BEG ME

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Just as a quick warning . . . this one is going to be a dark one.

Physical/Psychological Torture

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"Oh I'm brainwashed,
Double-O who, seven digits,
Connect me to, your Sweet Center,"

⬵⤁

Ratchet looked up as the door opened again and Megatron stalked through. It was only mildly shocking that the tyrant had not asked him to be restrained, but they both knew better. The medic was too weak to resist, his low energon readings occasionally flashing across his optics. He gave himself one last torture session and an Earth day before his reserves ran dry and he was forced into stasis lock. By then, Jack would be suffering too; likely from dehydration more so than starvation.

"Where is Jack?" He rasped when his optics fell on empty servos, his expression twisting into an angry grimace. "What have you done with him?"

"The human is being dealt with a little more . . . privately, given his fragile state." Megatron growled back, his vocalizer warbling and clicking out the syllables. Ratchet struggled to stand as anger fueled his energon lines.

"You better not have touched him!" He snarled. "He is just a human, Megatron! A non-combatant. He doesn't know war."

"An interesting argument, given that they have proven to be quite involved," Megatron pointed out viciously, "as for their ignorance to war . . . surely you are not so naive to their history, Ratchet. Despite being a young race, they are perhaps more savage than we have ever been."

He received a withering glare, noticing with satisfaction how Ratchet required to lean against the wall in order to come close to standing at his full height. Starving the medic was going faster than anticipated, and the current scramble for relics made time a commodity the Decepticons could barely afford. It was the perfect coincidence.

"They are children, Megatron. Surely that will sway you to leave them alone."

"You are the ones which brought children into war, Autobot. Considering they have insisted on remaining involved in your little excursions, which I can only assume you encourage, there is no one but yourself to blame for their misfortune."

The accusatory "Autobot" made his protoform flinch. Megatron was right in that aspect. Initially, Optimus insisted the humans remain out of the fight and away from any potential combat; Ratchet blamed Miko outright for breaking that rule. But when the human factor was needed, each child stepped up to the plate to help their friends. It morphed from them sneaking onto the battlefield to the Autobots actively transporting them to the sites, but it was always with a warning: don't get caught, and don't get squished. He thought they did an adequate job of warning the children to steer clear of the Decepticons as much as possible.

And yet here he was, sitting in a Nemesis holding cell, Jack somewhere else aboard this ship.

"Megatron, please," he hated resorting to begging. "Do whatever you wish to me, make me suffer your wrath. Just leave Jack out of this."

There was a pause as Megatron seemed to seriously consider Ratchet's offer, but it proved to merely be another mind game when the warlord refocused his deadly gaze on the medic.

"You will suffer regardless, Ratchet. As will he, in time. But for now, I am leaving him in isolation. Humans are such social creatures; perhaps with time I can simply tease what I want from him, just to give him someone to confide in and talk to." He strode over to the weakened medic, not at all concerned about potential attacks. "What do you think will break first? His will, or his mind?"

"You son of a -" Ratchet's profanity was cut off by the shrieking of metal colliding with metal, hard claws wrapping around the soft mesh of his neck and hoisting him in the air. It elicited a pathetic keen, his shoulders protesting horribly as his digits scrabbled for a handhold, trying to minimize the strain on his neck from holding up his body. Another gasp and grunt of pain escaped him when his back was slammed against the wall, his spinal strut feeling as if it had crunched under the sheer force of the motion.

"We will start out simple, medic," Megatron hissed in his audio receptor. "Give of me what I demand, and I will see to it that your shoulders are repaired, and your human is left undamaged. Despite my nature, I can be quite reasonable."

Ratchet's optics focused on him, sheer hatred burning bright within them. "And what is it . . ." he rasped, his intake not fully crushed yet, but the energon veins had been adequately cut off and leaving him straining to vocalize. "That you could possibly want of me, besides the location of the base?"

A sickening grin stretched Megatron's scars and revealed his sharp denta.  "We both know you will not give it to me outright. So I will make you wish you had, and saved yourself from this suffering."

The sound of the door opening tore Ratchet's gaze away from the warlord, confusion knitting his optic ridges together. Soundwave quietly stalked into the cell room, his servos carrying a tray, and on it was an array of tools, some surgical in nature while others were purely for torture purposes. At first, Ratchet briefly wondered why Soundwave was present, and not Dreadwing or Knock Out, but it then occurred to him that this was not just for his benefit.

"Are you prepared to document audio?" Megatron questioned his third in command. Receiving a silent nod, the tyrant returned his full attention to the medic before him. "Then we will begin."

Ratchet was dropped with an unceremonious crash to the ground, Megatron slamming a pede on his abdominal plating to keep him in place. The medic groaned in pain, watching Megatron sift through the collection of tools with bleary optics. Taking his time, Megatron eventually picked up a simple drill, not unlike the ones Knock Out had in his personal medical system.

"It is amusing, to think that I once considered becoming a medic," he focused his gaze on Ratchet. "But I would have never been very good at it. No patience."

"Yeah, and I thought about becoming a genocidal despot. Funny how things turn out," Ratchet snarled sarcastically, grunting again as the pede released its pressure. Panic rose in his chest when he noticed Megatron was not holding the drill correctly; his digit was not resting over the button, but rather at the handle's end -

He screamed without even meaning to when Megatron thrusting the drill into his left chest plate, away from the spark but in a position that could plenty of damage. The spiral bit tore through him like butter, ripping wires and crumpling metal without suffering damaging itself. The medic managed to get a handle on his screaming and pain, Megatron gripping his servo when it reached for a position just behind the medic's helm.

"Don't even think about it," he growled at him, crushing grip preventing the medic from manually turning off his pain receptors. "You are going to feel every bit of this, and you will scream."

Then he turned on the drill, watching as energon came pouring in droves from the wound. Ratchet's vocalizer nearly glitched from the intensity of his cry of pain, the drill increasing the size of the wound and the damage it caused exponentially. As such, Megatron did not leave it on for long, eventually pulling it free and resting the energon-drenched tool back on Soundwave's tray. He watched with satisfaction as the medic shook, his optics dimming and brightening in erratic fluctuations.

Ratchet placed a trembling servo on the wound in a weak attempt to stem the energon flow, the bright blue liquid streaming past his digits. Megatron only watched him briefly before selecting another tool: the classic energon prod.

He turned it on, ensuring Ratchet was aware that he had turned up the charge to its full capacity. Normally, such a thing was reserved for stronger prisoners, with more bulk and muscle cables to counteract the frying of their energon reserves. If Ratchet was lucky, it would only scramble his processor for a brief period of time and not do any permanent damage. 

Well, no. If he was truly lucky, it would bring him a swift offlinement.

"I will allow Knock Out to fully mend your frame should you obey my command," Megatron stroked the prod with the points of his digits, lightly caressing the weapon as if it was a beloved pet. "And the pest will be spared."

His optics refocused on the medic, his grin sending ice down his spinal strut. "Tell me, Ratchet, who you desire to come save you. Who would you contact first for rescue? Scream their name. Beg for their  deliverance."

Ratchet's faceplates snapped up to glare at him. It became very apparent to him that this was just a twisted game. Megatron was not truly interested in acquire information, not yet; he wanted to make the medic, and those he cared about, suffer. It brought him more pleasure to receive secrets through dubious consent than outright prying it from his victims. And Ratchet was no fool; the Decepticon knew exactly who Ratchet would chose. He just wanted the satisfaction of hearing him say it out loud.

"I will not participate in your abhorrent fantasies, Megatron," he spat. The resistance earned him a jab with the energon prod, Ratchet barely able to yowl as his entire body lit up, small nuclear explosions cascading from the point of contact to his digits and pedes, racing across his processor and threatening to cause a forced shut-down. Just as quickly as it had come, the pain faded, leaving a foreign metallic twang on his glossa. His vision returned in swirls and white little dots, barely able to stay upright from the resulting dizziness even while against the wall.

"Say it, Ratchet. Say his name, or I will not only continue to torture you, but the human will be next," It was not a threat, but a promise.

Ratchet grit his denta, trying to swallow his pride. This pain he would rather endure for a lifetime than ever give Megatron what he wanted, but he could not do it with Jack's wellbeing on the line. He silently cursed the warlord, feeling his entire body tremble as the name slipped from his glossa, small and pathetic.

"O-Optimus . . ."

"Louder."

"Optimus!" He screamed as the energon prod slammed against his injured shoulder, sending another wave of agony across his frame. When he cried out Optimus' designation left his vocalizer again, falling forward and collapsing when the pain had passed. His vents were labored, the electricity warming his metal and forcing his fans to work overtime to cool them. His digits curled against the metal floor, his optics shuttering as a part of his resolve seemed to break.

"Beg for him, medic. Beg for his rescue."

"N-no," this time the energon prod hit his spinal cable, the direct contact causing the worst spasms he ever encountered, leaving his processor barely functional, save for the urge to survive, and concede. "Optimus, help me! Please, please, save me from this. Optimus, please!"

He could barely hear himself scream, only hoping that the words he was thinking were leaving his glossa. At one point, he might have even called for Orion Pax, but any knowledge of such a thing was promptly deleted before he could grasp it. Again and again Megatron coerced him into calling for his friend, forcing him to plead and beseech the Prime's salvation. It seemed there would be no stopping until, finally, the warlord had his fill and Ratchet was left curled in a ball on the floor. His exposed shoulders shook pathetically and energon leaked from his mouth, the delicate energon lines having burst from the repeated abuse.

"Such a pity he cannot hear you," Megatron sneered. "Nevertheless, my promise to you remains. Knock Out will attend to you shortly, and the human will be spared."

Ratchet closed his optics. He did not care; he just wanted to be left alone. When Megatron's voice started to warble and warp out of focus the medic let it happen, allowing stasis to shut down his body.

⬵⤁

Optimus Prime stood at the computers, his digits resting against the keyboard. In his peripheral vision Miko paced melancholically in the human's play area, Rafael staring mindlessly on his computer. The base was silent, Arcee and Bumblebee keeping constant watch on Bulkhead as he remained in stasis, Agent Fowler also watching the Wrecker. From their readings the team deduced that Bulkhead had suffered incredible neurological damage to his spinal strut, which could leave him permanently crippled. It was still too early to say for sure, however, and without their medic's expertise they were prone to false prognoses.

The lack of Ratchet's presence frustrated him, but he kept his feelings in check. Having been his closest friend, the Prime was better versed in medicine than any of the other team members, but this was something even his steady servos could not hope to mend. They needed Ratchet, the miracle worker.

The medic was too humble to accept such a title, but Optimus had seen his fair share of Ratchet's work, and he knew it to be true. Where many medics failed or gave up, Ratchet was there to pick up the slack. He was a valuable member to the team, more than anyone had ever given him credit for. Losing him had dealt a significant blow, and there was no doubt in Optimus' mind that Megatron was well aware of that.

A beep drew his attention back to reality, a message popping up on the screen. The noise jerked everyone else to attention, Arcee turning from her position at Bulkhead's side.

"What is it?" She asked, speaking in English for the benefit of their liaison and the children.

"It is a message . . . sent from Megatron," Optimus felt dread fill his spark.

"Think he finally decided to wise up and call in a ransom?" Agent Fowler asked, approaching the Prime.

Miko stood at rigid attention where she stopped her pacing, her small hands curling into fists. "Buckethead better be calling to say that he's sorry and is going to return Jack!" She shouted to no one in particular. "Because a deal's a deal!"

No one bothered to try and tell her that this behavior was normal for Megatron, and the chances of him handing Jack over for nothing in return was nonexistent. Optimus instead carefully opened the message, which had nothing but an audio recording attached to it. Their computer did a brief scan and came back with a clean bill of health, which assured the Prime as he played it.

There was silence at first, the the foreign static and whines of Cybertronian filled the base. Miko put her hands over her ears, grimacing.

"What is that?" She asked. The question was rhetorical, as she had heard the language before, but something about this particular line of dialogue was . . . excruciatingly cruel.

"It's Cybertronian," Arcee narrowed her optics. " And it's Megatron speaking in the Decepticon dialect."

"-coming a medic. But I would have never been very good at it. No patience."

Optimus furrowed his optic ridges. Megatron was not speaking to them directly, not in this message, it sounded like . . .

Even Miko and Agent Fowler, who could not understand a word of Cybertronian, recognized Ratchet's voice when he spoke. There was no mistaking his mixed Iaconian and Vaporex accent, which transferred even to English, as he snapped back at the warlord. Silence permeated, as if Megatron was thinking of a comeback, but then a terrible, horrifying sound pierced through the speakers, making every hearing person in the room flinch.

"No." Arcee voiced aloud their thoughts.

Agent Fowler had never heard Ratchet scream before. Sure, there was the occasional, terrified yell, or even a cry of rage or frustration, but never anything like this. It was gut-wrenching, a sound of complete and utter agony that echoed through the base. Ratchet was in physical, horrific pain, the sound of what Fowler suspected to be a drill intertwining with his whines.

Finally, the noises stopped, Ratchet's labored breathing the only audible thing for a while. Megatron growled something out to the medic, his voice deep and intimidating even to those that did not understand. When the quiet persisted again Optimus thought the recording was done; but it was only beginning.

Even Arcee cringed and looked away when the screams started again, her digits curling into fists and digging into the seams of her palm, bruising wires and threatening to cut them open.

"Turn in off, please," Bumblebee begged. "I can't take it anymore."

In a rare bit of selfishness Optimus did not do as he asked, listening to his friend's torment and feeling his spark twist within his chassis. The energon within his tank rolled and boiled in anger, yet he kept himself in check. He wanted to know if there was a point to this audio, besides the obvious.

"I will allow Knock Out to fully mend your frame should you obey my command."

His optics visibly brightened and narrowed when Megatron spoke again, his wires coiled tightly in tension. The terms of the warlord's conditions sent a jolt of pain through him, as if Megatron's sword had materialized out of the screen and stabbed him. What he asked of Ratchet was degrading, useless, and yet when the medic refused he punished him with another bought of torture.

"Say his name."

Optimus felt his servos tighten their grip on the monitors, apprehension freezing his joints in place. He implored Ratchet to be strong, to not give Megatron the satisfaction he craved. Giving in to his captor's wishes only gave him more power and control.

"O-Optimus . . ."

"Louder."

"Optimus!"

More screams, more agony, but this time it tore directly into the Prime's spark, collapsing it within his chest and threatening to destroy him. Arcee and Bumblebee stood, frozen, as Ratchet begged, pleaded, for Optimus to save him.

"Orion . . . please . . . help."

His keen snapped something within the bearer of the Matrix, and without thinking Optimus slammed his fist onto the keyboard, terminating the audio recording and briefly venting his frustration. The entire base was filled with uncomfortable, tense silence, interrupted only by Miko.

"Raf!"

The youngest human had collapsed onto the floor, curled in a ball and shaking uncontrollably as he sobbed. It occurred to his guardian too late that the boy could understand Cybertronian, and had heard every single word. Miko wrapped her arms around the traumatized boy, the both of them shaken up. Ratchet was strong, and tough to crack for a 'bot. If Megatron had him screaming and begging for mercy . . .

Arcee's wings flared. Though they never heard him utter a sound, Jack must have seen the entire thing. And Ratchet, her caregiver and friend, to be put through some of the worst agony anyone had experienced in a millenia, made her spark pulse angrily within its casing. 

Megatron was a monster.

"It's gonna be okay," Miko tried to calm Rafael, who was close to having a massive panic attack. His skin was just as pale as it had been when he had been infected with Dark Energon, cold and clammy as well. Miko silently begged him to not pass out.

Optimus shuttered his optics, trying to reign in control. When he found himself failing and rage clouding his judgement he pushed himself away from the console and stalked toward the base entrance, transforming and driving off without so much as an indication of where he was going. He needed time to brood.

Arcee felt the need to do so as well, but she kept herself on a tighter leash. Ratchet and Optimus had been friends long before the war ever started; he, more than anyone, deserved to be upset about this.

"Let's get you to the couch, kid," Agent Fowler helped Miko pick Rafael up, moving him to somewhere more comfortable. As they moved Rafael could not help but make a pitiful sound of anguish, his despair felt throughout the base.

The two-wheeler looked toward the paused audio file again, its message more than clear.

They were running out of time.