raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2019-06-19 11:16 pm
raisedbymoogles) wrote2019-06-19 11:16 pm
Entry tags:
Yep, more ghoul virus Roddy.
It's done, it's out of my head, I can move on. Takes place between this ficbit and this one.
*
HUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYcold- cold - cold - - -
Pain.
Hot Rod groaned, trying to turn away from the light piercing through his optics right to the back of his processor casing. “Springer, turn it off,” he groaned, lifting an arm to shield himself-
-his hand wouldn’t move.
“Hey, he’s talking now.” That was an unfamiliar voice, and Hot Rod tensed up, pain and positioning data from his gyroscopic sensors flooding his awareness with wrong. He was on his back when he never slept that way, he couldn’t move, there was a stranger near him and-
“Yes, thank you, Syringe,” came the pointedly patient reply in a voice he’d only heard in enemy broadcasts, and Hot Rod flinched. And then gasped, because everything hurt, a searing ache that started low on his right side and spread all through him. “Lower the ambient light by thirty percent.”
“Yes, Shockwave.”
The light receded, not as much as Hot Rod would have liked but it made opening his optics just about bearable. He did so, taking in atmosphere slowly through his vents, stay calm. “Name, Hot Rod,” he said stubbornly, “rank, scout; squad, K-1. Not at liberty to disclose anything else.”
“You are not under interrogation, Autobot Hot Rod,” Decepticon Commander Shockwave told him, and Hot Rod struggled to read his level, calm tone. Was that patience or mockery? “Please remain still; you have sustained an injury that appears resistant to treatment.”
“Like I’ve got a choice,” Hot Rod muttered, but his side still hurt badly enough that he was - guiltily - grateful that the option of movement had been taken from him. The wrist and ankle restraints were standard enough, from what he knew from other soldiers’ stories, but he could also feel restraint straps across his thighs, chest, and even across his forehead, keeping his head still. He was hooked up to some kind of monitoring machine - he couldn’t see it, but he could feel its plugs thick and inert in his data ports and hear it beeping above his head. They can’t possibly be more afraid of me than they were of Firestar or Gearup, when they got captured, he thought, worry turning cold and heavy in his tank. What do they want from me?
Shockwave had turned away from him to consult his assistant; when he turned back, Hot Rod tried not to flinch from the steady regard of the Commander’s single yellow optic. “Autobot Hot Rod, explain how your injury was obtained,” he ordered briskly, and Hot Rod was waiting for the or else but it never came. As though it never even occurred to Shockwave that he might not be obeyed.
Hot Rod scowled anyway. “Name, Hot Rod,” he repeated himself. “Rank, scout. Squad, K-1. That’s. All.”
Shockwave didn’t even blink. It was the assistant - Syringe - who reacted, slapping his hand down on the restraint table. “Answer the question, you ungrateful little glitchspawn-”
“Enough.”
The scary thing was that Shockwave’s level tone never changed; he’d simply, it seemed, turned up the volume, but Syringe shut up and backed off immediately. “Autobot Hot Rod, I have reason to believe that your injury is the source of a certain communicable infection,” Shockwave went on in his usual speaking volume. “It is imperative that you render any information you have, so that we may curb the virus’s spread.”
“What are you-” But Hot Rod was already opening his diagnostic reports. The indications that he was being hacked popped up first - not entirely unexpected, but it was enough to make his anxiety spike - but his fuel indicator was pinging empty empty empty at him even though he knew he had enough fuel in him, he knew what an empty tank felt like and this wasn’t it, and some of these other reports on his nanite colony were-
-were just-
-wrong, and Hot Rod stared up at his captor helplessly. “What’s wrong with me,” he whispered.
Syringe scoffed. Shockwave merely stared, calm, unblinking. “Explain how your injury was obtained,” he repeated.
For a moment it was in Hot Rod to obey, if only because the specter of disease was more frightening to him than a blaster - in the close quarters of the tunnels viruses tended to spread like wildfire, and the bad ones accounted for as many deaths as the Decepticons did. But if I tell him, he’ll know our patrol routes-!
Strapped down as tightly as he was, Hot Rod couldn’t even squirm in indecision, but his silence was answer enough. Syringe made I will strangle you motions behind Shockwave’s elbow as Hot Rod continued to hold his vocalizer; Shockwave tilted his head, at long last showing at least some kind of reaction. “You are reluctant to share information with the enemy commander,” he observed. “This is, on its face, logical.”
Hot Rod exvented sharply. “I’ll die before I let you hurt my friends,” he said, and wonder of wonders, his voice hardly shook at all.
Over Syringe’s noise of suppressed fury, Shockwave put his hand out over Hot Rod’s helm - ignoring his flinch - and tapped at the machine over his head. “Perhaps I can convince you by sharing some information of my own,” he said.
The first thing Hot Rod was aware of was cold, spreading from the medical ports in his arm to seize his entire body. He shuddered in his restraints, clamping down on his vocalizer, not even torture will get me to- but his vocal lock failed as his middle cramped so hard it felt like it was imploding and he found himself groaning in agony, shaking, the world fading to infrared outlines of energy, sparklight tracing the outlines of the mechs surrounding him and he struggled, get, take, hungry, hungry hungry HUNGRY-
-heat slammed through him, cracking the terrible cold into fragments. His vocalizer was raw from screaming. The light was too bright again, but he could do nothing but stare upward in horror.
“Lower the ambient light,” Shockwave ordered, and Syringe, silent and wide-opticked all the way on the other side of the room, did so.
“Autobot Hot Rod.” Hot Rod looked to Shockwave unwillingly. “You wish to protect your fellow Autobots from this virus. I intend to find a cure for it. Cooperate with me, and both of us will obtain what we wish.” He placed his hand on the restraint table by Hot Rod’s head, very deliberately, as if emphasizing how little he feared the monster curled in Hot Rod’s tank. “But the Autobots, out from under my protection, are vulnerable to further attacks. I would prefer your cooperation but do not require it - I have other research subjects. Continue to resist, and I will let you go.”
Hot Rod knew he was lost even before the pleading note left his strained vocalizer. Trembling, he told Shockwave everything.
When he was done, and Shockwave had left the room, Syringe scraped up enough courage to approach him again. “If it were up to me I’d have you scrapped,” he hissed. “My best friend died because of you!”
Hot Rod stared at him, torn between I’m sorry and good, if he was a ‘Con- but Syringe was apparently not interested in hearing his reply anyway, storming off with one last insult against his creators. Hot Rod couldn’t even turn his head to watch him go, so he shuttered his optics, turned down the gain on his audials against the beeping of the monitor, and tried to ignore the lingering pain and the empty empty empty warnings.
*
HUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYcold- cold - cold - - -
Pain.
Hot Rod groaned, trying to turn away from the light piercing through his optics right to the back of his processor casing. “Springer, turn it off,” he groaned, lifting an arm to shield himself-
-his hand wouldn’t move.
“Hey, he’s talking now.” That was an unfamiliar voice, and Hot Rod tensed up, pain and positioning data from his gyroscopic sensors flooding his awareness with wrong. He was on his back when he never slept that way, he couldn’t move, there was a stranger near him and-
“Yes, thank you, Syringe,” came the pointedly patient reply in a voice he’d only heard in enemy broadcasts, and Hot Rod flinched. And then gasped, because everything hurt, a searing ache that started low on his right side and spread all through him. “Lower the ambient light by thirty percent.”
“Yes, Shockwave.”
The light receded, not as much as Hot Rod would have liked but it made opening his optics just about bearable. He did so, taking in atmosphere slowly through his vents, stay calm. “Name, Hot Rod,” he said stubbornly, “rank, scout; squad, K-1. Not at liberty to disclose anything else.”
“You are not under interrogation, Autobot Hot Rod,” Decepticon Commander Shockwave told him, and Hot Rod struggled to read his level, calm tone. Was that patience or mockery? “Please remain still; you have sustained an injury that appears resistant to treatment.”
“Like I’ve got a choice,” Hot Rod muttered, but his side still hurt badly enough that he was - guiltily - grateful that the option of movement had been taken from him. The wrist and ankle restraints were standard enough, from what he knew from other soldiers’ stories, but he could also feel restraint straps across his thighs, chest, and even across his forehead, keeping his head still. He was hooked up to some kind of monitoring machine - he couldn’t see it, but he could feel its plugs thick and inert in his data ports and hear it beeping above his head. They can’t possibly be more afraid of me than they were of Firestar or Gearup, when they got captured, he thought, worry turning cold and heavy in his tank. What do they want from me?
Shockwave had turned away from him to consult his assistant; when he turned back, Hot Rod tried not to flinch from the steady regard of the Commander’s single yellow optic. “Autobot Hot Rod, explain how your injury was obtained,” he ordered briskly, and Hot Rod was waiting for the or else but it never came. As though it never even occurred to Shockwave that he might not be obeyed.
Hot Rod scowled anyway. “Name, Hot Rod,” he repeated himself. “Rank, scout. Squad, K-1. That’s. All.”
Shockwave didn’t even blink. It was the assistant - Syringe - who reacted, slapping his hand down on the restraint table. “Answer the question, you ungrateful little glitchspawn-”
“Enough.”
The scary thing was that Shockwave’s level tone never changed; he’d simply, it seemed, turned up the volume, but Syringe shut up and backed off immediately. “Autobot Hot Rod, I have reason to believe that your injury is the source of a certain communicable infection,” Shockwave went on in his usual speaking volume. “It is imperative that you render any information you have, so that we may curb the virus’s spread.”
“What are you-” But Hot Rod was already opening his diagnostic reports. The indications that he was being hacked popped up first - not entirely unexpected, but it was enough to make his anxiety spike - but his fuel indicator was pinging empty empty empty at him even though he knew he had enough fuel in him, he knew what an empty tank felt like and this wasn’t it, and some of these other reports on his nanite colony were-
-were just-
-wrong, and Hot Rod stared up at his captor helplessly. “What’s wrong with me,” he whispered.
Syringe scoffed. Shockwave merely stared, calm, unblinking. “Explain how your injury was obtained,” he repeated.
For a moment it was in Hot Rod to obey, if only because the specter of disease was more frightening to him than a blaster - in the close quarters of the tunnels viruses tended to spread like wildfire, and the bad ones accounted for as many deaths as the Decepticons did. But if I tell him, he’ll know our patrol routes-!
Strapped down as tightly as he was, Hot Rod couldn’t even squirm in indecision, but his silence was answer enough. Syringe made I will strangle you motions behind Shockwave’s elbow as Hot Rod continued to hold his vocalizer; Shockwave tilted his head, at long last showing at least some kind of reaction. “You are reluctant to share information with the enemy commander,” he observed. “This is, on its face, logical.”
Hot Rod exvented sharply. “I’ll die before I let you hurt my friends,” he said, and wonder of wonders, his voice hardly shook at all.
Over Syringe’s noise of suppressed fury, Shockwave put his hand out over Hot Rod’s helm - ignoring his flinch - and tapped at the machine over his head. “Perhaps I can convince you by sharing some information of my own,” he said.
The first thing Hot Rod was aware of was cold, spreading from the medical ports in his arm to seize his entire body. He shuddered in his restraints, clamping down on his vocalizer, not even torture will get me to- but his vocal lock failed as his middle cramped so hard it felt like it was imploding and he found himself groaning in agony, shaking, the world fading to infrared outlines of energy, sparklight tracing the outlines of the mechs surrounding him and he struggled, get, take, hungry, hungry hungry HUNGRY-
-heat slammed through him, cracking the terrible cold into fragments. His vocalizer was raw from screaming. The light was too bright again, but he could do nothing but stare upward in horror.
“Lower the ambient light,” Shockwave ordered, and Syringe, silent and wide-opticked all the way on the other side of the room, did so.
“Autobot Hot Rod.” Hot Rod looked to Shockwave unwillingly. “You wish to protect your fellow Autobots from this virus. I intend to find a cure for it. Cooperate with me, and both of us will obtain what we wish.” He placed his hand on the restraint table by Hot Rod’s head, very deliberately, as if emphasizing how little he feared the monster curled in Hot Rod’s tank. “But the Autobots, out from under my protection, are vulnerable to further attacks. I would prefer your cooperation but do not require it - I have other research subjects. Continue to resist, and I will let you go.”
Hot Rod knew he was lost even before the pleading note left his strained vocalizer. Trembling, he told Shockwave everything.
When he was done, and Shockwave had left the room, Syringe scraped up enough courage to approach him again. “If it were up to me I’d have you scrapped,” he hissed. “My best friend died because of you!”
Hot Rod stared at him, torn between I’m sorry and good, if he was a ‘Con- but Syringe was apparently not interested in hearing his reply anyway, storming off with one last insult against his creators. Hot Rod couldn’t even turn his head to watch him go, so he shuttered his optics, turned down the gain on his audials against the beeping of the monitor, and tried to ignore the lingering pain and the empty empty empty warnings.