on Swindle, knowing he didn’t dare. They’d need to trace the call; they had to find Bluestreak…
“You just had to walk away and turn your back on us.” Swindle clicked his glossa with disapproval. “We could’ve had something great, you and I. It’s a damn shame.”
Click.
“I ever tell you how much I like sensory panels?” one of the voices asked.
“I don’t really care,” Cork grunted.
“Not even if I do this?”
Bluestreak made a pained noise, and someone gasped with pleasure.
“Okay, I’ll admit, that works.” Cork vented a moan. “Frag, I’m close. Should I make him swallow me or paint that pretty face of his?”
“I vote for painting,” said a third voice. “It’ll look better in the video.”
Smokescreen burst into Prowl’s office with all the subtlety of a train collision and whatever look he had on his face caused Prowl’s chastisement to die on his lips. He stood from his desk, sensory panels arched and defensive.
“What is it?” Prowl demanded. “What happened?”
Three essays were a bit much, in Bluestreak’s opinion. He was studying to be an Enforcer, not some researcher or scientist. Why on Cybertron had the powers-that-be decided essays were a necessary part of the educational experience?
He wasn’t good at essays. He supposed he could ask Prowl for help. Prowl was always happy to lend a hand when it came to his schoolwork.
Smokescreen was better as a distraction when Bluestreak needed a break.
Both of them could be easily swayed by delicious treats, like the ones Bluestreak currently carried, selected and boxed with care from their favorite shop.
Was it a bribe? No. Never. Not at all.
Bluestreak grinned. Okay, maybe a little.
“Excuse me?”
Bluestreak paused at the polite query. A mech – shades of orange and white – gestured to him, his field bleeding worry and agitation.
“I need some help. I’m lost and…” The stranger chewed on his bottom lip, looked up at the sky, and tangled his fingers together. “Everyone else keeps walking by.”
Well, this was Praxus. Bluestreak wasn’t surprised. The bigger the city, the easier it was to forget about the individual mech. It didn’t help that half the roads were barely more than alleyways, and some of them changed names halfway through, and the massive buildings grew so high into the sky, they overshadowed all else.
“There’s an information kiosk on the corner,” Bluestreak said with a smile. He moved closer to the mech, out of the flow of foot traffic and into the shadow of a nearby shop, ‘going out of business’ hanging crooked in the window. “You should be able to catch your bearings there.”
The mech grinned at him, his visor flashing a pale gold. “You really are the sweetest thing,” he said. “If I had a spark left, this would be a shame.”
Wham.
Something slammed into Bluestreak’s back, right between his sensory panels, hitting a nerve cluster. He spasmed, stumbling forward, the box of pastries hitting the ground with a wet splatter as his neuralnet went haywire. Audio and visual feeds glitched, striping with static, nausea pooling in his tanks.
He went to his comms, of course he did, dialing Prowl and Smokescreen on automatic, but there was no tone, no indication the call went through. There was only white noise.
There was a tug to his arm, and Bluestreak jerked away from it, overcorrecting on destabilized gyros, reeling, the world spinning. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Bluestreak grabbed it, twisting and yanking, like he’d been taught.
Voices streaked through his audials.
“Grab him!”
“Stop playing around, Cork!”
Bluestreak went down under a heavy impact, two different frames, hot and heavy, with grasping arms. He snarled and retaliated -- palm to the chin, elbow to a joint, wishing he was allowed to carry a pistol.
Pain.
Bluestreak choked on a shriek as electric fire coursed through his frame, a prod jabbed into his midsection. Everything glitched, his vision a grey-static blur, and his awareness turned numb. He distantly felt himself being dragged, feet scraping the ground, pastries crushed behind him.
The world was a wash of input -- colors smearing, sounds behind a thick curtain, the air at once musty and pungent. The noises of the city dulled to nothing. A loud thud sounded ominous and final. Strong hands lifted and shoved.
Bluestreak landed hard on his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back. He tilted forward, until someone gripped his chevron, yanking him back upright, pain a flash-fire through his receptors.
“Fragger!”
Bluestreak bit his glossa as the slap made his audials ring and stars dance in his optics. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place, as another gripped his jaw.
“Open up, pretty,” said the orange and white blur in front of him. Fingers shoved into his mouth, prying him open, lodging something between his denta. Bluestreak tasted plastic and rubber, his jaw wedged uncomfortably wide. “And now you won’t bite me, will you?”
What the frag was going on?
Bluestreak tried to thrash free, his spark pounding in his chassis, but another smack forced him into a dizzy reset. He surfaced to fingers gripping his jaw mere seconds before a spike shoved into his mouth, firm and hot, sliding to the root in a harsh thrust.
Bluestreak gagged, tried to pull away, but the hands on his head were stronger. He clenched down on the wedge, but it held fast, his denta grinding uselessly on the hard rubber.
The mech above him, orange and white and unfamiliar, smirked and ground deeper, pushing against Bluestreak’s intake.
“That’s better,” he said.
“How’s the jaw?” asked another voice, a fuzzy purplish shape in Bluestreak’s peripheral vision.
The orange-white mech looked down at Bluestreak. “I’ll live. Didn’t think he’d be so feisty.” He pushed into Bluestreak’s mouth again and again, deep enough to bruise the back of his intake. “Good thing you had the prod, eh?”
“Knocks ‘em down every time,” said the other voice proudly. “Fragger’s heavier than he looks, too.”
“At least his mouth is a sweet consolation prize,” the orange-white mech declared as he yanked Bluestreak onto his spike and held himself deep, rocking his hips in little, bruising circles.
Bluestreak choked, a whimper escaping before he could stop it, his vision fritzing. There were more hands on him than mechs he could see. He knew they were in a building somewhere, but shadows surrounded him, making identification impossible. There was only a wide pool of light above, and the blinking biolights of his assailants.
Purple mech stepped up next to his companion, optics bright with hunger. “He any good?”
“Not really. But it ain’t about that, is it?” Orange mech laughed and withdrew, leaving Bluestreak’s intake to spasm and ache, the foreign spike throbbing heavy on his glossa, his denta grinding on the wedge. “Sweet thing like this probably never been touched before."
Bluestreak gave them a watery glare, his hands pulling into fists. Yes, he was young compared to his brothers, but he was not innocent nor was he inexperienced, as the mech with the dented jaw ought to know.
"Oy, Cork.” The purple mech elbowed his friend, grinning widely. “He's glaring. Think he resents that remark?"
"Let's find out." Cork withdrew, the tip of his spike painting Bluestreak’s lips. Fingers crammed into Bluestreak’s mouth, yanking out the wedge, as Cork said, “Well, little sweetspark, are you more experienced than I think you are?"
"Frag off!" Bluestreak snarled, and he jerked against the hands on his shoulder, on his head, his knees grinding sparks on the dirty ground.
Cork’s mouth twisted into a moue of disappointment. “Now that’s just rude.”
A hand came from nowhere, slapping Bluestreak hard across the face, his right audial ringing. Cork said something else, but he didn’t hear it through the static.
Bluestreak’s head spun, the disorientation dizzying, giving Cork enough time to shove the wedge back into his mouth, between his denta, before Bluestreak had thought to bite down. His spike returned a vent later, plunging into Bluestrak’s mouth, harder this time. Faster. His array housing smacked against Bluestreak’s lips, smashing them against his own denta. They went hot, swelling, the taste of energon blending with the hot-metal-prefluid reek of Cork.
Bluestreak’s visual feed was a smear of shadows and color.
“I ever tell you how much I like sensory panels?” the purple mech asked. He moved out of Bluestreak’s visual feed, though his panels tracked the mech, along with others, clustered just out of view.
“I don’t really care,” Cork huffed as he thrust, faster and faster, his spike leaking trickles of pre-fluid over Bluestreak’s glossa.
“Not even if I do this?”
Bluestreak jerked as a sensor-cluster was abruptly pinched, flooding his neural lines with sensation. He groaned, pain flashing through his system, oral lubricant leaking from the corners of his mouth.
“Okay, I’ll admit, that works,” Cork said. “Frag, I’m close. Should I make him swallow me or paint that pretty face of his?”
“I vote for painting,” said a third voice from behind Bluestreak, fingers digging into his shoulder joint, another hand sliding over his sensory panels, groping them, and nausea clenched his tanks at the onslaught of unwanted feedback. “It’ll look better in the video.”
Cork grunted, slamming brutally into Bluestreak, as if he was an empty hole and not a living mech. “Good point,” he said, and abruptly pulled out, Bluestreak’s intake spasming.
He coughed, trying to curl into himself, but the hands held fast, held him in place for the hot, wet splatters of transfluid that striped his face, dribbling down his cheeks and across his lips.
“My turn,” the purple mech decided as he elbowed Cork out of the way, grabbed Bluestreak by the jaw and shoved himself inside, far rougher than Cork had been.
Bluestreak choked, purge threatening to rise up from his tanks, Cork’s spill sitting tacky and wet on his face.
“You’ve got a pretty mouth, Bluestreak,” his rapist purred, thumbs sweeping Bluestreak’s cheeks, his vents exerting sharp bursts. “Should thank your brother for this. Sure am glad he fragged off the wrong people.”
A pale gray arm came into view, swatting the purple mech’s shoulder. “Gotta tell him which one, Turnstile. He’s got two, remember?”
“It’s definitely both, but Smokescreen’s old pal’s the one who hired us. Getting Prowl’s just a two for one.” Turnstile laughed and pulled Bluestreak onto his spike, grinding deep, visibly shuddering. “Damn, I could frag him all night.”
Bluestreak’s hands pulled into fists, his jaw aching, his vision glitching, but the sensations were too raw, too vile for him to check out. Heat banked behind his optics, so he locked his emotions down, locked it all away. He thought about what Prowl would do. What Smokescreen would do.
The mechs laughed and chattered above him, words flowing in and out of his audials, mixing with static.
“--paint his face--”
“--got a nice aft--”
“--make him swallow--”
“--my turn next--”
Bluestreak squeezed his optics shut, until another slap forced them open, startled him into awareness, in time for more transfluid to decorate his face as he sucked in gulp after gulp of stale air.
Turnstile was jostled aside by a bigger mech, who grinned down at Bluestreak, stroking his proportionally larger spike with eager fingers.
“They wouldn’t let me go first, in case I ruined you for everyone else,” he said, squeezing out a thick glob of pre-fluid, his girth enough to make Bluestreak quiver. “But I’m done waiting.”
Bluestreak didn’t whimper. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure. But it was a very near thing.
The audio had a dull, hollow echo to it. The voices were tinny, the whimpers even more so, and Prowl hated how easily he recognized the timbre of it. He made himself listen to every pained noise his brother made, and every vile comment spilling from his attackers.
The rage burned and boiled in his tanks. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Smokescreen, for fear it would show on his face, including the fury he felt toward his brother. It was not Smokescreen’s fault.
Except where it was.
“--my turn next, so get out of the way,” the third voice insisted as coughing echoed in the background, louder somehow than the murmur of conversation as Enforcers scuttled around, trying to trace and track the call.
“Frag, Offload, do you think you’re going to fit?”
Offload. Another name. Prowl immediately whirled toward his console, bringing up a search. Surely someone like this was a repeat offender.
Laughter ran through the speaker. “Swindle says Smokescreen can swallow an armored truck, so I’m pretty sure the younger version can handle Offload,” said Cork with the slick sounds of someone stroking themselves faint in the audio feed.
“We’ll find out,” said Offload’s voice as footsteps tapped on a smooth surface, the very distant sounds of vehicles passing to indicate they weren’t far from the street, but certainly indoors, judging by the acoustics. “They wouldn’t let me go first, in case I ruined you for everyone else, but I’m done waiting.”
“Let’s make it easier,” said Cork, and there was a deep, malicious glee in his vocal patterns. “This crate’s about the right height.”
“Sure is.” Offload chuckled. “Put him on his back, that way he can take every inch. Use that bigger wedge, too. He’s gonna need it.”
“Get your fragging hands off me!” Bluestreak’s voice was faint, raw, exhausted. Armor clattered, like the sounds of a struggle.
Grunting. Laughter. Metal on metal. Slick noises.
“--damn, he’s quick--”
“--still, have that prod?--”
“Frag you!”
Thunk.
Prowl flinched. Peripherally, Smokescreen did as well. He was pale, gnawing on the knuckles of one fisted hand as he listened, the other gripping the chair tight enough for his joints to creak. Guilt cloaked him like a black cloud, so thick in the room it was nauseating.
“Hold that wedge for me,” Offload demanded as a few curses echoed in the background. “Come on, sweet thing. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
Prowl’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His screen flashed, bringing up Offload’s profile, along with an image capture of the mech, and his various specs.
Ice dripped into Prowl’s tanks, his spark squeezing to a tiny ball. Offload was massive, easily twice Bluestreak’s size, the treads suggesting he was a military build, perhaps a tank. Surely, his spike was proportional, and Prowl could only pray it wasn’t further modded.
Prowl felt ill. His head spun.
He forced himself to bring up the other profiles alongside Offload’s, to think of something other than how large Offload was compared to Bluestreak. Cork and Turnstile smirked at him from their own image captures. All three mechs were in the system, all three mechs had ties to Swindle, and worst of all, Swindle had ties to Lore.
The very same blackmarket chief whom Prowl had enlisted Smokescreen’s assistance in capturing and locking away. This was about Smokescreen as much as it was about Prowl, and Prowl couldn’t decide who he despised more in that moment.
“Get away from me, you--”
Prowl flinched as Bluestreak’s demand cut off, to be replaced by muffled, slick noises. Pained sounds. Delighted groans.
“Slag, Offload. He’s taking you,” said Cork, something like awe in his voice.
“All... the way... down.” Offload grunted with each pause. “Primus, his intake is so tight. Good thing I didn’t go first. Dunno what he’s gonna have left by the time I’m through with him.”
A low whine filled the room. It took too long for Prowl to realize the sound wasn’t coming from the feed, but from Smokescreen, who was gnawing on his knuckle, his engine throttled to conceal his emotions.
“Pity he’s stopped squirming though. Kind of takes the fun out of it,” Offload complained as a low, reedy whimper spilled through the feed.
“Well, you told him to,” Turnstile pointed out with a laugh, and something went click-click, like a recording device.
Prowl ground his denta so hard he tasted sparks. His jaw ached. He stared at the screen, the image of the criminals starting to blur before his optics.
“Yeah, but no one ever actually listens,” Offload griped, the slick, steady sound of thrusts filling the pause before he said, “Takes the fun out of it when they just lie there and take it.”
“You want him to squirm?” Cork asked with a low laugh. “Oh, I can fix that. Hold on.”
Clatters. Thumps. A click, then the thin, shrill whine of a power tool crackled through the audio. Prowl couldn't identify which one until the distinct sound of metal grinding against metal followed it.
That and muffled screams, a struggle, thrashing. An engine made distressed noises, revving and idling in hiccuped pulses.
Offload chuckled. "That's much better. Thank you."
"My pleasure," said Cork as the drill droned on and on, the high-pitched drag of it coming in arrhythmic intervals. "I'm an artist, you know. It's not often I get to practice my craft."
Turnstile barked a laugh. "That's one way to leave your mark."
Crunch.
Smokescreen stood and started to pace in short, jerky motions around the conference room Prowl had commandeered. His sensory panels were high and arched, a clear sign of his agitation, his hands in fists at his sides.
"Prowl--"
Prowl held up a hand, silencing Smokescreen with a look. They were all doing the best they could. Enforcer resources had a vast reach, but there were still limitations. It didn't help that their opponents were smart enough to bounce the comm signal off several different relays along with hacking into the various surveillance systems.
"Do not rush in," Prowl said, despite the urge he felt to do so himself. It would not help Bluestreak in the slightest.
"Should I leave our designations? So he knows who to contact the next time he wants to suck spike?" Cork asked with a snicker. "I think we can turn him into a pretty good buymech, how about you?"
"Shut up. Trying to concentrate here." Offload grunted.
The drill cycled up again, grinding against metal. The following whimper was pained, muffled, wet.
Someone whistled. "Huh," said Turnstile. "He did take all of you. Guess it does run in the family."
“I’ve got it!”
Prowl startled, jerking out of his chair and to his feet before he fully registered the motion. He whirled toward Reverb who ducked his head sheepishly while still waving a datapad.
“I tracked down the signal,” Reverb repeated. “We found it.”
Smokescreen snatched the datapad from Reverb’s hand, fingers flying over the screen. “I know this area,” he said, and shoved the datapad back at Reverb. “I’m going.”
“All available units converge on the coordinates,” Prowl snapped, circling around his desk to follow Smokescreen, already rushing out the door at a steady clip. “Reverb, keep an audial on that signal.”
"Sir!"
"Smokescreen, do you still have the audial feed?" Prowl asked.
Smokescreen's jaw was right, his armor clamped. "Of course I do.” He glared at Prowl over his shoulder. "I'm going to kill Swindle."
"That's not how this works," Prowl said, shoving down every part of him that wanted to see Swindle taken apart, piece by piece, and thrown into the nearest smelter, right alongside that conniving fragger Lore. "That's not the law."
"Frag the law!" Smokescreen whirled, his armor slicked tight to his frame. "The law is what got us here! If I hadn’t listened to you, and taken care of things my way, this never would have happened!"
Prowl's optics narrowed. "It was your association with Swindle which brought him into our lives.”
“You asked me for my help to take them down, remember?” Smokescreen demanded, his optics dark and haunted and as full of guilt as much as they were full of blame. “You arrested them and publicly dismantled their syndicate.”
He jabbed a finger toward Prowl’s chassis. “I warned you they wouldn’t go quietly. I told you not to make a show of it, but no, Special Enforcer Prowl had to prove to the criminal underground how smart he is.”
Prowl restrained himself from batting Smokescreen’s hand away. “If you had been more forthcoming with relevant data, I could have been better prepared.” He lifted his chin. “Or was giving Swindle personal information about our brother that important to you?”
Smokescreen reared back, sensory panels going high and arched. “That’s ridiculous! It’s no secret I love Bluestreak. You’re the one who’s supposed to keep him safe. It’s your damn job!”
“You should have never been involved with Swindle in the first place!” Prowl snapped, and forced himself to suck in a vent, regain the control slipping through his fingers. “I helped you fix it. I kept you out of prison. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you. Both of you.”
Smokescreen’s jaw set as he gritted out, “Well, you’ve failed at that.” He spun on a heelstrut, his sensory panels a sharp, dividing line.
Prowl went still, the weight of his words like a physical blow.
They were brothers. They knew too well how to hurt each other.
“We don’t have fragging time for this.” Smokescreen’s field pulsed disgust, and Prowl no longer knew if it was only aimed at himself. “We have to get Bluestreak.”
For once, Smokescreen was right.
Prowl swallowed his anger, the urge to throw it all back on Smokescreen, spew his poison until it eased the guilt clawing up his intake.
He knew it wouldn’t help.
He set his jaw and followed Smokescreen out the door.
It was three blocks from Bluestreak's favorite bakery, and just around the corner from their shared apartment. Thirty more seconds and Bluestreak would have been home. Safe. There were many alleys in the area, here at the heart of Praxus, where the buildings grew tall and arched, creating dark, shadowed hallows in between if they hadn't grown together. Here, far too many small businesses had died, leaving dark, empty storefronts.
Cork, Turnstile, and Offload were gone by the time the Enforcers arrived. Teams were sent to try and track them down, using the many monitoring and surveillance systems, but Prowl and Smokescreen both held little hope.
This had been planned. It was not a spontaneous action. The criminals were career. They knew what they were doing.
They left Bluestreak behind: unconscious, dented, splattered with transfluid, his armor scored and notched, evidence of at least two assaults with an electroprod decorating his frame. His lips were swollen and bruised, caked with fluids, oral and transfluid alike. One sensory panel sat at an awkward angle, dislocated at the least while the other was partially crushed, as if a mech of Offload’s size had repeatedly stomped upon it .
The drill sound, Prowl realized, had been that of an etching machine, one in poor condition and wielded by an unsteady, untalented hand.
'buymech in training'
'public use'
'spikesucker for hire'
'will spread for creds'
And more. The worst was lower, the most rushed of the lot, etched over Bluestreak's otherwise untouched interface array panel.
'Next time' it threatened. Promised.
Prowl was ill to his very spark, cursing himself for not having seen the possibility his and Smokescreen’s sins would fall on Bluestreak. He should have been prepared for this, protected Bluestreak better, considered the ramifications of his actions on his most vulnerable sibling. Smokescreen, on his knees next to Bluestreak despite the medics trying to shoo him aside, cursed himself for much the same reason. Hated himself for getting on the wrong side of the law in the first place.
He wondered if Bluestreak would ever forgive them.
He feared most of all Bluestreak would do exactly that.
