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[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW/G1
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor, Turmoil
mild, mild torture. 
A/N Degaussers were occasionally found/used on Navy ships--they cancel out a ship's magnetic field, so that magnetic underwater mines would not register the ship or submarine in the area, and thus wouldn't arm/attach to it.  It occurred to me, vaguely, that robots could use a similar technology to avoid some levels of detection.  Lol more bad science.

Previous

Only the Strong (Perceptor, Drift, Turmoil)
In Darkness (Turmoil, Drift/Deadlock)
Caught (Turmoil, Perceptor)
Coming to Light (Perceptor, Drift)
Disconsolate

 

Turmoil had a way of just…appearing.  Deadlock knew what it was, knew how it happened—silenced joints, powerful degaussers nullifying his magnetic field—but still the effect was eerie, to have a shadow suddenly fall over you.

Deadlock was marginally glad he’d separated himself from Perceptor, propped on the other side of the room, damaged arm cradled on his scratched and stained legs.  Perceptor struggled to his feet—some sort of Primus-damned impulse to meet danger on his feet. 

“Deadlock,” Turmoil purred, his visor glowing.  “Not even a word of greeting?”  

“What do you want, Turmoil?” 

 “Such humor you have, Deadlock.”  A dark laugh. “Next time, I’ll insist on a proper greeting,” 

Deadlock lifted his head, bleak red optics fixed on Turmoil’s face.  He said nothing.  Turmoil didn’t want Deadlock. He just wanted to break him down, and splinter anything that might tie Perceptor to him.  He wanted to ruin Deadlock in front of Perceptor.  That was how he worked. 

Perceptor shifted on his feet—partly a wobble from half-healed servos, and partly uncertain, unsettled by the shifting currents in the room. 

Turmoil’s optics tracked the movement. “Ah.  And our little scientist.”  His voice seemed to curl over the pronoun.

“Turmoil,” Perceptor said, steadily, his voice, his will, stronger than his actuators.

“Leave him alone,” Deadlock muttered. 

“Oh? You dictate to me, now?” The grey helm turned to Deadlock. “From the floor?”

“It’s me you want,” Deadlock said, tiredly. Knowing it to be a lie, but trying, anyway. For form’s sake. …for his sake or Perceptor’s?

“I have you,” Turmoil said, patiently.  “Does it bother you to think that it may be him I want?”

Could he?  Deadlock’s brow furrowed, his good hand clenching under the cover of his stump.  “Why should it?”

“Indeed.”  Turmoil turned his attention back to Perceptor. “So, Autobot.”

“I will tell you nothing.”  Perceptor’s fists balled, defiant, even as the metal of a bent plate squealed from the motion.

“You seem to think you know something I already don’t.” On the brink of laughter.  Deadlock winced for Perceptor—Turmoil was most dangerous when he was amused.

Perceptor faltered, trying to read Turmoil’s masked face, trying to apply the tools of logic, deduction and science he swore by to the huge Decepticon leader. Deadlock could almost follow Perceptor’s thinking:  did he argue that he likely did know things Turmoil didn’t or not? “Then what do you want with me?”  His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

A snort, and Turmoil’s right hand shot out, faster than Perceptor could follow, slamming the palm against Perceptor’s injured shoulder.  Metal squealed from the heel-strike, Perceptor staggering back. Turmoil stepped forward, striking with his other hand, into the other shoulder, and then again, driving Perceptor back, blow by blow. “I want,” he said, calmly, “your pain.”

Deadlock watched, numb with an icy kind of horror.  Well, Drift, he told that dead part of himself, bitterly.  This is what you bring.  This is what trails in your wake.  No one would have endangered himself for Deadlock—and no one should. This is why you need to die.  Whether or not you take Deadlock with you.

Deadlock forced himself to watch. It was an unfair fight. It was a disgrace to even call it a fight—Perceptor was brilliant with a rifle, but close in, with a mech twice his mass?  He stood no chance. 

But he kept standing, or trying to, refusing to let Turmoil keep him down.  Even when Drift’s core ached, burned, begged Perceptor to stay down, to let Turmoil have his way, to give him what he wanted, Deadlock forced himself to watch, like cauterizing a wound.  This is what your friendship brings.  Every injury caused by you as surely as if you were throwing those blows. 

Turmoil’s visor flicked over, almost orange with amusement as he gave one massive hammer punch, driving Perceptor to the ground. “Enjoying the show?”

“No.”

Turmoil tsked.  “I’ll have to try harder to amuse you.”  He turned back to Perceptor, helping him up, the large hands almost solicitous.  The sight of his grey hands on Perceptor’s red armor made Deadlock ill. 

“Is this what you came here for?” Turmoil said. “Is this what you wanted, Autobot? To let me finish the job?” 

Perceptor went rigid, one hand clutching over his chestplate, remembering.  Deadlock remembered, too—Drift remembered—the sudden shock-blast of Turmoil’s cannon through the wall, punching through Perceptor’s armor, the strangely silent way Perceptor seemed to simply topple over.

Turmoil gave a pleased growl. “You do remember, don’t you? And I remember.”  He shrugged one shoulder. “Ask your friend,” he said, wryly. “I never forget.”

Deadlock shifted, restless agony bubbling over his net like acid. He felt useless, stupid, lying here, doing nothing.  But…what could he do? One hand couldn’t do much against Turmoil. And so…what good could he do?  Showing he cared, showing that Perceptor’s muffled cries and involuntary winces cut into what was left of his conscience would only encourage Turmoil.

Deadlock felt Perceptor’s optics turn toward him, his helm rolling along the wall in a slow, agonized arc, dimmed with pain. He turned his hated red optics away.   Don’t look to me for salvation, he wanted to say.  Because I can’t do that this time.  I just…can’t. 

Turmoil turned, abandoning Perceptor like a toy no longer amusing.  Perceptor slid down the wall, silver thighs buckling slowly, hands reaching almost blindly for the floor, for balance.  His optics never left Deadlock’s face—he could feel them, a blue, hopeful  weight that threatened to snap the fragile construct of his mask.

Turmoil approached, squatting down before Deadlock, his huge mass moving almost effortlessly, floating.  Wing would approve, Deadlock thought, wildly. Of the quality of motion, at least.  Somewhere, some-when, someone had taught Turmoil how to glide like that.  “Have I given you enough to think about?” he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle. Almost…pitying. As if regretting that he had to break Drift, cut through everything Drift was and stood for, to get back to Deadlock.

And even beyond that—to get to Deadlock…before.

“Too much, as usual.”  Deadlock hated the words, hated the answer—some old echo of whom he used to be. 

Turmoil laughed, optics licking down Deadlock’s damaged frame, lingering on the missing hand.  He leaned forward suddenly, deliberately blocking Perceptor’s line of sight.  Deadlock flinched his head away.  Like a fool. Like a coward.  He felt the large hand close over his wrist, thumb rubbing the slagged and melted metal almost like a caress.  “Think hard, little fighter,” Turmoil said.  The lack of magnetic field damped his EM signature, almost making his presence feel cold, like an absence or void.  “And one last thing to think about, while I’m gone.” 

The hand squeezed harder, enough to blank Deadlock’s optical feed in pure white pain as Turmoil crushed the damaged, weakened metal.  His systems overclocked from the stimuli flood, and by the time he had regained control of his HUD, his input feeds, Turmoil was gone, like a shadow that never was.

And in Deadlock’s lap…lay one of his swords.  A taunt, a vile joke, a mockery.

And perhaps…a hint.

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

the only word that keeps floating to the top of my mind is "ouch". Well, that, and the image of Turmoil flayed like a fish. *shifty-eyed-glance*

Can't wait for the next part!

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

...I kind of dig Turmoil. He's the first vicious badass bad guy I really love to hate. /ducks

And I still don't know how they're getting out of this. Brainstorming, stat! O_O

[sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com]

Turmoil's eventual fate should be to die slowly and painfully.