Oh my Primus! IT'S THE NEXT CHAPTER!

Yep, long awaited though i know it is, i do hope it is worth it.

Now i know more than half of the 51 of you who currently have this on your alerts list (squee) are only in this for the Bee/Shockwave. It will be in the NEXT chapter, just so you know. ;)

This chapter however goes all the way into the M rating category. You'll see why.

Now i have re-read this in sections as i worked, but not as a whole, cause im dog tired today for various reasons. So im hoping it flows smoothly, but if there are any wirdnesses then please tell me.

And sorry for the mass of pagebreaks, it does jump around a bit this chapter.

And yea, i put the time measurement things in the other chapters and im too lazy to do it here ATM.

Hope you all like this chapter, some crazy stuff jumped in when i wasn't looking, including Lockdown, who decided he was going to become a minor yet integral part of the plot, so hope you Lockdown fans appreciate that. I'm not like, a massive fan of him, but i have to say he's a lot of fun to write ^.^

Anyone who feels like doing or has done illustrations of this story, show me them, ide love to see! :D

And as always, reviews make me write faster, it's scientifically proven by Wheeljack using the explosion theory. Just trust me on that.

~Death Out.

Bumblebee was slow to regain conscious functions.

One of the first of which, unfortunately, was his pain receptors.

He at least had the wherewithal to shut off his vocaliser before he could let out a moan against the agony.

He critically assessed his damage as his non-essential functions began to boot-up. His optics remained offline… as if in keeping them that way he could almost believe his quick recall memory log was malfunctioning and he wasn’t still in Decepticon captivity.

A searing fire in his shoulder told him the acid that had been applied was still burning slowly over his sensors. The general ache from the same vicinity reminded him there was still a gaping hole in his shoulder joint, not that he’d expected it to magically disappear… it was beyond his self repair systems the moment that energy scabbard had been rammed into him… let alone the subsequent clawing through it by the Jet.

The thought made his tanks churn, so he concentrated on figuring out all his other injuries.

The patch of metal just under his chassis that had been slow-melted by the Jet’s afterburner was now a twinging, itching, searing bunch of sensory nodes. The metal had settled, cooled and contracted in an exceptionally uncomfortable manner against the circuits underneath. Any small movement set it on edge.

His arms stung where the frog-con had cut through his armour and torn wires and circuits, and he lost count of all the dents that surely littered his frame.

Bumblebee decided he would brave onlining his optics, and as they powered up, he cast them around the dank cell.

It was dark, and he was still suspended against one of the walls by the stasis cuffs welded there.

He moved a little, to test the strength of the weld. When his motions caused a sickening wave of pain to rush through his circuits, he realised that even if it was not a strong join, he couldn’t move enough to break it without possibly causing himself to go into stasis from the agony.

He ventilated a hopeless sigh, something in his systems rattling unpleasantly with the movement of air through his cooling fans. No doubt something had been knocked out of place, most likely by a kick or a punch.

Bumblebee looked longingly down at the flat slab to his right that was a berth. He guessed the only reason a Decepticon brig would have something even as accommodating as that was probably because they threw their own in here occasionally. Bumblebee allowed himself a groan now. What he wouldn’t give to be able to lie down and relieve the ache in his frame just a little.

What had he gotten himself into? A world of pain the likes of which he’d never known (and hoped not to ever again), a sick game of dominance with Decepticons who wanted nothing more than to watch him squirm and hear him scream and beg. Yep, that about summed it up.

But there was a good reason for all this, he reminded himself…

They made a video to send… slag, that’s right, that’s what they were doing… oh man what is that going to do to them?

Even after he’d been the one to endure the torture, he was more worried about how his friends would handle seeing it than he was about the effects on himself.

Why didn’t I tell them I’m ok? That it’s worth it… it is worth it… I can take it if it means they’re OK… and they’ll come to get me, I know they will, and they’ll get the Elite Guard, no way can it take much longer than a few joors and I’ll be outta here, and Ratchet will fix me up…

A memory rose from Bumblebee’s CPU at the thought of Ratchet.

That motorcycle-con… Oilslick, had been saved by Ratchet. A long time ago he’d said.

Bumblebee shuttered his optics a little. He couldn’t find it in his spark to feel angry with Ratchet for this. After all, the ‘Con himself had called Ratchet young and naïve. Bumblebee knew the sort of mistakes that could be accounted for by sheer inexperience… he’d made enough of them himself.

If anything, he felt bad, because no doubt Ratchet would be blaming himself the moment he saw the recording.

I hope he comes to help rescue me Bumblebee thought, then he can pay that greasy slagger back.

The thought of Ratchet kicking ‘Con tailpipe cheered Bumblebee up a little.

He was distracted from his musings when he heard loud voices echo down the hallway outside the cell door (which glowed with activated energy bars… as if he could even get near them! What a waste of energy, stupid ‘Cons). The sound got louder and closer, until a huge shadow loomed towards the doorway. It was not moving at all steadily, and as the massive form of Blackout came to stand at the cell door, Bumblebee realised why.

He could smell the high-grade on the ‘Cons. For Blackout was not alone. Spitter had come with him.

They deactivated the energy bars and stepped into the cell.

“So Blackout, whatcha gonna do with your turn?” Spitter slurred as an evil grin spread across his faceplate.

Bumblebee shuddered despite himself.

Primus no, not more…

The light blue optics looked hard into the scrutinising, cold red pinpricks of the giant black ‘Con.

Blackout seemed to be having fun deciding, because he too grinned slowly and more wickedly as he swayed slightly on the spot.

He came a little closer to Bumblebee, who tensed, shrinking back into the wall as much as he could.

Blackout put his faceplate right up to Bumblebee’s, making no sound. Bumblebee didn’t look away, even though the stench of high-grade was nigh on unbearable wafting from the other’s fuel intake.

There were no words. The black mech didn’t need them. Generally his actions spoke for him. Bumblebee could guess easily that he was telling him this was payback for his initial shorting out of the other’s electrical disruption system.

A solid punch to the body speaks volumes in that way.

Bumblebee let out a short cry at the force of the impact. He knew that that one impact alone had shattered a circuit or two… it had cracked the special re-enforced glass of his lower windshield.

The first blow was followed by at least ten more, but none quite as hard.

That isn’t to say they didn’t hurt. The black Decepticon seemed to know exactly how hard to hit to set off plenty of pain receptors without doing more damage than dents.

Didn’t want to spoil the captive so soon, after all.

Bumblebee tried to stifle his cries against the onslaught, but the jarring hits (when they landed, for the over-charged mech’s aim was exceptionally poor, and dents now littered the wall as well as him) were messing with his processor. Once or twice he wasn’t entirely sure where he was or why he was there, but once the large ‘Con seemed to have worked out his ire on Bumblebee, the punches finally ceased.

Bumblebee shuddered in his bonds again as they laughed at the bigger mech’s handiwork.

Bumblebee liked to think that it could have been worse… after all, he’d endured plenty of roughhousing from the likes of Starscream… however, he’d never taken so many hits directly to severe wounds like those his last torture session had left him with.

Bumblebee shuttered his optics, the tension cables throughout his frame tensed against the continuing waves of pain the now worsened injuries were setting off.

A particularly severe pang from his shoulder made him online his optics again, gasping.

Spitter had come forward, one of his metallic silver tentacles deployed from his midriff armour and tracing the hole in Bumblebee’s shoulder.

He swayed on his pedes too, snickering and smirking with satisfaction as he pressed the tip of his appendage into the wound and dug through Bumblebee’s circuits and cogs slowly.

Bumblebee whimpered despite himself… the extra sensitive receptors that had been coated in Oilslick’s acid mix were screaming against the ‘Con’s touch.

And hanging from his servos, bound up off the floor, Bumblebee could not elude the agonising touches.

He writhed and kicked out, but this only seemed to amuse the Decepticons more.

Blackout made a deep rumbling sound with his engine as Bumblebee keened when the metal tentacle was pushed deeper, energon seeping again from the hole.

Bumblebee had to repeat his question and answer mantra to himself in his head.

Is this still worth it? Yes it is… of course it is… I can take this, I can, they’ll come for me… I just have to take this… Primus I hope it doesn’t go on much longer…

Bumblebee offlined his optics and grit his denta. When would they get fed up? When would they go away? Would he offline before that? Would they stop if he did?

Bumblebee kicked out with renewed hate for his tormentors, snarling profanities at them for his pain.

But then something caught his pedes, preventing his struggles and halting his insults. He onlined his optics furiously, only for another shudder to pass through him at the look in the Black mech’s optics as they bored into his.

Blackout held both his Pedes, a sick, hungry look in those red orbs as they whirred in and out of focus on the little yellow mech’s faceplate.

Bumblebee couldn’t pin that look… he didn’t like it… pit knew he didn’t like it, it sent a horrified lurch through his spark, and he just knew whatever was going through that ‘Con’s processor, it involved him, and he wouldn’t enjoy it.

He still wasn’t expecting what came next though.

An unnerving surge rent his frame, originating from the black mech.

And suddenly he was upside-down, his arms released from the de-activated stasis-cuffs, but his pedes still within the giant’s steely grip.

Before Bumblebee could even think of fighting back, he was swung around and slammed face down on the metal berth.

“Oho, overcharge got you feelin like that huh Blackie?” Spitter slurred excitedly with a sly cackle.

Blackout’s optics narrowed as he landed a precautionary punch on the middle of the yellow Autobot’s back. Bumblebee let out a small shout and a groan. The throwing around had jarred his substantial collection of injuries, rendering him too much of a mess to put up much of a fight for the moment.

He couldn’t comprehend what was going on…

A sudden realisation came to him. With his servos free, he might be able to…

But when he tried to activate his stingers, the exposed circuitry from the laser scalpel incisions sparked painfully. Well, there went that idea…

Oh Primus, they’re going to use an energy lash aren’t they? Bumblebee let out an involuntary whimper at the thought. It was the only thing that made sense, given that he had been thrown down on his front, back exposed and hands freed so his shoulder struts evened out and they could better injure them…

“I’m going to make him beg and scream. The rest of you failed. I won’t” The deep, raspy vocals of the black giant were mumbled and slurred like his companions’, but they carried an edge altogether more sinister.

He was cold, blunt, immoveable. Really, Bumblebee knew even if the mech somehow did make him beg, his pleas would have absolutely no chance of being considered by the Decepticon.

Anticipating some sort of strike across his back, Bumblebee tensed, arms braced against the metal surface beneath him, servos fisted… but as he was yanked back so that his hips hovered at the edge of the berth, he let out a cry when no strike came.

The first touch was much worse.

He felt a servo… digits… digging at the edges of the panel between his legs.

Oh Primus no…what? What is he… no…NO!

Bumblebee scrambled against the berth surface, but another blow to the back had his struggles muted.

The ‘Con scratched against the yellow panel before he found the right spot, and pressing it, he slid back the piece of metal, grasping it’s edge and pulling so that it warped and couldn’t close.

Bumblebee let out a shocked yell.

This isn’t happening… this cant be…

He heard a click somewhere behind him and Spitter, somewhere to his left, snickered cruelly.

Bumblebee found himself frozen and shaking with terror. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t, it just wasn’t-

There was a predatory growl from Blackout’s engine.

Oh Primus please no.

Bumblebee yelled out in agony and horror as the black giant’s huge spike was rammed in his small, unprepared port.

None of his torture thus far compared to that one moment of contact.

It was absolute exquisite agony to feel the huge plug rammed into one of his most delicate collections of circuitry, and then forced through the un-lubricated wire-bundles.

Bumblebee shrieked as the spike was forced deeper.

In absolute and abject horror, Bumblebee thrashed, scrambling against the berth, servos clawing at the smooth metal surface, legs flailing, trying to kick his assailant away, back arching to try and extricate the intrusion to his valve.

But it was a pathetic and loosing battle. Even using all the strength he had left in his abused frame, Bumblebee’s struggles were muted by the crushing pressure of a single servo pressed against the small of his back.

And then the thrusting began.

Bumblebee no longer cared how loudly he screamed or what he said, or how pathetic he seemed, struggling fruitlessly against the huge mech… all he knew was he wanted it to stop, for that huge cord to be out of him instead of scratching agonisingly against the walls of his valve, damaging delicate wiring callously.

“STOP! STOP! AAAGH NO, PLEASE… DON’T… GET OUT.. GET OFF, PLEASE, NO MORE! NGAAAA NOOO! STOOOOP!”

Bumblebee keened in horrified devastation as the thrusts became rougher, accompanied by a low, cruel laugh and Spitters cackling.

Bumblebee clawed the berth relentlessly against the pain, his processor nearly crashing from the overload of signals and the very thought of what was being done…

Never… he’d never expected anything like this… his worst nightmares had never even stretched to anything this bad…

Bumblebee whimpered loudly as he felt something warm dripping from his port. It eased the pain of the friction from the Decepticon’s huge spike, which was stretching him as it was. But it wasn’t his body lubricating. He could feel the ruptured energon line inside his stinging valve, and the bright pink sustaining fluid was coating the invading cable, dripping from his port and down the inside of one of Bumblebee’s legs.

Bumblebee was still kicking, but the large Black mech, with a grunt of irritation at his squirming, spread his own legs and slammed them against Bumblebee’s, pinning the yellow thighs against the berth edge. Bumblebee yelled and whimpered, vocals laced heavily with static now.

He realised suddenly he was saying the same thing over and over again.

No.

.......no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no

He Didn’t want to know what was happening anymore. didn’t want to think or feel or hurt so badly.

And Blackout wasn’t even half-way finished with him yet.

The repeated denial was all Bumblebee could do to fight losing all handle of the situation.

On one hand, he wanted to let his CPU crash. He wanted to not have to feel or think or remember this… but then the thought of what they could do to him without him knowing sickened and terrified him to his very core.

Blackout thrust harder, magnetising the head of his interface cable. It was drawn through the tight sub-compact Autobot’s port, and finally clicked into the plug buried within.

Bumblebee let out an alarmed, high pitched keen as he felt the Decepticon plug into him finally.

The data that was rammed into him over the connection was dominating, hateful, spiteful, cruel… Bumblebee felt as if a vicious virus had just slammed into his systems. They reacted badly. His tank churned and lurched violently before he found himself purging onto the berth before him.

The sickly reek of un-processed energon filled his senses along with the stench of the stale high grade coming from the two Decepticons, who were both laughing raucously as he twitched and whimpered.

A massive servo slammed into the back of Bumblebee’s helm, pressing his faceplate into the pool of his own purged fluid.

Bumblebee whimpered pathetically, shuttering his optics tightly and keeping his mouth pressed shut as he felt the still warm and partially processed fuel against his pliable metal cheek.

Bumblebee shuddered and whimpered, vocaliser trailing into static as another wave of negative data was flooded into his systems.

If there was one small thing Bumblebee was thankful for in this situation, it was that he was not a virgin. He wasn’t sure if he could have handled his first being a violation by a Decepticon. He already felt disgusting as it was, stretched painfully around a mech so full of cruelty and hate and a taste for causing pain in others. Even though the hardline connection that made him feel sick to think of was a one way data-feed, he could tell there was no compassion in the Decepticon’s spark… none at all. His begging and pleading was merely entertainment to the bot’s twisted processor.

He knew, though he had tried to hide it from these Decepticons for so long, that his fear and terror and horror was echoing back to the black mech through the link as the ‘Con’s data violated his sensory systems.

And what was more, Bumblebee could feel the ‘Con getting off on it. Every time the Decepticon pulsed more data across the connection, Bumblebee felt worse, physically and mentally. He was desperate now, he just wanted that cord out of him, wanted the energy of that cold, sick fragger out of his systems, wanted to curl up in a corner and offline.

The data surges were building a painful negative charge in Bumblebee’s circuits, and he could feel the positive sensory data backing up into the ‘Con.

As Blackout got nearer to his overload, Bumblebee’s cries and whimpers became shorter and harsher. His CPU was delirious with the hateful sensations the ‘Con was pouring into him. He felt his very spark quiver in protest in his chassis.

And then the ‘Con began to slam spark energy into Bumblebee, making him scream in earnest as the cold, cruel entity hovering at the edge of the connection overwhelmed him,

He was vaguely aware of begging and pleading for it to stop, of his servos pressing painfully hard into the berth as he thrashed, and then the Decepticon overloaded.

Blackout let out a predatory, staticy roar as his frame quivered and pressed Bumblebee’s legs harder against the berth edge, crushing the thigh armour slightly.

He drunk up the piercing scream the yellow Autobot released as the negative charge was unleashed onto him, tearing like fire through his sensory grid.

The echoes of the scout’s pain and terror and the sound of his scream all intensified the satisfaction of the large black mech’s overload.

Bumblebee was consumed with the excruciating shocks that racked his sensor net and stalled his processor.

He wondered in some broken and detached line of code somewhere in his searing CPU if he had offlined and gone to the Pit…. This had to be what it felt like…

He jerked and his scream broke as his vocaliser seized up in protest. His very spark was cringing and railing at the abuse from the other mech’s dark core penetrating him so forcefully.

As the unbearable waves of pain slowly began to subside, twinging with aftershocks, Bumblebee collapsed against the berth, shuddering, a series of soft clicks seeping from his locked up voice synthesiser.

It was the closest thing a bot could do to the human emotion of crying. It was a basic, primal thing that upset sparklings would do.

Bumblebee no longer gave half a damn about his pride though. What use to him was pride now? Would it save him from what he had become? A piece of filthy scrap for these Decepticons to use as they pleased? First for their entertainment and now for their lewd, overcharged desires?

What did he care if he sobbed like a sparkling… he even wished, vehemently, for a moment, that he could leak like Sari did… it would express better the ache that was not leaving his spark… he might at least feel like he was purging something from him, that he was casting the dark and disgusting essence of the ‘Con from his tainted body. Not that he hadn’t already been made to purge fluids, but not the sort that made him feel any better. He still had his face in the pool of un-processed energon, but he was too weak and pained to raise his head from it.

Bumblebee uttered a few rasps of static as Blackout removed his spike roughly, his weight lifting from Bumblebee’s legs. A tiny part of him felt relief when the connection was broken.

“Wow, you were right… he did beg good, I wanna hear him do it again!” Spitter cackled in his still over-charged slur.

Bumblebee would have let out a panicked whine, but his vocaliser still had not recovered.

“Hnmph. I’m done. Like to see you try though.” scoffed Blackout with perverse amusement.

“Well… much as I like what I’m seein now… I prefer to take em against the wall.” Spitter chuckled darkly, and Bumblebee tensed as he felt servos grab his arms and drag him off the berth sideways.

He struggled weakly, but it didn’t make a lick of difference, even to the sloppy grasp of the overcharged frog-con.

Bumblebee’s wrists were snapped above his head, his shoulder sparking and protesting as he was locked into the stasis cuffs once more.

A clawed servo grasped his chin and forced him to look at Spitter, who was grinning sadistically.

Bumblebee offlined his optics. He didn’t want to see what was happening to him… what was going to be done…

Nononono not again, Oh Primus, please not again…

Bumblebee’s vocaliser unstuck itself with a yelp as he felt something touch his side… it wasn’t at all a touch he was expecting. It was soft… almost gentle. His processor came close to crashing again.

He still refused to open his optics. He could smell the stale ventilations of the frog-con leering over him.

The touch was a soft, smooth caress over the side of his abused chest plate. Bumblebee was shaking like mad… this wasn’t making sense… it almost felt… nice.

The appendage, whatever it was, slipped into a seam in his side armour and carefully brushed at wires and a few undamaged sensors. Bumblebee let out a whine of protest, because he knew it was the Decepticon touching him and he knew it shouldn’t feel good. His body was betraying him! Didn’t it know it should feel disgusted?

The frog-con laughed softly but harshly, rasping through his vents from his lust. It was obvious that Blackout’s show had warmed his circuits substantially.

“You can’t fight me now, Autobot. After all the pain, your sensory grid will lap up all the pleasure it can get when it can get it… even if you don’t want it to… you’re going to get turned on by a Decepticon… and it’s gonna eat you up inside, ain’t it?”

Bumblebee didn’t reply. He didn’t online his optics. He quivered in his bonds and gave a small, trembling whine.

He felt another appendage on the inside of his left knee, and he clamped his legs shut. The ‘Con laughed again, seemingly unfazed as he trailed what Bumblebee realised was one of his metal tentacles up the cracked and dented thigh armour.

Bumblebee didn’t have the strength left to physically fight the Decepticon as he slid the tentacle between his legs and teased the tip over Bumblebee’s recessed cord. Bumblebee shivered as a strong wave of pleasure made him feel sick to his empty tanks.

Then the ’Con trailed it down to Bumblebee’s abused valve entrance, where energon continued to seep from his internal damage.

Spitter traced the edge of the opening, smearing the energon, before slowly pressing the tip of the tentacle into the yellow bot, making him whine louder in panicked protest.

Spitter’s other appendage was still toying with the wires under the Autobot’s chest plate, making him squirm weakly, trying to escape the touches, but unable to stop his body from feeling the pleasure.

The frog-con smirked, massaging the abused walls of the Autobot’s port.

Bumblebee broke into disgusted clicking sobs as pleasure exploded from his tender valve walls, where only moments ago he had felt nothing but pain.

The Decepticon was right… this was so wrong, and it felt wrong, and he couldn’t believe he was wishing for the pain again, because the very thought of living with the knowledge a Decepticon had made him lubricate made him want to offline. But it couldn’t be undone now… he felt sick with himself as his interfacing circuits began to heat at the touches despite his disgust. The ‘Con laughed and murmured his approval as the lubricant slowly began to flow through the Autobot’s tight little valve. He felt it spasm around his tentacle as the yellow bot let out a fresh wave of sobs.

“Aw come on, I know you like it, there’s no point pretending you don’t.” muttered the ‘Con sadistically before he pumped his appendage in and out of Bumblebee slowly.

Bumblebee let out a strangled whine, his squirming slightly more frantic as he tried to wriggle the tentacle out using his thighs.

The ‘Con growled lustily before he used his hands to thrust the yellow mech’s legs apart.

His tentacles continued to stroke and caress Bumblebee’s sensors as his hands set about welding more scraps of metal to the wall, pinning the Autobot’s legs apart.

It was an exceptionally satisfying sight to see the completely fettered little mech still squirming to extricate himself from the touches sending unwanted sensations of ecstasy through his abused frame.

Spitter decided it was time to make this even more interesting… and pleasurable for himself.

Un-subspacing his laser scalpel once more, he knelt down (tentacles still working the Autobot’s sensors and drawing weak clicking sobs of protest) and began to cut into the yellow and black leg armour.

Bumblebee gave another yelp and finally onlined his optics, starting at the pain signal that had pierced the pleasure and, disturbingly, heightened it.

The Frog-con, to his horror, was cutting into one of his now restrained legs. He knew this game. He knew what that ‘Con was going to do once he finished cutting.

He couldn’t do anything…

He turned his head to the side, deciding to mute his vocaliser purposefully. They were probably getting off on whatever noises he made.

His optics fell on the berth as his CPU tried to find some distraction from the events he didn’t want to be comprehending, let alone experiencing.

He saw long, deep gouges in the smooth metal… gouges his servos had made as he tried to claw his way out of this nightmare. His purged energon still dripped off the edge quietly… it still trickled down his face too, drying slowly, feeling uncomfortable.

But then hardly any part of him didn’t feel uncomfortable right now. Especially with that ‘Con still working his port, which was dripping with lubricant, stinging the sensors on the damaged energon line within.

Bumblebee’s muted vocaliser half onlined in a burst of loud static as the Decepticon pulled back the tab of metal that had been cut into his leg. Wires and circuits sparked in the air again as connections were broken, and directly after the surges of pain, intense surges of pleasure tingled through him, heating his frame and causing his cooling fans to kick in with a tired and damaged sounding rattle and buzz.

“That’s more like it. Now it’s my turn to hear ya beg…” Spitter growled, apparently satisfied now he had brought Bumblebee’s body up to a temperature high enough to trigger his self-cooling systems.

Still pumping Bumblebee with one of his tentacles, he stood and opened the panel covering his own interface circuitry.

Bumblebee offlined his optics again, shaking madly. He knew what was coming now. He dreaded it, and even though he was prepared this time (both mentally and, to his shame, physically) he could not dispel the spark stabbing fear of the sensations to come. The very memory of what it felt like to have Decepticon spark energy violating him made him break down into clicking sobs again, unable this time to mute himself. He Didn’t have the strength anymore. He Didn’t have the will.

He realised with self loathing and shame and disgust that they had broken him.

He cried out un-restrainedly in pain when the ‘Con’s large cord replaced the tentacle, which decided instead to tease Bumblebee’s recessed spike. Apparently Spitter wasn’t done tormenting him with sensations he shouldn’t be feeling in relation to a Decepticon.

As Spitter began to thrust, Bumblebee couldn’t stop himself pleading once more…

“NNNN-NOOOOOO….STOP, STOP, DON’T DO THIS, GET OUT OF ME, PLEASE JUST STOP, I DON’T WANT THIS, I DON’T, I CAN’T…”

Bumblebee knew it was what the Decepticons wanted… he could hear Blackout laughing derisively somewhere… but he reasoned it wasn’t for them… it wasn’t even for Primus (who had forsaken him it seemed anyway), it was for himself. It was to prove to himself he still railed against it, that some part of him fought this, however weakly, that he wouldn’t just roll over and accept that this should be happening.

“Maybe I should go get that ninja Oilslick hates so much… I bet he’d scream like you. I bet you’d totally get turned on seeing me do this to him huh? Filthy little half-rate pleasure models, the both of you… I bet that’s why you’re Autobots, neither of you made the grade for the Kaon whore houses…”

Bumblebee shuddered in repulsion. Apparently Spitter liked to talk dirty when he interfaced.

Bumblebee was still anticipating with terror the moment he would finally plug in and assail him with his putrid Decepticon spark essence. For the moment the ‘Con seemed in it for himself more than to torment his victim… he started to grunt as he rubbed his spike and cable thoroughly around the tight sub-compact’s valve, the wet heat of lubricant and energon doing all kinds of things for his overcharged processor.

The Autobot stopped begging and began to yelp with each of his thrusts as they got rougher, and Spitter tried his best to keep from plugging in… apart from satisfying himself with the friction, he wanted to draw out the Autobot’s torment for as long as possible.

Eventually, he reached a point where he couldn’t take the yellow mech contracting around him deliciously in spasms of pain any longer, and magnetising his spike, he gave an extra hard thrust and made the connection.

Bumblebee was almost relieved when the Decepticon got rough and it stopped feeling at all good. That spike tip kept hitting his damaged energon line, causing him to yelp with every excruciating stab it sent through his sensors. The metallic tentacles stoped their caressing, teasing touches and began to wrap around his chassis, constricting painfully hard, causing his damaged armour to groan.

The ‘Con connected with a rough thrust and Bumblebee let himself wail in agony as sickening, stabbing spark energy was slammed into him right away, overwhelming and traumatising his own frantically pulsing spark. He felt suffocated by the tentacles and the relentless onslaught of negative energy, it was as though it might cause his very core to explode and then contract and wither to nothing.

The fervent wish that it would do just that flashed through his disrupted processor.

Even though Bumblebee thought the agony and stress of the invasion would kill him, he couldn’t even offline… his emergency protocols simply refused to disengage his consciousness while it felt it was under a critical assault that he should be fighting.

The only fight he was putting up was trying not to scream so loudly that he would permanently damage his vocaliser.

It was a small, nigh on insignificant blessing that the ‘Con reached his peak quickly, feeding off the piercing screams and the sound of cracking armour as his tentacles squeezed the yellow chassis hard with his overload.

Bumblebee’s screams toned down to a distraught and long keen as the negative energy charge washed through his circuits, causing the broken connections in his injuries to crackle, and his spark to stutter and retreat into itself painfully.

When the charge died, Bumblebee found himself incoherent with an ache that wouldn’t abate. While his emergency protocols still prevented him from off lining, his consciousness was not functioning in a linear aware fashion… he was glitching a little in shock. He didn’t know this, but it didn’t matter to him. All he knew was the two Decepticons remained long enough after Spitter had drawn away to jeer at him and insult him some more before they left him, completely exposed and restrained on the wall, like some sick ornament.

Bumblebee felt lubricant and energon, warm and dripping from his abused port. As his CPU fired off random codes of thought in it’s still disrupted state of shock, he remembered Spitters comments.

What if he hadn’t saved them? What if they had done this to Prowl, or any of the others.

Bumblebee shuddered and drew in horrified quaking ventilations.

He was taking this treatment so they didn’t have to, he remembered… he’d volunteered for this… made his own decision when they couldn’t…

But he hadn’t even thought…

He still didn’t want to think about what had just happened.

Filthy… he felt filthy and weak and wanted nothing more to do with his own body, but he couldn’t even escape from the pathetic scrap-pile that was his own chassis.

The question he had been sustaining himself with for the past however many cycles he’d been there (his chronometer had fritzed during the first torture so he had no idea) popped into his head again.

It was a sense of comfort, reminding him he had a purpose here, that it was okay really because it meant his friends were safe. But now the question scared him. It snaked through his mind, biting icily. But he had to ask, he had to know…

Was it worth it to take their place?

Unbidden, a small and broken voice somewhere within his meta immediately said ‘no’.

As soon as it did though, Bumblebee felt a fresh wave of self-loathing.

How could he even think that? How could he wish this on anyone? On his friends?

Bumblebee released a fresh wave of loud clicking cries into the empty, uncaring cell.

He asked himself the question again, angrily, in his head.

He didn’t say no.

But he couldn’t answer it anymore.

He couldn’t.

All he could do was quietly sob.

He slumped in his bonds, quivering with the fresh ache that lanced through the rest of his injuries and making them feel worse, spiralling through memories of the past cycle he didn’t want to relieve, wishing that when his processor finally shut down into stasis, he wouldn’t wake up from it ever again.

“So, you have the parts we need?” The large Decepticon femme boomed in her usual deep, commanding tone.

The black and white face gave her a crooked grin, red optics leering in their own usual fashion.

“Sure do darlin’. They’re gonna cost ya though, so ya better detail these mod’s you told me about before I decide what I’m willin’ to let ya have em for.”

Striker sneered with satisfaction.

“You can come and see for yourself. It is probably thanks to you that we acquired them in the first place. One set is a little damaged, nothing some rewiring can’t fix. The other is perfectly functional and already unattached. You will have to…do your thing, to obtain the slightly damaged ones, but with their applications it will be worth your time.” Spitter expounded as they moved into the bowels of the Decepticon’s crashed and submerged ship.

Lockdown seemed perfectly at ease strolling after the large commanding femme. Not that he had anything to fear from Decepticons… if anything he got more respect from the ’Cons than from any other faction or species in the main sectors of the galaxy.

There was, however, a reason he hadn’t joined them…

Spitter led him to a cell where the energy bars were activated and keyed in the code, turning them off and leading him in.

Lockdown wondered why they were even bothering wasting energy on activating the bars… it was clear at first sight that their prisoner wasn’t going to be attempting an escape. Certainly not while bound to the wall with stasis cuffs and welded strips of metal, and doubtfully even if he weren’t.

The Autobot’s state was truly pathetic.

Huge dents and rents in his armour sported scratched and flaking paint, coated in both fresh and dried energon. Exposed, broken wires and circuits sparked weakly in the cold, stale air. A massive and sickening hole gaped in the bot’s left shoulder, making even Lockdown uneasy to see, and what disturbed him even slightly more was the mech’s exposed and obviously abused interfacing unit.

“We have his rocket boosters ready for trade-off, but his-”

“Stingers, yea. I was eyeing em’ off the last time we crossed paths. I can see Spitter got to them…” Lockdown walked forward and paused in his examination when the yellow scrap-heap’s optics flickered on slightly.

The Autobot scout was exceptionally weak, probably from energon loss, let alone what the ’Cons had done to him… the big blue optics were pale, and shuttered slightly as they focused on him with confused apprehension.

“…damage doesn’t look too bad. Gotta admit, for a mech who uses explosive oral fluids as a weapon, he’s pretty good at causin’ harm without destroying everything.” Lockdown commented airily, giving the broken Autobot a piercing gaze before turning back to Striker.

“But I’ve seen those things in action… cute, but not much more than a novelty item, if I’m gonna be frank.”

“Novelty item? He shorted out Blackout’s energy disruptor and brought Cyclonus to his knees with those novelty items.”

Lockdown gave her a stunned look, turning his head back to scrutinize the restrained sub-compact again. Something seemed to dawn on him.

“Aaaah, I see. Looks like he’s been trained up by my old pal a little. Alright then… the two mod sets and 80 credits. The parts are already prepped, I’ll get ‘em for ya once I’ve done my thing, as you say…” Lockdown drawled with a good natured sneer.

Spitter seemed to weigh his price before she narrowed her optics and gave him a curt nod, leaving the room in indication that he get to it.

Normally, Lockdown would conduct the removal of mods on his ship, which was equipped with the large array of tools required for pretty much every model of Cybertronian that existed. However, he always kept a ‘field kit’ for jobs he couldn’t get done in his ‘extraction room’, as he sometimes called it.

And stingers weren’t an overly complicated mod to remove.

With a sigh through his vents, Lockdown went about freeing the yellow scout’s limbs, before he laid the weak, shaking body on the recently cleaned but gouge-marked berth, studiously ignoring the dim, pale blue optics boring into him.

When the scout was lain on the berth, he keened weakly and clenched his legs shut, watching the bounty hunter with intense fear as he loomed over him.

Lockdown’s face was stony and impassive as he straightened, shaking his head.

“I’m not gonna do that to ya kid. That’s not my way.”

The Autobot seemed to relax infinitesimally, but his optics continued to scrutinise the black and white faceplate, trying to detect some sort of lie.

“But… you…” Bumblebee whispered hoarsely, words laced with static. Clearly they had drawn extended screams from him to get his vocaliser that damaged.

“I’m not a Decepticon for a reason. I call the mods I take trophies, but that’s just the ones I keep for myself. The rest is business kid. And I’m not in the business of messin’ with sparks. That’s low, even to me.” Lockdown muttered as he held down one of the smaller bot’s unresisting arms and hit the elbow joint with a device that sent a wave of numbness down to the tips of Bumblebee’s digits.

Bumblebee said nothing more. He watched in morose and detached silence as Lockdown expertly and efficiently opened up the armour on his forearm, disconnecting neural link circuits that allowed him to transform the limb to the weapon, before cutting the power feeds and extracting the whole stinger unit from his right arm., closing up the armour once he was done.

Bumblebee couldn’t find it in him to care. What use were his stingers to him now anyway? Spitter had made it so he couldn’t use them, and now… now he didn’t bother to dream that he might escape this nightmare before he offlined, if anything he just wanted the end to come sooner and cut his agony short.

As Lockdown leaned across him to get his left arm, his thick digits brushed Bumblebee’s midriff plating.

Lockdown reeled back as a screech of feedback left the small bots vocaliser and he curled up on the berth, clutching his midriff and shaking madly.

“What the frag?” Lockdown growled as he moved back to the berth and forced Bumblebee onto his back again, earning him a whimper as he took the smaller mech’s servos away form the black plating. Looking closely, he realised with slight horror how badly warped and heat damaged the metal was. He hadn’t seen it before because it was still black and blended with the rest of the mech’s injured plating, but he had to shake his head as he took up the left arm almost gently and began work once more.

“ I heard stories of that kinda treatment back in the wars, but I gotta admit, those seekers can be pretty damn sadistic, and that’s comin’ from me.”

Bumblebee didn’t respond. He wasn’t even sure why he felt almost at ease in Lockdown’s presence… he was still an enemy. Still willing to sell out a bot’s personal mods for a quick credit, and enjoy getting the mods to boot, and yet… he was something familiar… and he wasn’t trying to hurt him… he’d even used something to locally numb the pain.

Bumblebee wondered a moment… did Lockdown feel sorry for him?

No, Lockdown never felt sorry for anybody, Ratchet had made that crystal clear more than once, and Prowl was well aware himself. So then, why else would he be that considerate?

He looked into Lockdown’s red, cold optics… and thought he saw something as they flickered over the melted metal wound again… was that regret?

Wait a nanoklik… was that guilt?

“Why…” was all Bumblebee could utter as he gazed scrutinisingly at the Bounty Hunter’s faceplate, frowning.

Lockdown wouldn’t meet his optics as he finished extracting the other stinger unit and closed up his arm plating.

He seemed to understand what it was Bumblebee was asking though, but he wouldn’t answer. He silently turned, but a weak grasp latching onto his wrist stopped him.

Lockdown looked back, face unreadable, cycling a sigh through his vents.

“I don’t really do regret kid, but I deal in equipment and info, and I try not to get caught up in the info stuff. I don’t care if I condemn a mech to torture, it‘s not my problem… but like I said, I’m not much for messin’ with sparks. But I ain’t psychic, and it ain’t personal. You got the rough end of the deal, it’s just business kid.”

And with that, he walked out, face and attitude as impassive as ever.

Bumblebee’s punch-drunk processor tried to make sense of what had been said. Slowly, very slowly, the pieces started to fall into place.

Bumblebee felt his spark quake in fury as it dawned on him.

Information… he sold these Decepticons information, told them to come to earth, TOLD them we’d be here, and they came after us to find out where Megatron was… I’m here because of HIM…

Bumblebee clenched his servos and curled up on his side. Anger and hatred and loathing consumed his spark, and he wished he’d lashed out at Lockdown, made him realise what he’d done, make him feel some kind of regret or remorse… or at least pity him enough to offline him and end this nightmare he’d caused.

Bumblebee came to the realisation that Lockdown was nothing more than a coward… arming himself with so many mods to come out best in fights… declaring his work was just business, not personal, so he could shy away from emotion and the consequences of his actions… running around factionless so he didn’t have to stand by any beliefs or get involved in the fighting.

And yet he was trying to act like he had some morals. He didn’t have a right to morals, not when all he cared about was himself and where the next payload came from, no matter who’s expense it was at.

Having someone to blame this on did little for Bumblebee now though. He could direct his hate towards Lockdown all he wanted, but it wouldn’t be acknowledged.

He supposed the bounty hunter had ‘said sorry’ in his own way by trying not to cause him further pain… but his words still stung with blatant disregard…

Just business…

That was what his pain and violation amounted to.

Just business, kid.

“I’ll tow ya to the nearby mines. The mineral deposits will hide you from the Autobots, and you can start your repairs, no point tryin’ to do ‘em underwater. After that I got other business to attend to in this sector before I head right out again. Don’t like spending’ more time on this organic mudball than I have to.” Lockdown drawled as he handed over the promised parts to Blackout and Spitter, both of whom looked as if they had massive hang-overs.

While Striker ordered the two grumpy, wincing crew members to take the equipment and get to organising the repairs, the other two of their team were allowed some recovery time (the four of them had played a drinking game in celebration of their torture and taunting of the Autobots with their ingenious postcard).

They of course, decided to investigate what their overcharged comrades had done with the yellow mech that night.

They found Bumblebee where Lockdown had left him. He had shuffled into the furthest corner where the berth head met two walls. Curled up over himself, he was trying with frustration and whines of pain to un-warp the yellow panel that usually covered his interfacing array, trying to close it.

When he heard the energy bars shut off again he gave a small panicked whimper and pressed further into the corner, curling his legs into himself to try and protect his exposed and violated circuits and the other deeper injuries, which were concentrated more around his chassis.

Oilslick and the purple jet stepped in, sneering at him.

They had been teased by their badly hung-over comrades, who refused to reveal what horrors they had bestowed upon their captive. Blackout, a mech of few words, had only boasted that he had gotten the yellow mech to beg better and easier than any of them.

Not ones to shy from a challenge, Oilslick and Cyclonus were keen to see what state the Autobot had been reduced to. He was a stubborn little fragger, they had to give him that. But to have him beg so easily, Blackout must have done some pretty serious damage.

The bounty hunter hadn’t said anything, so the scout had to still be alive, but his gaze had been a lot colder and more calculating than usual towards them when he’d retrieved the Autobots’ mods as payment.

When Oilslick laid optics on the battered yellow and black form in the corner, it was clear something in the mech had been snapped…. Some crucial part of his processor integral to that naive fighting spirit. But apart from some extra dents, cracks and a fresh open tab in one of the bot’s leg armour… Neither Oilslick, nor Cyclonus, could see what could possibly have broken the sub-compact.

Oilslick strode over languidly, half expecting the quivering pile of scrap to lash out at him in some way… but the small mech merely stared at him, absolute cold fear in his optics, an almost animalistic panic deep in the now muted blue.

Oilslick sneered, Cyclonus mirroring his expression from behind as he too came in for a closer inspection.

While Oilslick was concentrated on the prisoner, Cyclonus was looking around the cell for clues. He Didn’t have to look far to find them. His sneer widened and crimson optics flashed in understanding.

“I think I know what method that delightfully sick fragger used.” He laughed quietly, icy, reverberating vocals sending another shiver through Bumblebee as the cold optics roamed across the dented berth and back to him.

Oilslick took a look at the marks Cyclonus was indicating to and his own lip-plates spread wide.

He settled a hungry gaze upon Bumblebee for a moment, then his large, clawed servos snapped out and grasped Bumblebee’s legs, pulling him forward and wrenching them apart.

Bumblebee let out a keen of fear, scrambling onto his elbows, too weak to fight the ‘Con’s strong grip as his still energon and lubricant smeared interface circuits were beared to the Jet and Motorcycle.

Bumblebee wanted to look away from their knowing, disgusting, sneering faceplates, but he daren’t take his optics off them out of pure terror. He Didn’t want to know what they were going to do to him, didn’t want to see it coming… but couldn’t stand to look away, couldn’t stand letting his guard down, just couldn’t surrender his awareness… of everything.

“What do you reckon? We try Blackout’s highly refined method?” Oilslick sneered to his companion.

The jet’s lip curled in distain. “You can have him, but I wouldn’t be sticking my cable where Blackout and Spitter have been.” He drawled haughtily.

Oilslick sniggered. “Good point… maybe I can find a clean port to interface with…”

Bumblebee shook violently, shaking his helm with a muted noise of refusal, knowing as soon as the ‘Con looked into his faceplate what he was going to do.

Bumblebee was dragged off the berth by his pedes, the back of his helm hitting the floor hard as he yelped, but despite his dizziness and his optics offlining automatically for a few astroseconds, he squirmed and struggled.

Before he knew it, Oilslick had broken the weld over the stasis cuffs on the wall and brought them back down on his wrists, securing them behind him as Cyclonus helped subdue his weak thrashes.

When Bumblebee finally managed to online his optics again, he found that Oilslick had unsubspaced his shock-rod again. He let out a short keen in alarm. The Motorcycles’ lip-plates curled into a wide, wicked grin.

He grabbed Bumblebee by the neck cables and held him up on his knees.

“Hmmm. Think it’s worth making another postcard of this?” Oilslick asked airily, as though they were speculating about the weather.

Cyclonus let out a small ‘Tch’.

“I’m not featuring in any recording of you Interfacing with anything. Not even as the camera-bot.” He snarled with distain.

Oilslick shrugged with a chuckle. “Suit yourself, Deceptiprude.”

The Jet crossed his arms coolly. “Not wanting to soil myself on an Autobot is hardly prudish. If I wanted to Interface with a filthy scrapheap, I’d seek out Starscream.”

The two shared a hard laugh at the traitorous Decepticon 2IC’s expense, before their attention turned back to their captive, who was trembling visibly in Oilslick’s grasp.

“I guess I get to make his pain my pleasure then.” He sneered.

The three barely noticed or cared about the vibrations that had started up around them as the ship was half powered up and Lockdown began towing them out of the deep water of the lake.

Prime! I’m picking up a signal… I think… I think it’s Bumblebee’s comm. Link signature!

Came the sudden and startled report from Prowl.

What? Have you tried contacting it? Where is it? How far from your location? The Prime’s surprised yet still anxious reply came through immediately. Prowl opened a general communication line to the rest of the search party as he kept a lock on the faint signal.

I’m searching the waters around Dinobot island, Grimlock and the others are helping me, but the signal is coming from somewhere over the water… the signal is too faint to get a direct location lock, but I can try contacting him.

Do it. Came Optimus’ short, tense reply.

Bumblebee screamed again, voice crackling loudly with static. When the shock-rod was removed from under his chassis, he was thrown to the floor again, and felt a heavy pede come to rest on his cracked thigh armour.

His CPU was swimming and dizzy with pain that faded slowly. He didn’t pay the foot on him any heed… until the Jet ignited his heel thruster again.

Bumblebee’s piercing cries of agony reverberated around the cell as he felt the unbearable heat washing through the cracks of the armour. The paint bubbled and blackened, shrivelling away as the metal went through dull grey, to black, to cherry, to orange, until it melted yellow-white hot and Bumblebee keened at the absolute and unbearable pain that radiated off the burning and shorting sensors.

When the Jet finally let up, his processor was so shattered by the signals that it took him a few moments to recognise the other signal he was receiving… it wasn’t pain… it was a ping… and once he realised it was there he automatically responded by opening the channel, too dazed to think of the implications or to wonder at it.

Bumblebee! Bumblebee are you there, please respond!

…Prowl?

Prowl’s knee joints nearly glitched. He staggered on the beach at the sound of the weakly spoken reply.

Everyone else on the open frequency heard it too.

Bumblebee, thank Primus! Where are you, what’s your status?

Is this… is this real? Bumblebee asked, sounding almost scared, as if he daren’t even hope…

Yes, yes Bumblebee it’s real, your signal suddenly appeared, and it’s moving. What’s your status, how damaged are you? Prowl tried to keep calm, despite the fact his spark was thrumming hard in his chassis with fear and elation all at once. He knew the others on the comm. Line were holding their ventilations too.

There was a moment of strained silence as Bumblebee processed the reality of the situation… and then his pleading voice came through, sending lances of anguish through every bot that heard the broken tone of the scout.

Get me out of here Prowl, please get me out of here, I can’t do this anymore, stop them, please, I can’t do it again, I don’t want-

“Something’s not right.” Oilslick grunted at the vacant look in their captive’s optics. Cyclonus narrowed his own and curled his lip.

“His comm. Link! Didn’t anyone disable it?” he snarled.

Oilslick grimaced and picked Bumblebee up by the metal collar, snapping him out of his internal communication as he slammed him against the side of the berth, pinning him by the shoulders and bringing his other hand up to dig his clawed digit into the gap between the helm and one of the yellow horns. He broke off the armour, revealing an audio antenna, which he proceeded to twist, earning a few whimpers of protest.

A small screech of feedback filled the Autobot comm. Line, cutting off Bumblebee’s pleas after he had given a short burst of static.

Prowl had felt a wave of sick apprehension and a pain in his spark when Bumblebee begged him to save him… and then fury stabbed through him when a new voice invaded the communication frequency.

“Why, look who decided to make a call! Wanted to see how much fun your little friend was having did we?” Oilslick half purred, half growled into Bumblebee’s Comm. Unit.

“I am going to hunt every one of you filthy Decepticons down and eviscerate you.” Prowl responded on the now open air communiqué. His voice was just above a whisper and cold as ice.

“Oooooh that’s you Ninja-bot, isn’t it? Now-now, wouldn’t go making threats at the moment, what with your friend all vulnerable and in my grasp and you in no position to stop me…”

Bumblebee couldn’t help the piercing scream that escaped him as shock-rod was stuck right under his cracked windshield and activated at full power.

They could hear the shouts of at least half a dozen Autobots over the scout’s cries.

The overload of negative sensory input glitched Bumblebee’s already over-taxed systems. He lost control of a few body regulatory functions. To his own horror, one was his waste fuel tanks.

Processed oil, lubricant, coolant and spent energon spilled across the floor in an unpleasant mix under him as his waste release valves malfunctioned out of his control.

The shock-rod was removed almost immediately and Bumblebee let out a staticy whimper of shame, the Decepticons replying with muted sounds of disgust and dark amusement.

“Oh my, they don’t make you Autobots like they used to… one little shock and you wet yourself!” Oilslick barked out with a harsh laugh.

Prowl was calling Bumblebee’s name as Ratchet swore blue murder at the ’Cons over the line.

“Prowl… help me… please… get me out… oh primus, please help me, Bulkhead, Ratchet, Prime, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Their sparks all nearly stopped as one as Bumblebee’s anguished sobs were cut off again as he was made to scream with another application of the shock-rod, this time to the fresh heat wound still cooling on his thigh.

He was made to writhe in his own waste fluids. Beyond the agony, all he could consciously feel was shame and disgust with himself, his screaming dissolving into incomprehensible yells and pleas and apologies to his friends, vocal capacitor nearly shorting out with the violent shocks.

“Alright, we’ve had our fun, terminate the communicator before they can track it”

Cyclonus muttered with a satisfied, even slightly disappointed expression, as though he’d prefer to continue in this fashion for much longer.

Bumblebee, we’ll find you! We’ll come for you, hold on…

I’m sorry … I’m so sorry Prowl, I’m not strong enough… don‘t let them do it again, I can’t take it agai- AAAAGHHHH!

BUMBLEBEE! BUMBLEBEE ANSWER ME! BUMBLEBEE?

But the cries of pain and screech of feedback and static told him the Decepticons had finally terminated the yellow mech’s communicator.

Prowl shuddered and succumbed to his grief, falling to his knees.

No… Bumblebee… how could we… how could I have failed you so completely… how could we let this happen?

A cycle later and they were no closer to finding the Decepticon’s ship. While they had picked up Bumblebee’s comm. link signal, the Decepticon’s ship had somehow remained invisible to their sensors, cloaked or shielded by something. It was infuriating.

When Bumblebee’s signal had been terminated though, it was coming from over land, which meant the ’Cons had moved out of the water, but they hadn’t been able to pin point the location, the line was just so weak and intermittent. And now it was gone.

And Prowl was agonising over the thought that it may have been the last time he’d ever hear the sub-compact’s voice again. A voice usually so annoying, yet always cheerful… and those filthy Decepticons had turned it into a broken, horrified whimper. Prowl knew those pleads would creep into his meditation and his recharge and haunt him for vorns, even if they somehow managed to retrieve Bumblebee after all this. By the sound of what they had done, he was doubtful that they would ever retrieve the same Bumblebee that they lost.

And when Prowl returned to base, nearly in stasis from staying out and searching without pause, he could see in the faceplates of the rest of his team that they shared the same fears.

They were already grieving the loss of Bumblebee when he wasn’t even offline. Perhaps… it would be a kinder fate if he were.

Bumblebee shook with racking sobs, vocaliser grating them out, rasping, horrible noises that echoed around the dim space as he hovered between being consciousness and a stasis full of sickening memories.

Every little movement held off the stasis, despite his utter exhaustion, but he couldn’t shut out the pain signals that shot like lightning through his meta from the multiple reticulations in his armour, caused by the seeker.

He didn’t want to think about his port. He continued to try and collect enough oral lubricant in his mouth to spit out the bitter, foul metallic taste mixed with his own energon. He could do nothing to try and cleanse the filthy feeling in his leaking valve. He shuddered as he felt another dull stab from his cord as well. Oilslick had decided to defile him even further than just abusing his port, which he had been happy to do eventually… but first he had taken a sick interest in Bumblebee’s mouth.

Bumblebee could still feel the scratches and damage to his fuel intakes and voice synthesiser caused by the Decepticon’s large spike. He had been unable to prevent the initiated tank purging reaction, but nothing had come of that at the time because his tank was empty. He was running on emergency backup charge now. It was running out slowly, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t think he’d ever be able to recharge again if he lived… the taste… the feel… that disgusting cord rammed down his throat, slammed into his faceplate until his olfactory unit armour had been dented by contact with the Con’s pelvic gimble.

And once the ‘Con had warmed himself up using the vibrations of Bumblebee’s involuntary yelps and screams around his cord, he’d hauled him onto his back on the berth, arms still pinned under him in the stasis cuffs, and pounded into Bumblebee’s port, reversing the magnetic charge of his spike so that he didn’t plug in until the yellow mech was screaming and pleading for it to stop through a heavily static laced vocaliser. His valve had been streaming with energon from further extensive damage to his sensitive port walls, and when the ‘Con was almost at his peak, he finally slammed his spike into Bumblebee’s plug and flooded him with spark energy so furious and hateful Bumblebee had been rendered silent, trying to cease his ventilations and engine and will his own spark to terminate simply to escape the intensely dark and terrifyingly feral energy of the ‘Con.

But he had been denied the mercy of such a thing.

And for his own amusement, once the motorcycle had sated himself, he decided to un-recess Bumblebee’s own spike, which he had proceeded to crush in his grasp as he mocked pulling the Autobot off as a ‘reward’ for being such a good, noisy whore.

He had dug a claw into the cable sheathing and drawn a gouge straight through the silicone like outer fibre, Bumblebee keening in agony as the sensitive interfacing unit was so delicately and exquisitely dissected. Oilslick had then unwarped the metal of his codpiece enough to slam it closed on his cord, and that is how it had stayed. Energon pooling under the metal as it leaked from his port, some of it escaping as it overflowed and dripped down the torn underside of his interfacing cable, stinging the exposed inner wiring before dripping to the floor.

Bumblebee had been welded in place on the wall again for the defilement of his spike, and that was how they’d left him. Limp in his bonds, legs forcefully kept apart. The Jet had put him up there again, but other than using his after-burner torture, he had seemed content merely to watch Oilslick work and sneer with biting comments.

Bumblebee had stopped asking himself his question now. He could no longer find an answer. He was ashamed. Surely he could go no lower.

It didn’t even matter to him anymore. Every klik that passed brought him closer to off lining…. He started to wish he hadn’t asked his friends to help him… he wished he’d told them not to bother… all he wanted now, all he was fit for was off lining.

I should just have said goodbye… even if they saved me, it’s too late… I can’t live with this… I don’t WANT to… it would be easier for them if I just died… nothing could fix this now. Not even Ratchet.

Bumblebee let out a quiet, screechy whimper.

Primus I miss them… I should have said goodbye… I wish I could see them once more just to say goodbye… but I don’t want them to see me like this… I don’t want them to know what’s happened to me… I’m pathetic enough without them knowing…

They were all so absorbed with the communication and then attempted tracking, that none of the Autobots noticed the small, intermittent blips of one of their own approaching earth.

The one approaching didn’t know they were all so frantic, he HAD hoped they were more pre-occupied with the Decepticon forces he was aware had come to the planet recently to notice him on their sensors though.

He WAS giving off an autobot signal, so it shouldn’t really have mattered if he was detected or not, but his intention was not to have to interact with any of the Elite guard or the earth outpost team of former repair bots.

Longarm intended to contact the other Decepticon force. He needed information and he needed it now. He was already so close to having his cover blown it wasn’t funny. He had lost communication with Megatron after their leader had ordered his troops to disengage from confrontations with Elite guard forces on the spacebridge outposts.

One team had gone awol since then, apparently trying to regroup with their suddenly uncontactable leader.

Apart from needing to know where his master was himself, Longarm would not have the warlord’s troops doing as they pleased, and intended to pull them sharply back into line. It was his duty, after all, he handled much of the Decepticon army’s communication and organisation, and as a trusted and high ranking lieutenant, he would see that the troops errant behaviour would not go unpunished.

And apart from his concerns over team Jarve, he was eager to prevent loosing his useful inside position spying on the Elite Guard because of contact between Sentinel’s crew and Optimus’.

His chief concern of course, being a certain arrogant, big-mouthed yellow scout.

He would definitely have to be dealt with…