Chapter Text
SYCMD: I'd say it's great to have another update for this fic, but honestly, with all that I put Rodimus through, maybe it's better that I don't say I'm excited XD Anyways, more fuel for the angst train! CHOO CHOO!
The scent of leathers oiled with ick-yak fat spoiled the air, long before the clipping boots carried the source to his cage. Blue optics glared out from the wooden bars, watching from his hunkered position, as the berthroom doors were thrown open: guard, senator, and the mech that stank of repulsive grease marching into the room.
The smelly one was leading the charge, the Autobot noted mutely. Clearly, the blue Decepticon wasn't a patrician like his captor, but he carried himself differently than the guard that stood by. His confidence was greater; smugness tripled. This was a mech that ruled himself and he flaunted it.
"Ah... I see the problem," the stranger muttered, approaching the captured mech at a slower pace. Red optics traced over every inch of the Autobot's frame while he circled the cage, leaving a nasty, itching sensation on his neural net. Denta grit tightly in his mouth; what he wouldn't give to claw out the sicko's optics!
"Yes. You obviously mistook its beauty for the whole of its character and were deservedly blind-sided when the beast showed its fangs," the blue Decepticon continued, his meandering path bringing him back around to the front of the cage. "You are not the first to fall to these sort of tricks, Senator, and I doubt you'll be the last."
The old, pot-bellied patrician sputtered at the insult, his arms flapping about in wordless outrage. His actions revealed the pink-stained bandages circling his upper arms- a sight that would be even more enjoyable if the Autobot wasn't wedged tight in a petro-rabbit cage. "A-are you blaming me for t-the stupid whore's assault?!," the distinguished mech warbled indignantly.
"Oh, certainly not," the stranger returned, his words calm and measured. The Autobot stiffened. This was a mech that knew how to distract and manipulate his lessers; that was a greater threat than just a thick-cabled bully. "No, no... When I say you are not the first, I mean that these vile creatures are well-versed at camouflage; donning pretty faces and delicate mannerisms until they are within striking distance of their prey. But by then, most would be dead. You had the fortitude to parry such a fatal blow and the ingenuity to put it away before the scum could harm you further."
The senator shuttered his optics stupidly at the other's lies for a moment, his chestplates puffing up as he was filled with misplaced pride. "R-right, well, as you say. Genius is a hereditary trait in my clan," the old mech hummed pleasantly.
It seemed only the red mech noticed the thug's small, disgusted frown. "...but now we come to the most important part of our conversation, Senator," the blue Decepticon went on, "Though beautiful, I'm afraid your new acquisition requires intensive training. That, of course, is my business' expertise."
"Ah, yes, yes," the patrician mumbled, mindful of his injured arm as he folded his servos over his hanging abdomen. "Given your assessment, sir Doubledealer, are you truly certain you can... better this creature's attitude? I paid a premium for its colours and build; I would rather not have it go to waste."
The so-called Doubledealer turned his face away from his would-be client, a cruel, hungry grin spreading across his scarred lip components. The pit of dread in the Autobot's fuel tanks bloomed fully, a tangle of black thorns spreading through his frame and strangling his spark. "I promise you that my methods have corrected all sorts, the most vicious included. This one, too, can be fixed for the right price," he answered, his red optics darkening with vile intent, "Even if I must train it personally."
The senator rubbed at a fat chin uncertainly, his doubts waning as his own gaze slid lasciviously over the caged mech's bare thighs. "W-well, I suppose I can't dispute your tactics. Your business's reputation has been well declared by a few of my associates," the older Decepticon said, snapping for his guard's attention. "What is the cost and how soon may you begin?"
At the other's interest, Doubledealer finally turned his back to the red mech; a pitiful reprieve against the events that would be forthcoming. "Given it has drawn energon, I suggest we go with a full-package service: dietary, instructional and behaviour modification," the thug began, slipping into his business spiel with ease, "We can also train it in various skills, depending on your wants, for a third of the base cost per trade. There is also a protection plan that can be added on, this ensures no physical damage or deformity will befall your property while remedial action is underway. That includes private board, beautification and handling by only the very best of my staff, myself included. Of course, those are merely recommendations and not required to get results. After seven weeks and ten thousand credits, you'll see this vicious beast become as docile as a flower for your continued enjoyment."
"T-TEN THOUSAND-?!" From the way the patrician was heaving, it looked as though the old mech would have an aneurysm! Sadly, the other Decepticon managed to find his vocalizer, spittle flying from his purple face as he addressed the thug. "Professional or not- that is a sum I simply cannot condone! Do you take me for a rube, newspark?! Or are you so brazen as to try and scam an illustrious mech such as myself due to my title!? No, I shall not stand for this criminal mark-up!"
Doubledealer lifted a servo gently, his open palm laid flat for the senator, almost begging. "Dear Senator, it is not my intent to make you feel deceived or robbed. The services I offer are merely-"
"Spare me your excuses!," the senator barked, snapping repeatedly for his already-attentive guard. "My interest in your business is gone, now that I am aware where your attention really lies. Be gone, charlatan, leave my estate at once! And don't you dare darken my doorway again!"
The guard stepped forward, a servo on the pommel of his weapon, at which point Doubledealer folded. Arms crossed behind his back rigidly, the thug let himself be led out of the berthroom and out of sight down the hall. Only once the patrician had also waddled from the room, and the large, mahogany doors slammed shut, did the Autobot rest his face to the cage floor and weep.
xxXxXxx
Sharp squealing yanked the slave to consciousness; panic choking his intakes and neural net electrified by his hurricane-whirling spark. His processor still wrapped in the reel of fresh memories, the Autobot scrambled to climb back to his pedes, blue orbs jumping about blindly. Fire was raging, there were raiders flooding the streets, the town was in danger! He had to get to the magistrate office, had to-
"Magnus!," the red mech cried out, his vocalizer breaking with distress.
He heard the sound of a door latching, spun towards the source, optics brightening hopefully-
Only to see a large Decepticon stepping into the room. Reality knocked the slave to his knee joints, the chains around his limbs tripling in weight, pulling him closer to the floor as everything shattered within him. He was unaware of the hot coolant that flooded his vision, nor could he stop them even if he tried. Across from the Autobot, Blackout froze in the doorway, staring at the other mech dumbly. At the sudden shouting, the soldier had waddled over to his pet's room, no time to spare on drying himself from his bath. He'd worried that the slave had hurt himself or maybe was having nightmares of that brute, Doubledealer- what Blackout hadn't anticipated was opening the door to a set of sparkling, blue optics radiating with light. Until recognition flashed across them and the crystal orbs fractured, their opalescent shards spilling to the floor as the Autobot dropped like a rock.
"...G-goldie...?," he called out hesitantly.
The slave remained hunched over, staring listlessly at the stone floor while all the colour fell from his optics in thick tears. The smaller 'bot didn't even sniffle; didn't bother to hide his vulnerability. Dark claws scratched at the door frame anxiously. Blackout could admit he wasn't always the best with emotions; he understood happy, mad and sad, and could react accordingly, depending on the situation. But the state of his pet was way beyond the sadness he was accustomed to seeing. If he thought really hard about it, the Autobot reminded the soldier of the dying vagrants he sometimes saw on his patrols outside of the city... That comparison carved a hollow spot inside of Blackout.
What could cause such a disturbing change to the red mech?
And why did it have to come on the heels of such a pretty smile...?
"Goldie? Hey?"
Slowly, the Decepticon shuffled further into the room, approaching the comatose Autobot at a snail's pace. He was uncertain if any movement on his behalf would make the smaller 'bot fall apart, like a poorly-threaded sparkling's doll, but when no such thing took place, he continued to inch ever closer. Finally, Blackout was close enough to kneel by his pet's side; with mere centimetres between them, the slave's death-like condition was horrific to behold. A servo hovered in the air, wavering, until the soldier could stomach the worry no more and he reached out towards the red mech. He should have anticipated the cuffs as they smashed into his face.
Cheekplate throbbing and audio receptors ringing from the sudden squall, Blackout fell back on his aft, struggling to put space between himself and the slave. It was made even more challenging as the Autobot followed each of his movements, thrashing and screaming and biting in a crazed fashion unlike anything the Decepticon had ever experienced before. Not even the chains still binding him could curb the red 'bot's madness. Blackout shoved the slave back hard at the next lunge for his face -not out of malice or anger, but sheer terror!- giving him just enough time to clamber back onto his pedes clumsily. If his smaller companion noticed the change in stance, it did not show in his actions.
"G-goldie! Stop!," the soldier cried out, deflecting every violent assault with a forearm. Dentae sank into his plating awkwardly, gouging it as the slave had to be shaken off by tremendous force. And still, the Autobot was rolling across the floor chaotically, not a bit deterred by his failures. "I'm Blackout; I'm your friend! You're not stuck at that slagging pretend-training house!"
The grey of the red mech's orbs had been replaced with a purplish hue of insanity. Where ever the slave might have been mentally, it certainly wasn't in the room at this very moment. Blackout's horror tempered out a bit, frowning as militant-training started to overcome his indecision. Lady Strika had taught them that an irrational individual could only be handled in one manner... but his time in the barracks had shown the soldier that there were less permanent methods to shake the derangement from a 'bot. When the Autobot came charging at him for the umpteenth time, the Decepticon did not falter, instead allowing his smaller companion within inches of his plating before two, massive arms snapped around the slave; holding him, snarling and writhing, crushed against his chestplates as Blackout stomped quickly out of the berthroom. He almost put a hole through the doorway rushing into the kitchen and the smaller alcove in the far corner where a large basin was carved into a podium of stone. A tub, one might say, though built for 'bots much smaller than someone of Blackout's stature. And currently, filled with water.
Surface tension broke with a walloping splash, servofuls of liquid sloshing around the little nook as the Autobot sank to the bottom. The first time the smaller mech resurfaced, it was with a snarl and gnashing denta- a greeting that had the soldier shoving the slave back into the water. His second dip under took much longer, far longer than Blackout was comfortable with. He leaned uncertainly over the swelling pool, finding his pet clawing at the smooth, stone walls desperately but purposefully, entangled by his chains. Beady optics flared, a massive servo punching the frothing waters and yanking the red mech out of the depths. The Autobot hung limply from the Decepticon's grasp, choking and coughing violently as his frame struggled to stabilize itself after a close brush with death.
"C-coooooolddddd," was the first, sensible thing to come out between chattering lip components.
Blackout hastened to lower the slave back into the tub, ensuring his upper frame was draped over the edge to avoid drowning a second time, before taking a few, cautious steps away. "W-well, yeah. It's water. Water is cold," he replied.
Ashen blue orbs narrowed at the brown mech. "Do-don't fragging p-patronize me!," the Autobot snapped, his wheezing vocalizer amplifying his rage, "T-the only purpose t-to draw th-this much fr-frigid water is t-to torture me; n-nobody bathes l-like this! S-so stop with the lies a-and mind games a-and just dr-drown me already!"
Blackout stared at the frail slave, appalled by his words. But also, greatly confused. "...why would I want to kill you, Goldie?," he mumbled, concerned. "I don't understand... Do you want that? What good would that serve?"
His questions seemed to squash any remaining derangement in the red mech, for the Autobot continued to look up at the soldier, with a slacken jaw and befuddled brow, an excruciatingly long time after the fact. Feeling self-conscious with every passing astrosecond, the Decepticon shuffled slightly on his pedes, gesturing awkwardly.
"A-anyways, I heard you screaming in your sleep a-and I thought I'd help, but you were having a fit and I've seen others toss wild 'bots into water to get them sensible again, s-soooo...," Blackout trailed off shyly, "I-it worked, right? I-i'm done cleaning myself already, b-but you're welcome to use the rest to wash up with also. I mean, you're probably really dirty after yesterday and could use a bath, too. Oh, first I've gotta take those robes off you though..."
The slave immediately jerked backwards at the mention of removing his clothes, icy optics returned to their cutting intensity of before, fixated on the soldier's pedes. For once, Blackout noticed- unfortunately, he knew there was no getting around soggy robes now, and he barrelled forward quickly, catching the red mech's arm before he had a chance to scramble away.
"GET OFF OF ME!," the Autobot shrieked at an unholy level, again, twisting and snarling like a possessed beast as he tried to claw free from his master's grasp, "DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL TEAR OUT YOUR FRAGGING INNARDS! I'LL CRUSH YOUR VILE SPARK TO NOTHING! YOU'RE NOT TAKING AWAY MY CLOTHES! GET. THE. FRAG. AWAY. FROM. ME!"
The slickness of his plating and the fervour of his actions made the slave a nearly-impossible object to hold in place. Frowning, the brown mech realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with his companion like this, so he did the only logical thing. The Autobot's vocalizer reached new decibels when Blackout grasped each of his wrists firmly, ripping backwards with enough force to send the smaller 'bot flying back into the water. Splashing wildly, his arms electric-hot from the agony of being almost-torn from his torso, the slave painstakingly dragged himself back to the surface. He didn't even give the Decepticon a glance before crazed optics were flashing to his own limbs, ready to rage anew at the expanse of damage-
Except, his poor processor stuttered to absorb, there wasn't any.
At least, not to the vast, bloodied extent that the level of pain had led the slave to believe.
Blackout watched while the Autobot slowly studied his wrists, gently prodding along the finite scratches and deep-set dents that had been hidden beneath the iron cuffs; the shattered, metal remnants digging into his palm as his fists tightened, beady optics tracking the dots of energon on red plating before it was wiped away by the smaller mech. His companion's daze had yet to dissipate when blue orbs lazily lifted toward the soldier, and again, the Decepticon was left stunned in turn. The other's optics were flared brightly once more, open and contemplative. Wide and unobstructed by ice, the orbs were a soft, pale blue that glittered beautifully under their own light. Blackout was mesmerized. He took a staggering shuffle forward- and recoiled in tandem with the slave, when the coldness returned to the smaller mech's gaze like a jabbing spear. Spark throbbing disjointedly in its chamber, the soldier quickly backed up a few more pedesteps, standing just outside the little alcove now.
His smaller companion stayed huddled against the far side of the tub, arms tucked against his chestplates defensively and a glare digging into the brown mech's helm.
"U-um, s-sorry," Blackout mumbled lowly, flummoxed by the string of events. He shifted his weight restlessly, glancing anywhere but at the slave. He felt pulled in several directions, riddled with cowardice and he didn't understand why! "I-if I h-hurt you, I-i-i mean. Y-you r-really gotta get those wet c-clothes off and scrub away the filth. B-but if you wanna do it y-your self, you'd need empty servos. I figured t-taking off your cuffs would m-make it easier, o-only, I didn't know how to get them off other than b-breaking them. If I h-hurt you in the process, I-i'm sorry."
If the Decepticon had looked up, he would have seen the absolutely bewildered expression his pet donned at that very moment; the disbelief holding, even when blue optics snapped around the room, searching.
"...and why would I pretty myself up for the likes of you?," came the slow growl.
The question captured the soldier's attention once more. "Is being pretty important?," Blackout asked, meeting the slave's gaze head-on in his confusion. "And why would you need to be pretty for me?"
The Autobot's mouth slowly drooped open, the astroseconds dragging on in silence.
Discomfort growing, Blackout pushed on, hoping that it would get that knotty sensation out of his tanks. "Lady Strika is always shouting about the importance of being clean. 'A rusty blade cuts less than a polished one', she says. Plus, it feels really nice to get the grime out of seams. After being at that slag-house, I think you could use a scrubbing too. Nobody would want that Doubledealer's stench all over themselves."
A tiny, bitter chuckle escaped the red mech at the last part of his statement; startled, the slave quickly broke optic-contact, angrily staring down his own reflection in the water. The Decepticon had enough sense to keep quiet, though that might have been his own shock at play.
"Are you planning to watch me the whole time?," the Autobot grumbled inquisitively after a few, lengthy kliks, his optics still glued to the tub's interior.
Perking upwards at the closest thing to compliance his pet had given since the orn he'd bought him, Blackout muttered an embarrassed apology and lumbered further into the kitchen, chucking the broken cuffs into a tin bucket under the sink pump. He stood there after, awkwardly counting the kliks until he heard the slave cursing softly, and waddled back quickly to find the smaller 'bot squirming out of the tub like a worm. Icy optics cut into the soldier at his return, keeping Blackout at bay until the Autobot had managed to pull his whole frame up and over the lip; sitting on the tiled rim, venting hard and looking like a drowned turbo-rat in his sopping wet robes.
"Are you clean?," the brown mech asked, perplexed by the sight of the other still wearing his old clothes.
The slave's glare hardened. "As best as one can when there's nothing to actually wash with," he hissed, irritated. "First freezing water, and now you don't have any wash rags or soap? No wonder you fragging stink."
Blackout barely refrained from lifting an arm and giving himself a whiff. He didn't actually smell, did he? "O-oh, um, alright...," he replied, "But you can't wear old, wet clothes. You'll catch a virus faster than a leo-pede catches spots like that, my momma always said!"
The other's face twisted slightly, so now the look of anger was tinged with incredulity. "You mean the only slagging crap-clothe I own?!"
Beady optics shuttered stupidly at the remark. Now that he thought about it, the red mech didn't actually have any other clothing, let alone possessions of his own. A collar and leash barely constituted as personal items. Struck with sudden brilliance, the Decepticon thundered over to the other mech like a giant, ecstatic sparkling, grabbing the slave by the wrist and yanking him to a stand. "You're right! We should go shopping, and get you some new things, Goldie!," he chirped merrily, almost dragging the Autobot out the door in his haste. "And you can help me pick out some bath stuff, too!"
"Wait! NO! I never-," the slave protested, but they were already heading out of the apartment before he could break free of his master's eager grasp.
xxXxXxx
Iacon streets were heavy with the heat of the crowds and the musk of labouring beasts, a miasma so thick that it was a wonder no one simply choked on the oppressive cloud. The once-freezing state of his soggy robe and plating had quickly turned around a few kliks out of the insula; now the slave's sensory grid felt parched and itchy, his clothes damp only where they pressed tight on his chestplates and hips. Shuffling along the narrow path left behind his master, the Autobot simmered in a smouldering hate as prickly as the chains still cuffed around his ankles, feeling a spike of rage with every nasty glance sent his way. He knew he was being laughed at and degraded silently from a distance; worse yet, peeled apart crudely by lewd onlookers and defiled in unseen places. It churned his empty tanks so roughly, with hatred and hysteria, that the slave felt he would purge all that vitriol over the worn-out cobblestones. And yet, doing so could not curb the violent blood-lust growing within him each passing orn he spent in chains.
Nor would it penetrate the thick helm of his so-called 'master'.
As per usual, Blackout was oblivious to his pet's aggression or treacherous thoughts, meandering about the marketplace without a single clue as to what he was doing or where he was going. Well, that wasn't entirely true: he knew he wasn't alone. The soldier paused in his mindless lumbering, straining his thick neck to look over a shoulder at the small mech at his backside, mouth open in question- instead, sniffing hard a few times in a row, as something delicious wafted across the packed square.
"I'm hungry. Are you hungry? Let's get some food!," Blackout started and finished, all in one go. He didn't even wait for the slave's reply before thundering forward, the crowds parting for the large mech immediately- whether they wanted to or not. The Autobot struggled to keep up, hampered by the steel coils connecting his two ankles, yet not wanting to be snatched by insidious onlookers or be branded as an escapee by Imperial sentries.
He was panting by the time the Decepticon's impulsive path had brought them up to a line of bakery carts; Blackout easily sweeping a swathe of 'bots away from the wagon counters, his massive servos snatching up breads and pies and strips of cured meat in rapid succession, ignorant of the other shoppers. "Tmis swon shrilly gwoud!," he proclaimed, holding out a slender roll with bits of ground meat baked into its folds to the slave.
The Autobot's expression twisted in revulsion, wanting nothing more than to spit in Blackout's face, yet he held himself back, uncomfortably aware of the merchant glaring down at him from the other side of the stall. Wanting to get the other 'bot's gaze off of him, the red mech quickly snatched the roll from the soldier; tossing it between the sea of limbs once the Decepticon had returned his attention to the merchant again.
"Mmm... Pack me thirteen more of those, and that, oh, and a couple of those!," Blackout ordered, his mouth finally free of half-chewed food. That didn't stop him from shoving a few more pies into his gob as he shook his purse out from the sash around his waist; the leather sack sagging with credits. "Payment for your good wares!"
Any displeasure the baker might have had in his spark was smothered by an exaggerated smile as soon as currency was brought into the picture; the third Decepticon already encouraging the brown mech to purchase several more items, while his younger stall-assistant counted out the thin, golden circles on a set of scales. The slave's disgust only grew at the merchant's duplicitous nature. Just like everything else in this Empire, the only thing that mattered was that which could serve the individual best, leaving cruel and immoral citizens the driving force of its nation. Oh, how badly the slave wanted to watch this whole kingdom burn to the ground.
The Autobot was jostled from his murderous train of thought by a sack of coarse linen shoved into his face; Blackout beaming on the other side, crumbs clinging to his wide cheekplates. "Here, you carry this, Goldie!," he rumbled happily, "That'll be our dinner and maybe even a little nibble in the night. Did we need anything else...? Oh, right, some new robes! I think the seamstress is over this way..."
Being turned into a gopher was the last thing the red mech wanted, but as he opened his mouth to loudly proclaim his disinterest, out of his peripheral, he caught the gleaming headpieces of the Imperial sentries as they circled just beyond the bakery cart. Fuming, the slave caught the sack when Blackout let it fall, his master already focused on his next stop. Shifting the ridiculously heavy bag in his arms, the Autobot awkwardly gave chase after the brown mech, glaring at the cobblestone pathways to avoid the sneers he could feel against his backside. Was the giant idiot going to parade him around all orn?! As soon as the thought was spoken within his mind, the smaller 'bot collided with the brown mech's colossal rear- a comedic response from the universe itself.
Ready to throw the sack of half-mushed pastries and rolls to the floor in outrage, the slave turned his snarl upwards but found it withering away at the perturbed look on the soldier's face.
"I know the seamstress' shop is over this way," Blackout was mumbling aloud to himself, his beady optics surveying the crowd fretfully, "But they've got a gallows put up here. Gonna have to go around... so needless..."
The Decepticon twisted on his heel, circling around the throng of 'bots that were squashed together in an impenetrable line. Fists tightening in the sack's rough weave, the slave too, altered his course and shuffled along quickly, ducking between more and more citizens as they gathered for the gruesome display. By the sounds of their jeers and the slowly rising pitch of rusty spokes, it seemed as if the afternoon 'entertainment' was about to start. The Autobot desperately tried to put that fact out of his processor; he could help no one, especially himself, in a situation like this. Even if it tore at his spark to the point of sickness.
Blackout was several metres away now, nearing a line of empty tabernae doorways, that had been vacated in favour of the soon-to-be executions, when the first of the city guards, escorting the parade of death, cut off the slave's path to his master. Hurriedly, the red mech dropped his gaze to the ground, hoping his meek facade would keep him out of the optics of his potential tormentors. The mechanical thudding of heavy pedes did not slow or falter as the procession marched by the Autobot; the sure-footed beat of Imperial Sentries and hired muscle fading into resigned shuffle and smothered whimpers, as the chosen victims of that orn followed close behind. Anxiously, blue optics glanced up, unable to curb the morbid urge to peer upon the 'bots condemned to die.
And felt regret slap him in the face in the form of two, familiar orbs catching his own in the same moment.
Coolant swelled on slate-blue optics already glistening with despair, lip components twisted in a mish-mash expression of joy and sorrow at the sight of recognizable kin. "R-rodimus...," Slinger muttered weakly, his deformed jaw struggling to make the syllables of his designation, "Ro-rodimus... R-rodimus, i-it's me...!"
The red mech knew who the poor 'bot was in the chain-line. Even discoloured, nude and looking as though he'd been run over by a dozen or so carts, it was hard not to place his old friend's face on the battered frame he now bore. He could feel no joy at their reunion though; Slinger was being led on to an execution, a fact that the other Autobot had clearly forgotten about as he was led ever closer to his fellow slave. In mounting horror, he watched as Slinger's demeanour grew more excitable with every step, his chains starting to jangle in tandem with his emotions.
"R-rodimus. Rodimus! Rodimus," his friend was mumbling, his vocalizer strengthening after each repetition of his designation, despite his crippling injuries. Slinger was swaying in his bonds now, disrupting the rhythm of the line's march, bursting with gleeful energy and completely clueless of the predicament he was in. "Rodimus! O-oh, Rodimus, i-it's you-! You-"
A guard was stomping up the procession on the opposite side, his optics burning with rage. His mouth parted slightly, desperate to warn his old friend of the approaching danger, yet no sound escaped. The first, hard yank at the iron lead did nothing to take Slinger's attention off of the red mech. Disturbingly, it had the opposite effect. As though a veil had been ripped from the other Autobot's gaze, Slinger's expression morphed from one of delusional joy to self-aware terror. He thrashed against the Decepticon when his captor lunged for his throat, his jerky motions sending his assailant to the ground and knocking over a few more 'bots in the chain-line. That wasn't the end of Slinger's disturbance though. He was actively trying to tear out of his bonds and reach for the mute mech all at the same time, optics bright-hot with his panic and his vocalizer almost screeching into the market square.
"H-HELP! R-RODIMUS, HE-HELP ME! GET M-MAGNUS! PL-PLEASE, RODI-"
Energon splashed across the Autobot's face and chestplates hotly, Slinger's desperate shrieks ending abruptly; the gathered congregation of citizens erupting in vicious delight while the other 'bot's helm rolled over the city cobblestones, leaving a trail of brilliant pink wherever it touched. The sound of his designation rang shrilly in his audios; flared optics staring in abject terror at the Imperial sentry standing before him, ensnared by the viscous trail of energon dripping down the raised sword. He wasn't aware of the Decepticon shouting questions at him, nor how hard he was hyper-ventilating just then.
"-SPEAK, THEN I SHALL CUT THE GLOSSA FROM YOUR WORTHLESS-!"
"WAIT!," Blackout bellowed, his booming vocalizer cutting over the din of a frenzied crowd.
The soldier turned, ready for a fight, yet had the wind taken out of his sails somewhat at the sight of his comrade. "Blackout?!," the smaller Decepticon grumbled, "Are you to tell me that this useless cur is your possession?"
The brown mech drew up to his comrade-in-arms, pushing aside the other's sword with a frown. "Yes," he answered simply.
The sentry spit in disgust. "I had heard you'd wet your pedes in the market, but to see that this is the wretched thing you tied yourself to... What a disgrace! You should let me put it down for you; save yourself the mockery of placing your brand on it!"
"Goldie is no trouble," Blackout pushed back, talking low and quickly. He knew they had an audience and he wanted to wrap this up at once, to save himself from any further complications that orn. "If he's a little slow, it's just 'cause he's recovering from a rough night. He's not being a hindrance. And besides, I saw you already took care of the disturbance on your line."
At the larger mech's irrefutable observation, the other soldier snorted derisively; wiping his sword on the tunic of the next prisoner in line and sheathing the weapon finally. "Very well. Get the slagging thing out of our path and go about your business, comrade," he commanded angrily, turning away and stomping back up the chain-line.
The crowd booed at the lack of further violence, only mildly sated when the remaining victims were paraded into the centre of the gathered circle. Blackout dutifully stayed aside as the procession finished the journey to their execution; stepping gently around the decapitated Autobot's helm, and grasping his own pet by the arm. The red mech barely reacted to the touch. Did not voice a single word or sound of complaint as he was pulled away from the heavy press of onlookers and into the cool confines of a nearby alleyway. He did not snarl or lash out at the dark claws while they prodded and poked at his trembling frame and pale face.
It was only when the Decepticon whispered an uncertain, "Rodimus...?" that the slave finally broke.
Collapsing into a wailing fit of tears and anguish greater than the grief of that morning.
SYCMD: Aaaaaaaand, finally I name-dropped our 'slave'... but obviously, if you're reading the tags, you know exactly who he's been this whole time~ But, yeah... It took five whole, fricking chapters just to get to this point T _ T At least the trauma is always fresh and hot!
Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?