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There was a cuff around his ankle. It clanked when he moved his pede. It made an interesting counter-rhythm to the tap of his digits on the berth.
Escape. He should be planning an escape.
The rumble-hum of a powerful engine vibrated across his frame. His spark quivered. The ceiling was a dull grey. Something beeped in the room, a console maybe. A camera whirred as its sleepless gaze surveyed the area.
Escape. He shouldn't be here. He was needed elsewhere. They were undoubtedly worried about him. He’d said so many things. Cruel things. All of them true.
Undercharged.
His tank gurgled, running on fumes. The Synth-En was powerful but burned out too quickly, twice as fast as regular energon. Along with the other, more unsavory side-effects. He should have been more careful. He should have--
Escape.
A tremble rattled through his plating.
The chain on his ankle clanked. He’d tried to pull it loose once. Yesterday maybe. Or earlier than that. He couldn't really remember because everything was distorted. Hazy and slow. He remembered trying to get free. He remembered giving up because the effort was pointless and only wasted his energy.
He should recharge. It was better than watching the minutes tick by on his chronometer.
Had he been forgotten?
Undercharged. Tanks empty.
No. Escape. That needed to be his focus. Concentrate on escaping.
It was too hard to focus right now. Thoughts didn't want to connect. His empty tank clenched. Heat spread through his frame as though remembering the unwanted ecstasy of so many solars past.
How many?
He didn't know. He'd lost count. Sometimes, he swore that his chronometer wasn't working properly. Once, he might’ve been able to fix it.
It wasn't like he couldn't move. See? There. His pede twitched; the chain clanked. He lifted his hand; it dropped back to the berth with a dull thump. His head tilted toward the dim of the room, aimed at the doorway that would open any moment now. Or not. He couldn't really remember that either.
He hadn't forgotten. It was just too hard to get to that information right now. He'd go searching for it in his processor, get lost halfway there, and wander his way back to the present. The past was too far away. So was everything else.
The door was going to open again. And then, there would be energon. Other things, too. Like the shameful pleasure. The intoxicating crawl of charge over his circuits. The processor-searing rush of ecstasy. The hot burn of the energon in his empty tanks.
He didn't want any of it. He didn't have much of a choice. Couldn't stop them. Couldn't stop him.
He shivered on the berth, plating making a low-amplitude rumble.
The door opened. He jerked as the light poured in, too bright. His optics cycled down in response.
A large frame stood silhouetted in the doorway. He knew this frame. Knew the feel of those taloned digits sliding into every intimate nook. Knew the weight of those crimson optics, the press of that inescapable energy field.
Fear warred with dread fought with fury and indignation.
All were gone at the next intake. Too much effort. Too much processing power.
The door slid shut, trapping him with his nightmare made real. Raf had told him about nightmares once. He thought the term particularly apt right now.
“You look undercharged, Ratchet.” Dark vocals filled the room as he moved toward the berth.
Megatron held up a cube, Synth-En poisonously green and glowing within the transparent material. Ratchet's tanks clenched hungrily while a saner, fleeting part of him roared in outrage.
“Knock Out assures me he's fine-tuned the formula this time.” Megatron gifted Ratchet with a fanged smirk. “I am, however, a mech who understands the value of being cautious.”
Vile invectives crowded Ratchet's vocalizer. They wisped away in the next moment. Hatred remained, manifesting itself as a potent glare. He clung to that loathing, trying to keep himself from slipping away into that dull place again.
Megatron chuckled, talons clicking against the cube. “Can I help that you make for a perfect test subject, Ratchet?”
The Decepticon leader moved closer. He loomed over Ratchet and his position on the berth, half-propped upward, legs spread out in front of him. Megatron still towered over him, and he waved the cube of energon in front of Ratchet's olfactory sensor, taunting him.
It smelled vile, the Synth-En did, noxious and foul. Ratchet craved it. His lipplates parted before reason kicked in. He snapped his mouth shut just as quickly, all the while feeling the weight of those scarlet optics on him.
“Have a taste,” Megatron said, his sibilant vocals a mockery of persuasion.
“No.” He forced out the refusal through gritted dentals, and his digits scraped into fists. His very frame rattled, the chain clanking.
Megatron shook his helm, pulling an injector out of his subspace.
“Not ready yet,” he mused to himself, though he'd meant for Ratchet to overhear.
Yet.
Ratchet's innards roiled.
Last week, he'd fought. Or had it been a week ago? He still wasn't sure of the timeline, of how many solars had passed.
He used to fight. Physically fight.
Megatron had removed his weapons. Ratchet remembered that much every time he tried to summon any one of them or even his surgical equipment. But he still had his fists and his pedes. He'd fought, though it had been pointless.
That was last week.
Four days ago, Ratchet had snarled. Vile invectives had spilled from his vocalizer. He'd ranted and raved and made time spent within audial range very unpleasant for anyone.
Two days ago, Ratchet had put his wits to good use. He'd cobbled together some equipment and started basic repairs on his comm. Maybe he'd get lucky and he could get a message out to Optimus and the others. Or at least find a way to hack into the Nemesis mainframe.
He'd been caught, of course.
Yesterday, Soundwave made all of it go away.
Ratchet couldn't think anymore. Or if he did, he couldn't complete his thoughts. Threads started in one direction, trailed off, picked up again somewhere else. He didn't have the processing power necessary anymore. Soundwave had taken that from him.
Now, today, he'd opened his mouthplates without conscious thought. Today, he'd let his hunger get the best of him.
Never had yet been so terrifying.
Ratchet watched as the green Synth-En surged into the casing, bubbling when Megatron gave the cylinder a curious tap.
He would not submit without a struggle, no matter how ineffectual. Knock Out was barely a medic and certainly didn't qualify as a scientist. Nothing he could do would improve the formula. At least, not for daily consumption.
No. What Knock Out had done to Synth-En was made it worse.
Ratchet tensed, a crawling sensation attacking the inner layer of his plating, like Scraplets had taken up residence beneath it. Imagining all too well the effects of the Synth-En. Every ounce of remaining power gathered in his chassis, set his spark to spinning.
Megatron reached for his arm.
Ratchet lunged.
A hand larger than his helm slammed him back down faster than Ratchet could cycle his optics. He hit the berth with a solid jolt, helm striking the wall. His vision fritzed, a cry of static escaping his vocalizer. The chain around his ankle clunked.
Ratchet reeled, disoriented, free hand scrabbling at empty air.
It was all the invitation Megatron needed. He snatched Ratchet's arm and injected the Synth-En in one quick burst.
Failed.
Ratchet ventilated loudly, resistance abandoned.
Megatron, however, smirked as he set aside the empty injector. “So much fight left in you,” he rumbled. “Prime would be proud.”
Ratchet flinched; reminding him of Optimus was a particularly low blow. As if Ratchet wasn't already aware of the last thing he'd said to his Prime. To everyone.
He dredged up a glare from the pit of his tanks, but it was weak. As ineffectual as his earlier resistance.
There was no point in struggling now. He knew what was coming, what was next. The outcome was inevitable.
Megatron watched him, the weight of his focused gaze heavy on Ratchet's chassis. His only consolation in that Megatron didn't speak. Arguably, that was worse.
Ratchet contemplated shuttering his optics, but not seeing Megatron was no better than witnessing it. He braced himself.
Endure.
It’d eventually end. It always did. Sooner or later.
Endure.
The SynthEn flooded his systems, energy suffusing his frame. For one long, intoxicating moment, Ratchet remembered what it was like to be fully charged. He luxuriated in the brief sensation of having clear thoughts and strong limbs and--
Heat. Everything redeeming about the SynthEn burned away in the ensuing heat.
Ratchet's entire form arched, trying to escape from the searing fire within his own frame. Scorching electricity snapped through his circuits, crackling with too much, too soon.
Pain and pleasure, he couldn't tell the difference. It all blended together.
He writhed on the berth, helpless moans escaping his vocalizer. It hurt; it burned. And it washed over every sensory node, pummeling him with wave after wave of pleasure.
Taloned hands landed on his frame, claws scraping curls of red and white paint from his plating. Everywhere they touched left a trail of fire; Ratchet couldn't stop himself from chasing the path of those hands. He hated those claws, wanted to rip them off and do terrible things that clashed with his medic's coding. They were the claws of a killer, stained with all flavors of energon.
He wanted more. He needed more.
Ratchet keened, scrambling at the berth. His cooling fans roared, HUD screaming incomprehensible warnings. Too much energy, burning him from the inside out. Charge crackled audibly, snapping off his armor and cutting through the air like lightning.
Overload slammed across Ratchet's sensory net. He thrashed; the chain around his ankle clanked. Megatron's claws wrung every last surge of charge and then ruthlessly demanded more.
He had two, maybe three, ventilations to cycle down from the overload. Ratchet sucked in cool air, caught a glimpse of amused red optics.
And then, the charge rose again, building steadily from where it had never completely diminished only dulled by the first overload. Ratchet's systems cycled up quicker than before, primed by Megatron's skilled claws. In any other situation, Ratchet would’ve called the Decepticon lord an exemplary lover.
Endure.
Ratchet gritted his denta, hands finding and grasping the edge of the berth. His fingers slid into well-worn grooves, made by his own hands on nights past. The heat swept through his frame, his spark spinning wildly.
It’d be easier, he mourned, if Megatron so much as pretended this was meant to be torture. If he interrogated Ratchet or made demands. Megatron did neither.
He did nothing but manipulate Ratchet into a second processor-jarring overload. Ratchet gasped; the heat was overwhelming. His systems redlined, warnings popping up faster than he could dismiss them.
It felt good, for all that it was agony. For all the ache in his circuits, pleasure seemed to circumvent it all. He twitched under Megatron's hands, chestplates seeking to part though Ratchet kept them closed with a will made of durabyllium. It was the only part of him still private, still his, and he dreaded the solar Megatron would take that as well.
It was only a matter of time. It was only a matter of yet.
Claws slipped into gaps in Ratchet's armor, sliding against fluid lines and teasing motion cables. They scraped on the undersides of his plating, more sensitive than the outer layers, and a whine of static escaped Ratchet.
The scent of discharge was thick in the room, so strong Ratchet could taste it on his glossa. Humidity made condensation gather on his plating. He was parched, desperate for coolant. He noted these things clinically, desperate to distract himself from the unwanted pleasure.
As always, it did little to help.
His engine revved, the vibrations only making the sensations worse. Or better. Ratchet couldn't tell the difference anymore.
A third overload left him grasping for a cool ventilation; his entire frame twitched spasmodically. His helm lolled, exhausted. But the charge hadn't dissipated enough.
“One more, I think.” Megatron finally spoke, his deep vocals rumbling through Ratchet's chassis and reverberating in his spark chamber.
He couldn't dredge up the effort to snarl or glare. He couldn't beg for mercy, though he'd rather offline than beg Megatron for anything. He might not be able to control his frame's reaction, but he'd frag well keep his vocalizer locked.
Endure.
It became a mantra. Two syllables.
Endure.
Megatron's energy field, formerly hovering at the edges of Ratchet's own, tested the boundaries. This was new, a different form of humiliation.
It was consuming, powerful. Ratchet resisted, coiling his own toward his frame, desperate to keep the eager tendrils from twining with Megatron. Multiple overloads left him weak, and Megatron's field was a steady prickle, an invitation. A temptation Ratchet's tenuous restraint couldn’t reject.
Warmth and pleasure poured over Ratchet in a steady wave, demanding rather than asking for reciprocation. He couldn't stop himself from responding, from letting the distal edges of his energy field twine with Megatron's. The pulse between them was a heavy sensation, an unrelenting pressure that seeped into every nook and cranny.
Discharge crackled over Ratchet's armor. His optics took themselves offline, digits gripping the berth so tightly he heard his joints creak and snap, the pain a distant nuisance. He could still feel Megatron's gaze on him, amused by his weakness.
The last overload was the worst, dragged from the depths of Ratchet's systems, his spark spinning feebly in the wake of the electrical discharge. A strangled cry of static was ripped from his vocalizer. He arched off the berth, flailing, swearing that he could detect smoke. Surely, he'd blown several fuses.
Ratchet collapsed against the berth, vents struggling to draw in fresh air, filters picking up the unmistakable scent of scorched circuits and ozone. Pain pinged his HUD; he'd snapped several of his fingers. His spark sluggishly hummed.
Everything hurt. He was so fragging filthy.
A clawed hand dragging down his chestplate made Ratchet's optics snap online. The touch could’ve been called intimate from anyone else.
From Megatron, Ratchet wasn't sure what to call it. Possessive? Sadistic?
Megatron's gaze was inscrutable, except perhaps for the pleased trill in his field, which rasped against Ratchet's own like sandpaper. No longer coaxing Ratchet's own into pleasure, Megatron buzzed with unresolved arousal.
Megatron never overloaded during these... sessions.
“It was about control,” a small part of Ratchet's processor whispered before the thoughts wisped away like rust on the wind.
“Hmm.” Megatron made a thoughtful noise, one claw-tipped finger idly stroking the cables visible through gaps in Ratchet's ventral armor. “The formula still needs some fine-tuning.”
Ratchet's plating crawled. “F-frag y-you,” he gritted out, vocalizer tripping over the harsher syllables.
Amusement flooded Megatron's field.
“I do believe I already have.” He rose to his full height, towering over Ratchet, all spiky angles and heavy armor and menacing presence. “But since you enjoyed the experience so much, I'll return tomorrow for a repeat.”
Exhaustion made Ratchet strutless. But he unpeeled his fingers from the berth nevertheless, fixing Megatron with his most heated glower.
“D-don't d-do me any f-favors!” he spat.
A dark chuckled spilled from Megatron's vocalizer.
“Your contribution to the Decepticon cause is all the thanks I need, medic.” He lifted a hand, examining the clawed tips and the specks of white and red paint still clinging to the sharp edges. “I'll be sure to tell Optimus you said hello.”
Shame and anger fought a mighty battle. Ratchet thrashed on the berth, ire giving strength to his overheated frame. He lunged; the chain on his ankle clanked.
Megatron was already gone.
A growl ripped free. Ratchet's spark surged, and he slammed a fist into the wall, howling as the pointless action jarred his fractured finger struts. Stupid. So very stupid.
He sagged, fight bleeding out of him as quickly as it had emerged. The processor fog crept over him again.
Escape. He needed to escape. The Autobots would come for him eventually, he knew. But would it be in time?
Ratchet brought his hands closer to his optics, looking at the twisted struts in three of his fingers. They ached. The pain was sharper when he tried to flex the injured fingers.
He needed a plan. He needed to escape. Yet was approaching with frightening speed. Ratchet didn't want to know what yet meant.
He tucked his injured hands against his ventral plating, closing his optics and hanging his helm. A minute shudder began in his plating, a soft chime of metal on metal in the eerie silence of this room, this prison.
For all that his systems hummed with overcharge, he felt slow. Processor landing on one thought before sluggishly crawling to the next. Static still danced over his armor. He twitched.
Escape.
Tomorrow would be worse. Megatron would send Knock Out by then. The sadist disguised as a medic would poke and prod, scan and grope. He'd fix Ratchet's fingers like he'd fixed the hole in Ratchet's ventral armor. And then he'd get his credits worth, too.
The Synth-En burned in Ratchet's system, a steady reminder of his own fault in all of this.
He should recharge. Tomorrow was going to be worse.
Maybe there was no escape.
* * *