raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2018-07-05 12:06 am
raisedbymoogles) wrote2018-07-05 12:06 am
Entry tags:
Ficlet: Hot Rod, Shockwave, and a cage
This scene kind of dropped into the middle of my headspace like an anvil into my living room and stared at me until I wrote it. Posted here rather than AO3 because there's no real story in my head other than this one scene. Consider it a cross between this fic by Sophisticated_Adult and that Marvel Zombies thing.
*
Sometimes Shockwave brought Hot Rod things along with his fuel and daily nanite infusions. Enrichment tools, he’d call them, or new variables. If Hot Rod was good, he’d even get to keep them.
Stuck in a glass box in Shockwave’s biology lab at Darkmount, there wasn’t much else for Hot Rod to do. He’d long ago stopped breaking the puzzles Shockwave brought, even when he’d solved them so many times he had the solutions memorized. (Shockwave had made pleased noises about his continuing cognitive processes. Hot Rod was pretty sure that was a hopeful sign.) The bookfiles were less welcome - heavy on the Decepticon propaganda, or else so dry that Hot Rod’s input-starved processor found it more stimulating to stare at the wall - but they too were more or less taken care of, stacked in the corner of his enclosure. The toys... he wasn’t ever sure what he was expected to do with those.
He wasn’t about to tell Shockwave that he’d named the squishable turbohound Optimus Prime and the vaguely root-mode-shaped figure Ultra Magnus, after all. He wasn’t that far gone.
His enclosure always had running lights, bright enough that he always knew he was being watched but not so bright that he couldn’t recharge; the main overhead lights came on only when Shockwave or one of his subordinates came through the lab. This time it was Shockwave himself, and Hot Rod didn’t exactly flinch or try to hide the data reader whose source code he was trying to hack, but he did tense, and watch warily through the glass walls of his cage as Shockwave attended to a few other running experiments. For a while he thought he’d be ignored completely. Then Shockwave approached his cage, his tread steady, unhurried. Out there Shockwave was the slightly hapless, overwhelmed admin type who’d inherited the unenviable task of maintaining the Decepticons’ hold on the planet against the (eventual?) return of the near-mythical Megatron, a near-civilian playing at war, the butt of Autobot jokes all over Iacon. In here, he was master and commander.
“Subject Hot Rod,” Shockwave greeted, “what is your status?”
Hot Rod sighed. Subject. He used to be Autobot. “Hungry.” Shockwave immediately produced a half-cube of sluggishly-glowing medgrade fuel. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“My apologies.” Shockwave didn’t put the cube away, only set it to one side. “Place your arm through the hatch.”
Hot Rod struggled to his treads, one hand clasped over the shallow yet significant wound in his side. How long had he been here - rotations, lunar cycles? And it still showed no signs of healing. Shockwave’s gaze moved to the spot where Hot Rod grasped his injury, but he didn’t snap or shout like some of his guards sometimes did - just waited, calm and patient, secure in the knowledge that his commands would be obeyed.
Hating the Decepticon for being right, Hot Rod thrust his arm through the small round hatch in the clearsteel built for this purpose. It immediately irised shut around him, trapping his arm near the shoulder.
Shockwave took his forearm and turned it palm-up, his grip firm but not cruel. Now it was Hot Rod’s turn to be patient as Shockwave unfolded his multitool from his gun-arm wrist and used it to expose Hot Rod’s medical access port. This was familiar to him by now; it hardly registered as a violation that the Decepticon commander jacked into his systems and rapidly scanned his system data without a whisper of protest from his firewalls. His attention even started to wander off again, his gaze drifting down and to one side, lulled by familiarity and a brutal kind of security.
“System check... minimal degradation, approximately 11.5% loss from previous readings. Commencing acquisition of nanite samples.”
“Mhm,” Hot Rod muttered, disinterested. Bored, bored bored bored. Pain. Hunger. Boredom. Pain... hunger hunger HUNGERHUNGERHUNGER-!!!
His shoulder joint was wrenched, shrieking with agony; his free hand was clawing against the clearsteel. Hot Rod jerked it back, brought up short by pain as his arm jerked against the hatch that still held it fast. His horrified optics met Shockwave’s, and saw there no fear or judgement, only a mild curiosity.
“Interesting,” was all the Decepticon said.
“Interesting?” Hot Rod sputtered, but Shockwave’s attention - as quick to jump to a new topic as Hot Rod’s, in its own way - had already moved on, bringing forth a familiar tube. Hot Rod’s optics locked onto it like a starving mech’s as Shockwave opened up another access port on Hot Rod’s forearm and slotted the tube into place.
“Beginning nanite infusion,” Shockwave stated, and Hot Rod’s knees nearly buckled as cool, sweet relief flooded him, pushing back the slow creep of insanity that had, even if only briefly, taken him over. He clutched at the smooth clearsteel he’d just mindlessly tried to break, fighting to keep his feet.
“...how much longer?” he murmured, exhaustion warring with a mild euphoria.
“That is impossible to say, subject Hot Rod,” Shockwave answered, as placidly as if he hadn’t fielded this exact question multiple times before. “Rest assured that your cooperation is bringing us closer to a cure. Thank you, once again, for your patience and compliance in this matter.”
The nanite tube was emptied and disengaged; his forearm armor settled in its place again, and the enclosure’s access hatch irised open again. Hot Rod retrieved his arm with a hiss of pain, his shoulder momentarily throbbing worse than the old bite on his torso. Shockwave lingered at the hatch; when Hot Rod gathered the pride and courage to meet his gaze again, Shockwave nodded to him, and placed a few things in the nearby transfer tray alongside the sad little cube of medgrade before pushing it across to Hot Rod. Another data reader, its housing scuffed but intact; a kinetic puzzle that Hot Rod could already see was similar to the spherical-knot puzzles he’d solved before; and a strange little toy, a figure with four stumpy feet and a long neck and tail. Hot Rod put his hand on the tray but didn’t reach inside. “Shockwave?”
“Yes?”
Hot Rod drew a careful invent. “When you find a cure... you’ll give it to my friends too? I mean - I know, the war and all, but...”
“Of course.” Again - placid, calmly confident, without hesitation. Just like the last time he’d asked. “Any Autobot without the preventative code in their systems is a potential infection vector. The cure will be freely available.”
“...okay.” Hot Rod made himself take the cube. As long as he was existing for some purpose - as long as all of this was to help his people, even through Shockwave - he could endure this captivity. “Okay.”
*
Sometimes Shockwave brought Hot Rod things along with his fuel and daily nanite infusions. Enrichment tools, he’d call them, or new variables. If Hot Rod was good, he’d even get to keep them.
Stuck in a glass box in Shockwave’s biology lab at Darkmount, there wasn’t much else for Hot Rod to do. He’d long ago stopped breaking the puzzles Shockwave brought, even when he’d solved them so many times he had the solutions memorized. (Shockwave had made pleased noises about his continuing cognitive processes. Hot Rod was pretty sure that was a hopeful sign.) The bookfiles were less welcome - heavy on the Decepticon propaganda, or else so dry that Hot Rod’s input-starved processor found it more stimulating to stare at the wall - but they too were more or less taken care of, stacked in the corner of his enclosure. The toys... he wasn’t ever sure what he was expected to do with those.
He wasn’t about to tell Shockwave that he’d named the squishable turbohound Optimus Prime and the vaguely root-mode-shaped figure Ultra Magnus, after all. He wasn’t that far gone.
His enclosure always had running lights, bright enough that he always knew he was being watched but not so bright that he couldn’t recharge; the main overhead lights came on only when Shockwave or one of his subordinates came through the lab. This time it was Shockwave himself, and Hot Rod didn’t exactly flinch or try to hide the data reader whose source code he was trying to hack, but he did tense, and watch warily through the glass walls of his cage as Shockwave attended to a few other running experiments. For a while he thought he’d be ignored completely. Then Shockwave approached his cage, his tread steady, unhurried. Out there Shockwave was the slightly hapless, overwhelmed admin type who’d inherited the unenviable task of maintaining the Decepticons’ hold on the planet against the (eventual?) return of the near-mythical Megatron, a near-civilian playing at war, the butt of Autobot jokes all over Iacon. In here, he was master and commander.
“Subject Hot Rod,” Shockwave greeted, “what is your status?”
Hot Rod sighed. Subject. He used to be Autobot. “Hungry.” Shockwave immediately produced a half-cube of sluggishly-glowing medgrade fuel. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“My apologies.” Shockwave didn’t put the cube away, only set it to one side. “Place your arm through the hatch.”
Hot Rod struggled to his treads, one hand clasped over the shallow yet significant wound in his side. How long had he been here - rotations, lunar cycles? And it still showed no signs of healing. Shockwave’s gaze moved to the spot where Hot Rod grasped his injury, but he didn’t snap or shout like some of his guards sometimes did - just waited, calm and patient, secure in the knowledge that his commands would be obeyed.
Hating the Decepticon for being right, Hot Rod thrust his arm through the small round hatch in the clearsteel built for this purpose. It immediately irised shut around him, trapping his arm near the shoulder.
Shockwave took his forearm and turned it palm-up, his grip firm but not cruel. Now it was Hot Rod’s turn to be patient as Shockwave unfolded his multitool from his gun-arm wrist and used it to expose Hot Rod’s medical access port. This was familiar to him by now; it hardly registered as a violation that the Decepticon commander jacked into his systems and rapidly scanned his system data without a whisper of protest from his firewalls. His attention even started to wander off again, his gaze drifting down and to one side, lulled by familiarity and a brutal kind of security.
“System check... minimal degradation, approximately 11.5% loss from previous readings. Commencing acquisition of nanite samples.”
“Mhm,” Hot Rod muttered, disinterested. Bored, bored bored bored. Pain. Hunger. Boredom. Pain... hunger hunger HUNGERHUNGERHUNGER-!!!
His shoulder joint was wrenched, shrieking with agony; his free hand was clawing against the clearsteel. Hot Rod jerked it back, brought up short by pain as his arm jerked against the hatch that still held it fast. His horrified optics met Shockwave’s, and saw there no fear or judgement, only a mild curiosity.
“Interesting,” was all the Decepticon said.
“Interesting?” Hot Rod sputtered, but Shockwave’s attention - as quick to jump to a new topic as Hot Rod’s, in its own way - had already moved on, bringing forth a familiar tube. Hot Rod’s optics locked onto it like a starving mech’s as Shockwave opened up another access port on Hot Rod’s forearm and slotted the tube into place.
“Beginning nanite infusion,” Shockwave stated, and Hot Rod’s knees nearly buckled as cool, sweet relief flooded him, pushing back the slow creep of insanity that had, even if only briefly, taken him over. He clutched at the smooth clearsteel he’d just mindlessly tried to break, fighting to keep his feet.
“...how much longer?” he murmured, exhaustion warring with a mild euphoria.
“That is impossible to say, subject Hot Rod,” Shockwave answered, as placidly as if he hadn’t fielded this exact question multiple times before. “Rest assured that your cooperation is bringing us closer to a cure. Thank you, once again, for your patience and compliance in this matter.”
The nanite tube was emptied and disengaged; his forearm armor settled in its place again, and the enclosure’s access hatch irised open again. Hot Rod retrieved his arm with a hiss of pain, his shoulder momentarily throbbing worse than the old bite on his torso. Shockwave lingered at the hatch; when Hot Rod gathered the pride and courage to meet his gaze again, Shockwave nodded to him, and placed a few things in the nearby transfer tray alongside the sad little cube of medgrade before pushing it across to Hot Rod. Another data reader, its housing scuffed but intact; a kinetic puzzle that Hot Rod could already see was similar to the spherical-knot puzzles he’d solved before; and a strange little toy, a figure with four stumpy feet and a long neck and tail. Hot Rod put his hand on the tray but didn’t reach inside. “Shockwave?”
“Yes?”
Hot Rod drew a careful invent. “When you find a cure... you’ll give it to my friends too? I mean - I know, the war and all, but...”
“Of course.” Again - placid, calmly confident, without hesitation. Just like the last time he’d asked. “Any Autobot without the preventative code in their systems is a potential infection vector. The cure will be freely available.”
“...okay.” Hot Rod made himself take the cube. As long as he was existing for some purpose - as long as all of this was to help his people, even through Shockwave - he could endure this captivity. “Okay.”