Unspeakable

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Warnings: Sticky, noncon, oral, pain.


The moment stretched long and awful, the only sound the intermittent drip of fluid from the walls. Barricade tried to release the pressure on his pinioned arms by spreading his knees wider, trying to lower himself closer to the ground. Behind him, Brawl merely dug his hands in harder. Barricade could feel his core temp rise from the overwork of processing the pain signals. He stared at the floor, its black chitinous plates acting as a mirror, reflecting up to him his own battered face—the chromed spires of his facial armor bent, battered; the Fallen’s mask like face staring at him with an unsettling weight.

The Fallen sat back against his cradle-like chair. His voice, when he spoke, was like the crackling rustle of age-brittled flimsies. “Failure. Again. Compounded by your flight.”

It wasn’t flight. He hadn’t run away. He’d been disabled, unable to move. Starscream knew. Starscream had spoken to him afterwards. Doubtless, though, Starscream remembered his lack of helpfulness at the near mutiny. Barricade had kept silent then: Starscream was keeping his own silence now. He gritted his denta at the irony. But he knew better than to try to explain. Than to argue. Not with the Fallen. Not with his self-repair systems still so overloaded from his injuries from then that they hadn’t even queued the injuries he’d incurred in Brawl’s ‘capture.’

//Look at me// the voice crept into his head, a ghastly, chalky presence. An order. Barricade lifted his head, reluctantly. The Fallen’s eyes blazed down at him, icy with contempt. “You,” the Fallen said aloud, “have proven your incompetence in even the most minor of tasks. More than that, your incompetence hints at disloyalty.”

Barricade’s head jerked up. Disloyalty. No. “I had no way back. My comm systems were shattere—“
“I did not give you leave to speak, filth.”

Brawl lifted up on Barricade’s forearms, straining the shoulder gyros. Redlines crossed his already overwhelmed sensor alarm systems.

“Disobedient and defiant again,” the Fallen muttered. “We shall have to do something about that.”

No. Barricade had a cold hint what was coming. “No!” he protested. “I had no way to conta—“

“I DID NOT GIVE YOU LEAVE TO SPEAK.” //LEAVE TO SPEAK// A blinding echo of the voice in his mind as well, sending his sensor nets white with pain. “You shall learn your place, Barricade,” he added, coldly. His presence in Barricade’s mind was like an icy fog, creeping tendrils across his awareness, prying into his programming, his systems. Suddenly, he missed the heat of his stressed sensor net. He tried to scream, but only thin static emerged from his vocalizer, like a radio tuned halfway between faraway stations.

*****

He learned. What choice did he have? A beautiful wild gesture of resistance? He had tried that already, throwing himself at the Fallen, his spoke weapon snarling the rage his vocalizer—disabled by the Fallen—could not. What had he gotten for that? Three whole daycycles of complete immobility, his joints locking into position, stiffening, like an agonized statue of rebellion. His servos had trembled under the strain—teetering under the weight of starvation.

He hated himself when he was finally freed from that. Hated how gratefully he had collapsed to the floor, grovelling, his limbs almost alien to him, responding clumsily to his control. Hated how desperately he had launched himself at even the half-ration of energon placed in front of him, how sloppily his clumsy body lapped at the fuel.

Had he any dignity, had he any self-worth at all, he would have heroically refused. Would have succumbed to starvation. Would have fought off aid with the last of his fading strength. The worst humiliation he had ever suffered was the stark knowledge that he lacked the courage, the strength, to do that. That he would live, even like this.

Like this.

He had no choice. Even in his own mind. The Fallen reached into him, into his processing, his core programming, any time he wanted. Do it, or do it anyway. That was his choice. Macerate your ego by succumbing to every vile and humiliating task the Fallen set for you—in the name of training you to obedience, of course—or feel the new kind of horror of watching your body do it anyway. Forced to watch from the inside, feeling the Fallen’s chill presence in your mind, taking control of everything, while you, helpless, can only witness, and feel. And not react.

“Barricade, I require you.” The Fallen’s voice. Even merely audio, not subvoc, the timbre sent a seizing shiver across the back of his neck. No choice. Do it or do it anyway. He pushed himself up from where he had crouched on the floor, the dreadful knowledge of what would happen next battling with the hopeless futility of resistance. He lowered his head, advancing.

The Fallen tilted his head, displeased. “Your response,” he said, “lacks alacrity.” Barricade felt his optics dry, a shudder running from one shoulder to the other. The Fallen grunted, satisfied, no doubt, at Barricade’s physical response. No need to punish when the humiliation of one’s own fear so obviously displayed did the job better. And without exertion. “You shall release the latest batch of ova, and then pleasure me.” The Fallen’s way: letting him know what was in store so that even through a relatively benign task, he could keep in mind the repugnance of what was to come.

The Fallen sat back, revealing his oviduct. No need to wait for Barricade’s assent. He had no choice. Still, his hands trembled in a mix of rage and helplessness as he knelt between the Fallen’s spread thighs, waiting while the larger mech released the cover to his oviduct. He tried not to look at the floor, where he’d see his own face, a despairing mask, stare up at him. Asking him questions he did not want to answer.

The oviduct spiraled open, revealing the iridescent sheening of the globular eggs. Under the rainbow sheen, pliable, clear sacs encased small cores of greyish metallic substance that would in time, grow into hatchlings, non-sentient drones. Good only for fighting and dying. Perfectly obedient. Without the burden of their own mind. They would not feel the despair Barricade felt, because they would know nothing but obedience. No past, no future, only a present. A present filled with the one thought of carrying out a simplistic directive.

Is it wrong to say Barricade envied them?

His face rippled in disgust as he had to reach into the slimy interior of the oviduct, grasping the ova as gently as he could make himself. They slipped in his grasp as he crossed into the next room, where a honeycomb mesh stood ready to hold them as they developed, warmed and nourished by light and energon running through the mesh’s wiring. His feet slipped in the slime they dripped as he returned. He crashed to the ground, hard.

//Have a care that does not happen when you are carrying the ova// the Fallen hissed at him. The message was clear; you are worth nothing. The ova are. He pushed himself shakily back to his feet and took another batch of the globular eggs, his hands and arms slick with fluid. He stepped carefully this time, careful lest he slip again. //Faster,// the Fallen critiqued. An impossible situation—the kind Barricade had learned that the Fallen enjoyed. Do this, but under these impossible circumstances. He gritted his jaw against anger—not that it would do him any good—and planted the second batch in the mesh. Another bunch of the glossy globes had dropped down into the oviduct—another Cadmus’s army in the making.

“This shall be the last that is ready for implantation today,” the Fallen said. “I am eager for you to pleasure me.” As if Barricade might have forgotten. He closed his optics for a long moment before he rose, the last batch of ova in his arms, determined to show no reaction.

Another no-win. Show a reaction, and the Fallen enjoyed and did it again so he might see the same reaction. Show no reaction, and he escalated.

He realized he dallied implanting the last of the eggs in the mesh. So what if it got him punished? What mattered when you could no longer even recognize punishment from the normal routine of your life?
“Ah,” the Fallen said, a mild reproach. Barricade’s delay had not gone unnoticed. “You are finished.” He lay back, cocking his hips off the edge of the cradle-like chair, releasing his spike. Barricade felt a tremor wrack his entire frame. Get it over with, he told himself. Do it. Or do it anyway. It won’t be that bad. Just a spike. He stepped forward, wrapping his trembling talons around the large spike, stroking the lubricant up and down the complicated cabling. He offlined his optics. He did not want to—couldn’t bear to—see his hands reduced to this. See the Fallen’s pleasure in it. Bad enough to feel the warm lubricant spilling over his hands.

“Barricade,” the Fallen murmured, amused. Barricade braced himself, recognizing the tone. “Nothing good has ever come from using your mouth. Let us change that.” He felt the large, splayed hand of the larger mech press his head down. His optics flickered on again in alarm just in time to feel the warm spike against his labial plating. He tried to turn his head away. Futile, token resistance. Ludicrous. Agree to the hands, how can you balk at what is merely a matter of degree?

He was already gagging as he opened his mouth to admit the spike. It tasted of kerosene and something rancid, and the lubricant was slightly gritty to the touch. One of the Fallen’s talons gouging into the tiny cleft beneath his wing fairings, causing him to gasp. The Fallen took advantage of the gasp to push his head down further along the spike. Above him, the Fallen sighed, his rib flares rippling with pleasure.

Barricade dug his talons into the Fallen’s thigh armor, but the larger mech’s splayed hand was more powerful. //Do I need to do this for you?// Barricade’s entire frame jerked in revulsion at the thought, and the intrusion of the Fallen’s voice in his mind. Recoiling, he began, hesitantly, self-loathingly, to work his glossa along the spike, feeling for the sensory nodes. The sooner he found them, the sooner he worked up the electrostatic charge on them, the sooner it would be over. Was that a submission as well? Yes. Probably. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to be…far from here. Anywhere. Anywhere he couldn’t smell the aged metal scent of the Fallen’s ancient frame, taste the fetid lubricant, feel the Fallen’s obvious enjoyment at his debasement. He shut his video down, the view of the Fallen’s exposed pelvic cabling nauseating him. He shut down his audio, to damp the wet sounds of his mouth against the spike. If he didn’t see, if he didn’t hear, maybe he could convince himself it wasn’t happening. That it wasn’t real. That he hadn’t sunk…this low.

The hand released its pressure on his head—a small mercy. He had already conceded defeat, the spike sliding across his glossa as an obvious token of his surrender. He felt prickles across his glossa as the nodes in the Fallen’s spike picked up charge, pushing him slowly—agonizingly slowly—toward overload. He heard a keening in his processor, a high pitched sound of horror and revulsion that cut through his self-control. He felt self loathing like a wave crashing over him as he felt the hot wash of the Fallen’s transfluid in his mouth. He tried to haul his head away, to spit the vile substance that tasted sweet with corruption, but suddenly he felt what seemed like a cold damp hand settle over his cortex, forcing him against his will, his own servos whining under the strain of conflicting messages, to keep the spike lodged hard against the back of his intake, his input cycler swallowing the liquid. It burned against the cycler, but he was helpless, powerless, immobilized once again.

The Fallen kept him immobilized for a full cycle, long enough for him to succumb to a horror that he would be kept again frozen for days on end, but this time, instead of being a statue of futile resistance, he would be a tableau of humiliation. His audio and video both still cut out, he was trapped in a black blank world of his own horrified phantasms.

He felt his systems release back to his own control, his audio crackling on, his video feed flickering in stripes before stabilizing. He collapsed to the floor, his palms striking hard on the glossy black surface.

“Looks like he’s finally learning his place.” It took Barricade a klik to place the voice. He hunched his head below his shoulders. Bonecrusher. Who had never liked him. Hated his putative ‘status’ as an interceptor, voiced his objection to Barricade having any bridge-rank on the Nemesis to begin with. And he had obviously seen….

“You may amuse yourself with him,” the Fallen said, dismissively. Barricade could hear his long digits slicing the air. “He shall be…most accommodating.”

“Really.” Barricade didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see the smirk on Bonecrusher’s beetly face. His thoughts were plain enough without looking for confirmation. Barricade struggled to brace himself, but nothing he could think of was the least help. It would be over…eventually? It was just another spike? Just one more erosion of his will? Of his claim to any sort of self-respect? In his struggle to find some way to make this not seem so awful, Bonecrusher strode forward and seized him with the reach of his long arms hard by one of Barricade’s upper arm tires. The tire bulged painfully around his pinch.

Bonecrusher dragged Barricade along the floor by the arm tire, the smaller mech torn between resisting and the sure knowledge of penalty if he did. He had to. At least try.

He sliced wildly with his free hand, kicking futilely with his legs at the air. His hand struck Bonecrusher in one of his knee-mounted tires, causing the larger mech to yelp. And then swear, and then throw his bodyweight against Barricade.

Bonecrusher’s legs and arms were long, but his torso was almost the same size as Barricade’s, so he could see Bonecrusher sneering down at him. “Got a little, you know, of his fluid on your face, there, you digusting slag,” Barricade turned his face aside, his systems overheating with humiliation.

The larger mech shifted to push his spike against his valve cover. “Open up,” Bonecrusher ordered. Barricade thrashed against the floor, trying pathetically to get leverage enough to move him, but Bonecrusher’s weight was too spread out, too far into his limbs for Barricade to shift him more than a few inches. His mouth shaped a soundless cry as Bonecrusher banged his spike against his valve cover.

“Can’t talk?” Not asked of him, but the Fallen, who was looking on amused, as though this were the greatest of entertainments.

“Barricade has nothing to say that is worthwhile,” the Fallen said, mildly. “So I have disabled his vocalizer.”
Bonecrusher glared down at Barricade. “Kind of a shame. Wanted to hear him scream.”

“As you wish,” Another touch of the cold-damp in his processor. Part of Barricade wanted to scream, to howl, to curse, to turn all of the rage and pain and horror and shame roiling in his systems into sound and expel it from him. But he bit it back, knowing it would give Bonecrusher what he wanted. He had to do what the Fallen ordered—do it, or do it anyway. He did not have to obey Bonecrusher.

Bonecrusher’s red eyes glinted down at him. “Oh, you’ll scream for me,” he said. He reached down, blading the lubricant off his spike, before driving it hard against the valve cover a third time. This time, the metal yielded with a shriek, echoed (already) by a cry from Barricade’s raw vocalizer as his sensor systems shot white, then black, then red. For a long moment he could not see: only feel the unlubricated spike grating against his valve, causing heat friction that shorted out his sensor nodes in redlines of pure pain. Rips of pain as the spike tore the unprotected rubberized mesh of the valve lining, the gears exposed directly to the hard metal of Bonecrusher’s spike.

A scream would have been entirely inadequate. Barricade heard himself keening, a thin, high, mechanical wail, like an engine about to critically fail. He lost control of his motor actions as his self-repair systems shut them down to prepare for the monumental task of damage control for his valve, leaving him helpless under Bonecrusher’s onslaught. He could only manage a pitiful ‘mew’ as he felt Bonecrusher overload against him, and that was not so much against the pain, but against the humiliating knowledge that the larger mech’s transfluid seeping unprotected by the valve lining, into his inner systems, a violation he could never wash away.

“Huh,” Bonecrusher said, pushing away. “That was disappointing.”

“You may,” the Fallen offered, “do it again if you wish.”

Bonecrusher looked down at Barricade dubiously.

“He would benefit by the experience, I think,” the Fallen continued. “Wouldn’t you, Barricade?”

Barricade wished furiously that his vocalizer was still offline. He resisted, hiding his resistance in a wealk cough. His whole body went rigid as the cold presence intruded upon his processor again, and he heard his own voice from his vocalizer, readily assent.

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D: *whimper*