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shadow_vector2011-10-21 09:31 am
Mabaya 25 Backslide
IDW
Deadlock/Drift, Turmoil
torture
He didn’t recognize the Autobot. Then again, other than the Wreckers, he didn’t know many Autobots on sight. Well, and a few notable mechs who had made themselves notorious as troublemakers to the Decepticon databases. Like Sunstreaker. Ironhide. But this mech? Nobody. Nothing. Only the sleek polish Deadlock had seen all Autobots wear like a birthright—no fear for dwindling resources there. No making do with less. Not like here where mechs had to earn their grade of energon.
Deadlock could feel Turmoil’s optics studying him, ready to feed on his discomfort, dismay. He kept his face still, trying not to betray any emotion as the Decepticon commander moved to the mech, chained, optics blanked. The shock of the familiar slapped across him—he had been here, bound like this, head turning, helpless.
And he knew Turmoil knew this, had set up the echo to remind him of his place. Of where he had come from and where he stood. Begging the question: which side of the line is preferable, Deadlock? Is it better, at least, to see the blows coming?
Turmoil sidled up to the mech. The movement was silent, Turmoil’s ghostly glide, stepping around the mech, letting one finger trace a line from one shoulder, around the chassis, as though he were drawing a guideline for a saw. The Autobot jumped, at first contact, his blinded optics turning, trying to track Turmoil by that one languid finger. Turmoil’s gaze flicked to Deadlock, checking the effect, probably, as he stepped behind the Autobot. See, Deadlock? Remember this?
Deadlock felt his tanks revolt, wanting to make some sound, to scream or howl or warn or…something. But he kept himself still, silent, raging inside, like a storm tearing at his systems, watching, transfixed, torn.
Turmoil dipped his head down beside the mech’s audio. “How should I kill you, Autobot?” he purred, his voice the sensual silk Deadlock remembered so well. The prisoner twitched, twisting in the bonds, trying to get away from the sudden voice. Deadlock could practically see the amusement roil off of Turmoil, like an aura, a heat shimmer.
“Let me go,” the prisoner said, the failing defiance even more pathetic than actual pleading would have been.
“That is not an answer to my question.” The tone still playful, but Deadlock could see the optics rake over the green frame, scouring for vulnerabilities. The hand struck out, grabbing a projection of armor at the elbow, twisting it in his grip, the metal squealing as he wrenched it. The mech arched up, screaming, cursing, before he sagged down, the bindings taking his weight, knee servos failing. “My default,” Turmoil continued, voice edged now, laying a hand, heavy and open, on a shoulder panel, just enough to threaten, “Is to tear you to pieces. Bit by bit.”
The mech heard, believed. It wasn’t a lie. Turmoil…didn’t lie.
“But,” Turmoil continued, his voice a susurrus whisper, “That would be boring.” He tilted his head, optics meeting Deadlock’s. “Don’t you think so, Drift?”
The name shocked him, even more than the betrayal. He’d half expected the one, at least. But after so long, that name seemed plastic to him. False, counterfeit. And obvious fraud.
Except to the Autobot, whose blind head whipped. “Drift? He’s here?”
A moment of silence, Turmoil weighing Deadlock’s agony of indecision. Was he Deadlock, or was he Drift? Could he claim the name, or lie his way through?
“I’m here,” he said, stunned that mere words didn’t shatter.
[***]Another one. Another prisoner. Of course—he had been a fluke; Perceptor had been connected to him. Turmoil had a penchant for prisoners, always. Even the Black Star with its huge cells…Turmoil just enjoyed the idea of captivity. Mechs living or dying at his whim, as though their silent slow suffering was fuel for some sort of malign engine.
Until he wanted them for some other purpose. Like dragging Deadlock down into the gutter in which he belonged.
This one…remembered. For far too long. Remembered him as Drift, remembered him as Deadlock. His blue optics roved, following Deadlock from the moment he’d entered the room, trailing Turmoil, like some wind-eddied leaf. Hollow, empty.
“I’ll leave this to you,” Turmoil murmured, leaning up against the wall, arms folded over his chassis. Deadlock barely hesitated. He knew his job. He knew what was expected of him.
Wing…!
Wing isn’t here.
I know. Oh. I know. Wing was nowhere near here, his glowing, incandescent white would break this place, shatter it into a thousand dark shards.
“Drift,” the mech said, optics burning cold.
“Deadlock,” he corrected, circling the frame on which the Autobot was bound. He scanned, almost rote, for vulnerabilities, weaknesses.
“Always? Huh?” The head turned, following him. “Double agent. I always figured.”
“Figured nothing,” Deadlock retorted. Rote. Meaningless. The first hit, mere words, to distract the mech from following Deadlock’s hands. One of those hands lashed out, fingers finding a weakness behind the joint, jabbing, hard enough to crush the energon line.
Wing’s knowledge, Wing’s skill: to read an enemy, disable him instead of kill. In Wing’s world, that was a mercy.
But this was Deadlock’s world. And this was torture.
The Autobot cried out, a sound that melded into a pitiful wail. Deadlock paused waiting for the initial spike of pain to ebb, gaze hard on the other’s face. His other hand moved, prying up an armor plate at the wrist. His face twitched, a sort of twisted echo of the grimace of pain.
To his left, Turmoil shifted, letting his foot scrape on the floor. A reminder he was here, watching, judging.
As if Deadlock could forget.
A third strike, and Deadlock felt an old, familiar, mirthless laughter bubble up in his vocalizer as the mech tried to double over in pain.
“You’re not…,” the Autobot gasped, lifting his head. “…even asking any questions.”
“Don’t need to,” Deadlock sneered, giving into the darkness that was ruffling the edges of his vision, the calm, hot malice that had lifted him out of the gutters. “Already established you don’t know anything.”
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