MISRULE YOU
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Warning: Physical violence
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"Nobody can save me now,
It's do or die."
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There was quiet as Starscream stood over Optimus' body, his condition stable but far from improving. He was stagnant, and the former Decepticon could not help but recall when he saw Megatron in a very similar predicament. Oh, how the strong the temptation was to just unplug the tyrant's life support and declare himself the leader of the Decepticons.
Now, it would truly be a mercy to just let Optimus go. The Prime had been fighting for a very long time, and he was long overdue to be laid to rest. His spark had already been labored with the Matrix of Leadership for millions of years . . . he was sure the lifting of such of a weight would bring the upmost relief.
Yet they needed him. While Megatron still lived, only Optimus Prime could truly oppose him. The dictator himself was not even a Prime, yet he bore almost as much power as his namesake, which in itself a respectable accomplishment.
But no matter how much respect he deserved, Megatron was a menace to the universe. He would never, ever just stop at Cybertron; his takeover of Earth was proof enough of that. He needed to be cut off, and there was only one mech who had ever come close to destroying him - aside from Starscream's own treachery, of course. Optimus Prime.
The mech that was currently lying on a table, almost on full life support.
So hopeless.
"He hasn't changed since we brought him in," Wheeljack grunted at him from across the room, the restless Wrecker tinkering with various equipment as he continued to monitor Optimus' status. "So if you're worried . . . you're still in charge."
The Seeker's wings twitched slightly in annoyance.
"I would most gladly relinquish command to Optimus Prime," he replied to Wheeljack sourly. "As he is our only chance to defeat Megatron once and for all."
"I wouldn't put so much weight on that," the Wrecker warned. "As much as I want him to come back, if Optimus dies . . . we have to be prepared to do whatever it takes to keep this planet safe, and Cybertron."
Starscream frowned, however he knew Wheeljack was right. If Optimus could not fix their problems, they would have to find another way.
Already, things were mirroring the past. Optimus was out of commission, and they lost two valuable officers to the Decepticons: Mirage, and once again Jack.
He could only imagine the human's psyche state. With Mirage, he was confident the saboteur was more than capable of handling whatever interrogative tactics Megatron planned to use. But Jack . . . he already struggled with the past. For it to be brought back so violently, with more destruction at the hands of the mech he hated most . . . he would break. He will break.
Starscream knew how to get into a person's headspace; it was why he was so good at manipulating and scheming. Jack's mind was going to fracture into hundreds of pieces, driven insane by the pressure of his situation.
He wondered what Megatron would do then. Would he discard Jack, either killing him or sending him back to the Autobots as an example? Or would he palm him off to his pet, the former Autobot medic, leaving the insane pair to themselves?
Bumblebee had provided a thorough report, including Ratchet's reluctance to leave with the scout and abandon his master. Megatron had done well to indoctrinate the Autobot into his cause, seducing his spark and keeping his claws sunken deep in his mind.
Tragically, Bumblebee had also confirmed what they had all suspected: Arcee was offline. The announcement had snapped what little hope had been there, the hope that maybe the two-wheeler was trapped somewhere, bidding her time to return to the Autobots. To her partner.
Yet on Cybertron Megatron had confessed to her death. Of course, the tyrant could easily be lying to them and attempting to destroy their moral, but rarely did he outright deceive. Orion Pax was the exception, however Starscream knew it was because Megatron was taking advantage of the amnesiac Optimus Prime. Even then, one could argue it was just a severely twisted version of the truth, which was more the tyrant's style.
Starscream could barely keep this meager resistance together, and it was falling apart all too quickly. They needed Optimus Prime, now more than ever.
"Wheeljack," he addressed the Wrecker. "Should Optimus Prime be capable of recovering, how likely is he to make a full recovery?"
He paused, trying to calculate it in his helm. "Well, I'm no medic, but if I had to guess . . . slim. He's severely damaged, Screamer, and he's already had spark failure once. We can't guarantee that he's going to make it, or ever fully make it."
Starscream set his jaw. "His body is deteriorating, then. Even if his mind is still at work."
"Well . . . yes," Wheeljack looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you say that?"
"If we can transfer Optimus Prime into a new body, then perhaps we can save him," Starscream hypothesized. "As it is theorized that our frames are merely shells, from which a spark can jump from chassis to chassis."
"But that's only a theory," Wheeljack argued. "And we all know where sparks go once the body dies: right back to the Well."
The Seeker gazed at Optimus Prime, his denta grit ever so slightly in frustration. Wheeljack saw his stiff wings relax just a hair, as if the commander made a decision in his mind.
"So if we cannot move the spark, then perhaps we can move the mind," he wondered aloud.
"You're thinking of a psychic patch? It would take years for me to even begin to develop the technology, and Optimus doesn't have that kind of time," Wheeljack argued.
"Perhaps, but I am thinking of a slightly more elegant solution," Starscream waved a clawed servo. "Continuing monitoring his condition, and let me know if it ever improves. I have a few . . . calls to make."
Wheeljack watched him suspiciously. "To who?"
"I will explain once the affairs are in order," Starscream replied vaguely. "And I am required elsewhere. We had an energon-to-human incident today, and I need to ensure the human's condition is stable. And if there were truly any effects to their exposure."
The Autobot Wrecker looked a little concerned. "Who was it? It wasn't Miko, was it? I haven't seen her in a while."
"While I cannot tell you who exactly, I will confirm it was not Miko," Starscream said, still remaining vague, but this time more out of respect for basic human laws. Without further explanation he left the room, slipping out of the large entryway and stalking down the hall. Wheeljack watched him go, sighing.
"Guess it's just you and me again, Prime," he said, fully aware he probably was not getting a reply. Checking Optimus' vitals he recorded them silently, noticing that his pressure had elevated just a touch. Even better, his spark beat was confirmed stable, remaining at a consistent forty-three "beats" per minute. They were more like pulses than anything else, but Wheeljack found the human term translated better.
Perhaps they were not going to write the will just yet.
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Vince surged awake, thrashing wildly as he began to actively choke.
Well, choking was not exactly the correct term, as he was receiving plenty of oxygen into his lungs, however his gag reflex was reacting violently while his tongue pressed against something plain and plastic. He reached up, seizing the tube which was in his lungs, and in the same motion another hand grabbed his wrist. He recognized the nurse as what he was, but had no idea who he was, which really did not alleviate his panic.
"Hey, hey, give me a second -" the nurse fought with him, yelling over his shoulder. "I need some help -"
Vince did not mean much harm; after all, his sister was going to school for nursing, so he had a lot of respect for the profession. But his fear overrode any logical thought, so he thought nothing of it when he slugged the poor man in the face.
His hand freed he finished his mission of self-extubation, his throat immediately going raw as the combination of a scream and forceful removal tore along his flesh. The nurse cursed loudly, though Vince seemed to have things under control as he sat up and coughed, spatting out some blood.
"Vince!" Three other nurses and a security guard were at his bedside, grabbing his arms and shoving him back down. "You're alright!" There was more cursing. "Get that pulse-ox monitor back on him, I want to know if he's satting alright."
The foreign words sounded like gibberish to him, but he did as subtly commanded: relax. There were a few beats as something was clipped onto his finger and he realized he was in one of the hospital rooms, finally hearing the heart monitor that was on him.
"Ninety-eight percent," one of the nurses staring at a monitor announced to the rest, and one of the attending physicians stepped through the door.
"Well, glad to see you're awake," he said, sounding more annoyed than amused. He noticed Vince coughing again, tilting his head toward one of the nurses. "Get an endoscope please. I'm afraid he might've torn up his larynx."
"I'm . . . fine," Vince spat out more blood, his throat feeling terrible. "Water . . ."
"That will hurt more than you think it might," the doctor answered. "You forcefully self-extubated yourself, which carries risk of torn larynx, pulmonary oedema, hypotension, even arrhythmias. But seeing as you're up and speaking to me, you might be one of the lucky few who managed to not hurt yourself."
"I . . . have no idea . . . what the frag you just said," Vince rubbed his throat as it hurt, coughing and feeling more blood bubble into his throat. A nurse returned with endoscopic supplies, wheeling the cart in as the physician looked in Vince's eyes and around his head. When he touched Vince yelped, realizing it hurt.
"Do you remember what happened, Vince?" The doctor asked, not bothering to explain. "Why you're in the hospital?"
Yeah, good question . . . wait.
"I fell," he said. "I was working on Cyclonus and I fell."
"Yes," the doctor continued filling him in. "Nurse Darby witnessed you slip and fall. You took down quite a few energon lines with you, and in the process of bashing your head open, energon got into your wound. We did standard flushing procedures, but we can't be sure we got everything out. You were sedated and intubated for stabilization purposes. But . . . you never exhibited possible signs of energon poisoning."
"I got energon on me?" He tried to keep calm. "Shouldn't I be dead?"
"That's the theory, as energon is technically not an Earth-based, carbon-based substance, therefore it is very likely to be toxic to us. But for obvious reasons we could never test, only assume." His physician answered. He completed his initial exam. "Now, I have to do an upper GI endoscopy to take a look at your larynx. We're going to give you something to relax you, but you will be awake."
"I'm fine," Vince said, despite once again coughing some blood. It was not pure blood, yet it was always jarring to see the bright red stain on his bed sheet.
"You could always refuse the procedure," the physician assured him, "however, you're coughing up blood. I think it would be in your best interest to let us take a look."
Vince eyed the small camera and its tube, finally giving his consent and lying back. It was going to be uncomfortable to say the least, but he had plenty of questions on his mind.
He was exposed to energon, and it got into his body . . . yet somehow he was not dead. It went against everything they had been warned, and even June Darby, who had performed surgery on Starscream, spoke about the potential dangers of energon and its radiation. Yet here he was . . .
Vince did not think he was special, or some kind of exception. However, it left him wondering . . . Rafael was open about his own exposure to Dark Energon, which nearly killed him. So why did Raf almost die, and Vince not even show any symptoms?
His thoughts were temporarily put on hold as a pleasant feeling encapsulated his body, his muscles unwinding and his mind going quite fuzzy. Time was suddenly an illusion, and Vince did not even care as the doctor prompted him to open his mouth and let the tiny camera go down his throat. Pleasant and cooperative, Vince closed his eyes and drifted off.
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"I'm not telling you anything."
Megatron regarded their prisoner with slight amusement. He was impressed by Ratchet's progress, always pleased to see his pet's imagination. Ratchet had the admirable skills of a surgeon, and it showed well in his preferred method of interrogation. Mirage's spark was bare for any and all to see, his chest cavity exposed. His energon lines throbbed with each pulse of his spark, which was fluttering gracefully in its chassis.
"You will," Megatron said in a blasé manner, Mirage watching as the defiled servo of Optimus Prime gestured offhandedly. "Whether you desire to, or not. I will retrieve the information I seek . . . though perhaps it may first come from Jack."
Mirage's optics narrowed. "What have you done with him?"
"Only what he deserves," Megatron's reply was vague, and though he would never admit it, that scared Mirage. "Just like the one who came before him, he will fall. And then he will freely share what information I desire, be it to me, or his new master."
"Ratchet is no one's master, nor is he any pet," Mirage snarled, disgusted. "You're sick, Megatron."
The tyrant merely grinned, his pointed denta gleaming menacingly. "I am merely restoring the natural order of things. However, you Autobots are making it particularly difficult. No matter . . ."
Claws reached forward and touched exposed cables, Mirage attempting to squirm and flinch away. He hissed in pain as the touch increased in pressure.
"I will win."
Mirage could not help his scream, the pain intense as Megatron ran a sharp edge across one of his larger neuro cables, splitting it. It was as if the dictator had set the nerve on fire, his entire musculature tensing in violent response.
The spy wanted to purge, the pain far too intense than anything he could have possibly experienced in the past. Megatron and Ratchet were proving to be a deadly combination, which Mirage hated to admit.
His body slumped forward once Megatron was done, taking a deep and shuddering breath. His chassis throbbed, prickles of pain intermingling with numbness, which terrified him.
Megatron's servo wandered, unfazed by the gore presented to him. Admittedly, he never considered a surgical approach to torture, preferring to instead use physical brutality to get what he wanted. This was proving to be a very painful procedure, one which he was confident would produce the results he wanted.
Mirage continued to make various noises of pain, his servos clenching and un-clenching in agony. He braced for the next wave, gasping as the wandering digits stroked just outside of his spark casing.
"N-no . . ." he choked. "Leave . . . me alone . . ."
Megatron touched one of the pieces which orbited around the mech's spark, merely grinning as it elicited a strangled cry from the Autobot.
Instead of the normal blue of a spark, Mirage had the color of a Point-One Percenter: a bright, healthy green, vibrant and unusual for his species. Megatron knew this color used to reside within his own chassis - until the Dark Energon within him tainted it. Ironically, though Point-One Percenters were rather revered amongst their species, the color of their sparks meant nothing, as demonstrated by Megatron's own upbringing. He was a slave, regardless of the speciality which was his spark.
Historians speculated on what would have happened had Megatron been left to create his own frame, and raised in a stable familial environment. He merely mocked them, for if that had been his destiny then Primus would have decreed it as such; yet he was raised a slave, and as such he saw better than anyone the inequalities which resided in his home planet. He was destined to change Cybertron for the better.
And the Council sought to get in his way. Optimus Prime sought to destroy what would have been great.
"You were gifted with quite extraordinary abilities by your spark," he mused, plucking one of the pieces despite Mirage's cry of pain. "While I only seemed to gain minimal talents."
"Maybe because you weren't supposed to exist," Mirage hissed. "Your frame was built, and your spark somehow put in there by accident. You were never meant to be."
Megatron hardly seemed offended. "Perhaps. Yet here you are, beaten, and I am the one who stands victorious."
Mirage grimaced as he watched Megatron look at his spark piece with interest, the little thing pinched between two pointed digits.
"No matter, Shockwave will enjoy studying your corpse," he sounded nonchalant, as if he did not care that a fellow Cybertronian was going to be used as some experiment.
The Autobot rasped one final mewl of pain as his spark piece was returned to him, but Megatron was not done.
He suddenly raked his claws through several bundles of wires and energon cables, Mirage screaming as the pain burst across his chest. Energon dribbled then flowed in waves down his front, hitting the table and then the floor. He had no idea just how much he screamed, though he could not keep it up for long before his vocals refused to do it anymore. He was left venting, trying to keep himself from going offline in shock.
The tyrant looked at his energon-drenched servo with mild amusement, pleased by the sounds of his screams. There was a long moment of silence as Mirage just hung there, gasping for any sort of air that he could. Anything that could just numb his pain.
"Ratchet will return, either to repair you or inflict more damage," his captor said far too casually. "Your pain will only increase; therefore I highly recommend you answer his questions . . . unless you wish for things to be difficult."
Mirage had no words, his entire body shaking as Megatron strode from the room without further comment. Fluid pricked at his optics, and he was tempted to cry. He was in so much pain, yet he knew it would not help.
The spy laid there, trying to forget his pain and hope for help. Yet everything seemed hopeless, and he wondered if the Autobots were truly capable of getting him out.
Or if Starscream would leave him, and the Autobot would be left to die.