[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Holding Out [Closed]

[Patch]

Episode 3.5, Week 1, Day 4

Warm air. Damp walls. Hard floor, cleaned of dust in patches, though lightly discolored in spots.

The constant buzzing of an energy field behind a thin shadow of mine work. Hammering, drilling, distant commands which echoed, and skittered off carved out stone.

It was the same sad scenery that had surrounded Patch for the past week and a half now; Unchanged. Untouched by night, or day. Untouched by light besides the string of worker’s bulbs, or dark besides the shadows which lingered in corners their illumination could not reach.

Patch’s rounded, stubby frame sat curled against the wall. Helm bowed to her knees which leaned up upon it's surface, tucked up before her- one slightly lower than the other, lacking a tire for her heel. Her servos remained bound behind her, caught tightly within shackles. A chain behind them which led to a plate bolted firmly to the wall.

There was evidence of tampering upon everything in her radius.
It had done nothing.

The radius in question was quite easily discerned by scratches, and doodles, and marks upon the floor and walls. A few spots where it seemed plating had connected more harshly, leaving behind a scuff, a mark of paint, or a crumbled indent- with small dents, or missing paint to match upon the captive’s frame.

The young femme’s white and red paint was interrupted frequently by signs of recent injury. Small cuts, large, though shallow burns. Patchy spots stripped off around wounds since cleaned, and welded, and ground down smooth.

Patch had been well repaired, for just how injured she had been.

Though now, it seemed she was finally resting, for the first proper time since her initial sedation for surgery. Optics fully closed, her extremities not quite fully limp, but certainly propped upon the wall behind and -at the moment- beside her.

In the eleven days she’d been here, besides guards, Patch had interacted with few enough people to count on her digits. Spending the great majority of her time in this stagnant, dayless, nightless place…

…in isolation.

Between the scrap-bear rations of energon, the lack of novel stimulation, the healing process from the fight which put her here, and the diligently inconsistent bursts of light recharge… The poor last-sparked had become exhausted.

Sleep, it appeared, had finally claimed her.

[Starscream]

Somewhere within the vast caverns of the mine system, the familiar form of Starscream had made himself scarce without a word after an initial check on how their Energon production was coming along. Much progress had been made here since the last time he'd visited, and to say he was pleased was an understatement indeed. This mine in particular had been one he'd seen to personally in Megatron's absence, and to see it prosper? Well, only good things could come from that.

As important as their mining efforts were, though, it was not the sole purpose of his visit.

He'd moved silently through the narrow, roughed-out corridors, wings tucked in behind himself in an attempt to counter the claustrophobia that couldn't be helped. While the cavern itself was spacious even despite the activity of machinery and Vehicon alike, the strip mining into the deeper, more isolated layers were anything but - and it was through these he walked, datapad in hand.

He'd meant to check in sooner, though hadn't quite found the time. It was no matter, after all, it wasn't as if the prisoner was going anywhere fast - and the time alone would do her good. Flatline had given a full report on the repairs that'd been done to bring her back from the brink of death itself, and by all accounts, she was doing well.

At least, considering the circumstances.

Unaware she'd been visited by another just yesterday in fact, a clawed digit would absently scroll through the medical report from the initial repairs, making sure he hadn't missed anything of importance in the eleven or so days it'd been since he'd seen her last. He hadn't, and it was then his attention shifted to another report - filled out by the Vehicon QLC-972, no doubt in some attempt to be helpful.

That one, at least for a time, had been assigned down here as part of the guard rotation, though a recent incident with Megatron had seen him indefinitely replaced. His documentation of events was far laxer than that of Flatline's rather in-depth report, simply stating that the prisoner had given nothing away through conversation.

Though Starscream found himself wondering if the Vehicon had even asked anything of use. The other Soldiers certainly hadn't tried to engage in small talk, if only because the Autobot seemingly knew better than to reply.

Perhaps things would be different this day, and as he neared his destination, his free servo would rise to the side of his helm. A quiet comm was sent to another, an instruction - an order - to make their way here at earliest convenience.

Rounding the final twist in the frustratingly narrow corridor, the space would open up into the larger chamber that contained the hollowed-out nook that served as Patch's cell. Strip-mined for what scarce Energon had been here, to the point now only rock remained. The dulled lights overhead offered very little in the way of illumination, though just enough to see.

Almost immediately as he stepped in the new area, Starscream's wings flared outward now that he had the freedom of space - and he would vent inward sharply, dismissing the current Vehicon guard with a single word before his attention turned to the Energon field, and the prisoner behind it.

He watched her for but a moment, noting how she appeared to be at rest. Gaze drifting, it was then he saw the evidence of tampering - fresh scratches, scuffs of paint that matched dents upon her frame. It was a wonder she'd been able to even move at all, though Autobots were known to be viciously stubborn when they put their mind to things.

Perhaps they should tighten the chain that held her, though should this go well, he wasn't above offering some sort of reprieve. Eleven days in isolation with no concept of time, or freedom of movement? It was torture enough, and he could only wonder how far she'd been broken.

Time to find out.

Moving over to the control panel, he was quick to lower the barrier - the familiar hum that'd no doubt been a constant would cease as it vanished, plunging the room into silence, save for the sounds of distant mining.

Looping his arms behind his back, a step was made toward Patch. He kept his distance, as even with the restraints he was wary - though would clear his throat before speaking. His voice was not a yell, though louder than what was probably necessary, given the ominous silence that hung around them.

"Wake up. It's about time we had a little chat."

[Patch]

The warbling thrum, and occasional minute crackles of pure, laser induced, magnetically confined plasma. It was strange how much of a reliance Patch had come to develop upon it.

At first it had driven her crazy. Pissed her off, the sound a merciless, unrelenting reminder that Even beyond the chains that bound her- Even beyond her minuscule radius of physical restraint, she was Still  trapped within this tiny little box. The sound had come to embody her capture. The vague lack of silence it caused had grown deafening at times- incessantly poking, then prodding, the Beating at the young prisoner’s inability to reach up and cover her audials. Any semblance of respite stripped from her.

In time, however, she had grown accustomed to it.

It became like a blanket. Like a dry, dense heat that pressed itself beneath every panel of plating. It was almost a comfort, in a sense. Not quite, able to be tuned out, but… a background acknowledgement. A grounding measure, that, without needing to look up or move; continuously assured that she was in the same place. That she was awake. That she was alive. That, despite being stuck somewhere she didn’t wish to be- Patch remained in this stable, known environment. One which had not -yet- become a theater for her torture.

The change in this new baseline. The removal of this blanket, instantly caught the young Autobot's attention, to the point of waking her.

Her helm tipped quickly up, as her optics illuminated and dazedly peered across the room. A wince, at the uncomfortable, straightened 45 degree angle her arms had come to fall in behind her. With little thought, her knees shifted down, one leg extending to pull herself into a more forward facing position.

This must have been it.

She’d finally recovered enough to have the slag beaten out of her.

It didn’t seem a concept on Patch’s mind, to speak. No quipped response loading behind tired optics; dull with hunger, and tinged just slightly more teal than before, with the quality and quantity of energon she’d been consuming as of late.

She looked like a sparkless drone. Like a recruit rolling off their slab to attention two hours too early in the morning. No proper, processed thought just yet- merely action. Posturing herself to the proper position on instinct, all but automatically.

Once facing forward once again -settled into the sores she’d developed sitting still here for so long- it seemed a light finally came on in the young femme’s attic. A short glance up to regard the seeker before her, a whuff from her vents to try and rattle out what remained of sleep.

It was not an appropriate greeting, for someone of Starscream’s rank.

Though it appeared the young prisoner was somewhat beyond such formality, at this point.

[Starscream]

Peering down at the prisoner, Starscream's optics narrowed ever-so-slightly as he took in the details of her frame. Flatline had done a good job - at least, considering the prisoner's state when she had come into their possession.

Though she'd certainly seen better days.

Not surprising, he supposed - and for a moment he wondered if she knew how long it had been. Days? Weeks? Longer than that? The distant sounds of mining were a constant. A rotating shift of Vehicons to maximize Energon production to the fullest - it never ceased, with no obvious clue as to when a new day had begun.

The occasional new guard outside her tiny little cell was the only possible tell that time was indeed passing. He'd keep one stationed there full-time, if he could - though as cruel as he could seem, even their drone-like soldiers needed rest.

There was no outward response from the femme, at least - not with words. A huff from her vents, a tired stare that seemed to look through him, almost, rather than directly at him.

Had her fortitude wavered yet, he wondered. He was not one for mindless, barbaric torture like Megatron, no - Starscream instead was fond of the long game, should he find the opportunity to do so; and what was longer than the slow, uncomfortable purgatory that Patch currently found herself in?

She was a fighter, though. Defiant. Resilient. The younger of their kind always were.

"Ah, good - you're still with us."

Stating the obvious, his thumb claw picked idly behind himself as he continued to stare down at her, though made no motions of moving closer. A gentle smirk twitched at his lip as he continued.

"How'd you like a little more freedom, mm?"

Straight and to the point. An offer of sorts, perhaps just enough to incite a flicker of hope and wake her up a little further, wanting to gauge her temperament before whoever he'd comm'd moments earlier finally arrived.

[Patch]

Patch’s gaze drew loose, then refocused a little as the tall, lithe figure before her spoke. A slight cock of the helm, as the young prisoner’s jaw tipped forward slightly. The light behind her optics narrowed as she squinted at his words. A weighted vent lifted her burned, paint-stripped chest as it seemed she began to refocus, and actually swallow the words being spoken.

‘freedom’?

Hope lit her optics as her chin lifted slightly. Her attention settled more firmly on the Seeker…

Then a dash pulled through that hope. Like a parent’s arm extending in front of a child’s chest before they had the chance to run.

At what cost…?

The Autobot’s head angled down and to the side as brow-ridges lowered. Round, soft features marred and dusted settled unsurely in the shade of her helm. She lowly muttered,

“...Why?”

[Starscream]

Ah, that got her attention.

It was subtle, the gentle lifting of her chin as she seemed to take in his words. Given the state of her, and the lack of response moments earlier – or, coherent response, anyway – he was glad to see that she was still with him enough to listen and understand what was going on.

Despite the uncomfortableness of her position, and the soul-destroying isolation that no doubt clawed away at her processor? No further harm had come to the Autobot. At least, that he knew of. She was alive, and despite her sad, pitiful existence? Functioning.

The response to his question was short - muttered low, defiant almost. Autobots, especially those that were far younger than most, were fighters. They had to be, given what they'd been through, and should things have been different? He may have found some respect for her.

Though deep down, perhaps he did.

"Because the rules and circumstances regarding your situation - have changed." he stated simply, one arm easing from behind his back to loosely gesture in her direction before he glanced toward the doorway - only for a moment.

He knew the area was no doubt under surveillance – Soundwave's eyes watched, even here in the depths of nowhere – and so was being purposefully vague with his words and just what, exactly, he wanted from this.

Hopefully, the comment was enough to pique further interest, though for now? He would not elaborate.

[Patch]

What?

Changed…? How had circumstances changed? As far as Patch was aware she was still definitely sitting in the same vaguely damp, very much underground hovel. Still chained to the wall, still, recovering and in pain.

Not all that Much, had changed on Patch’s end… At least, not that she could see…

What had been happening all this time above ground?

The young medic had been fixated all this time on what had been changing for her Autobots. What had been going on without her there. It hadn’t, nearly so much crossed her mind, what was going on, for the Decepticons. Not beyond what might be coming for her around the corner.

It was Starscream’s words that brought this thought to Patch’s attention. How… There was an entire FACTION living and working- who’s custody she was IN, besides her own. A faction with their own shit going on, their own circumstances.

Her voice as Well as the chains behind her lifted and rattled as she shifted forward and down. Leaning and lowering into the words.

“What do you want from me?”

[Starscream]

Keeping his gaze on the femme, Starscream began to pace. Despite the lack of ample space to walk too freely, he wouldn't move too close to her, as even despite the shackles, he was ever wary. He had played a part in her capture, he was the reason she had been hurt - and it was under his order that she was here, isolated and bound, stuck in an uncomfortable position in almost darkness. While she hadn't been mercilessly tortured, as seemed to be the route many mechs far more brutal than he would've picked - the situation and environment alone were no doubt enough to slowly chip away at one's psyche.

At the uttered question, he smirked - though it was brief, almost unseen in the minimal lighting.

"From you? Nothing- at least, not now." he tsk'd, before continuing.

"Cooperation, perhaps? Though that's probably a given, considering where you currently are." a touch of smugness laced his words. It wasn't as if she had a choice in the matter, after all. Play along, or suffer the consequences. Though he was sure that even should she be freed from her shackles, she'd be unable to do much of anything at first, let alone stand.

Though she was a feisty one, and he knew better than to underestimate even the weakest among them.

"In future? Well… things that I cannot discuss while we remain within earshot of-"

Stopping abruptly, his attention shifted to the doorway, and while he wouldn't move to look down the darkened corridor that led to the tiny cell, he seemed focused on it, optics narrowing. Almost nervously, his wings twitched some behind himself.

"Hold that thought." he uttered, voice quieter.

He'd summoned someone here earlier, and while he knew and understood it would no doubt take time to step away from their work, there was always the risk of someone else wanting to pay the prisoner a visit. Only few knew of her existence, fewer still her whereabouts - and it was some of these that he was wary of.

He couldn't quite hear footfalls that would help him identify just who had arrived - though the distant, telltale sound of a bridge opening somewhere meant that somebody was on their way here.

((Flatline will be posting next.))

[Flatline]

Tap, tap, click.

Tap, tap, click.

Each Cybertronian had a signature to their gait. The heavy thrum of a large individual with their long stride creating stretches of silence between, compared to the lighter repetitive noise of someone much smaller taking shorter steps. Empty to solid, quick to slow, crushing to light... most could learn to recognize the footfalls of others, and the sharper clip of prong-like peds followed by the sound of a metal pipe striking down a moment after with a hollow resonance was impossible to mistake as anyone else.

A few moments after the initial steps could be picked up on, Flatline's form would come into view with the cane he was forced to utilize, his angular shape a dark mass of black armors accented by red tones upon specific points, including the medical cross on each shoulder. This coloration nearly made him bleed into the intermittent shadows between the strung lights, though it also caused fresh silver and dull metals to stand out painfully on his frame, his paint peeled back along his chest where a once lost set of appendages now found their rightful place once more.

The secondary arms were thin and spindly versus their larger counterparts, neatly matching the aesthetics of his overall mass since they were built for his frame in particular. While he longed for them to be functional once again, their newfound presence taunting him with something that was still out of his reach, they were still grafting, welding scarring visible where their mounting spheres were connected that was still healing. Their thin elbows were tucked back beneath his primary arms, letting the smaller forearms lie flush against their upper components where temporary metal bracing kept them in place. Supporting the wrist and delicate fingers were some bound medical tape, acting as a temporary strap to keep them from getting snagged on anything as he moved about his life.

This was not the only difference Patch may pick up on.

The mech that had been seen before, was no more, the one that now stood in her line of sight a mere husk of what he had once been. While his features had been a light gray on a good day, there was almost somehow an added paleness that had taken hold, a sunken element that made him look profoundly tired and drained of what life was there previously. Worry. Stress. Lack of sleep. Depression. Any number of emotions could be the source of such a look, and in fact, it was more 'all of the above' rather than any specific thing, the weight of the entire Decepticon army on Earth pressed down upon him as he still grieved the loss of a friend who may not even be dead, as well as trying to recover from the trauma of a madman's sadistic trial, creating a nauseating limbo he was forced to live in.

Flatline was tired. He was weakened, and it likely played a large role in the fact the new grafts were not bonding yet.

Exhausted and dulled optics looked down upon Patch as he stepped into the room to stand at Starscream's side one step back in quiet obedience, taking in the sight of the Autobot to compare with how he had left her. She didn't look that good, though it was to be expected. Thankfully, other than some superficial wounds, it didn't seem as though her real injuries were impairing, as there weren't dulled splotches of blue beneath her from internalized bleeding leaking out. It was after this cursory look that he peered over at the Skylord, his helm dipping some in acknowledgment.

"Commander..."

Held in Flatline's free hand was a basic medical box, one that would hold simple tools should Patch have ripped open an injury in her cell.

Or, tools to assist if she were about to receive a new injury that would need to be tended to.

[Patch]

Round, blue, exhausted optics glared defiantly up at the long, lithe form as he towered above. Confusion ebbed as he requested… Nothing? No, questions? No answers? No torture?

Earshot of Who? Were there others here?

Some deep internal instinct- like a pilot light catching the gas on a stove fired off at the sound of the bridge. Immediately the sharp crest of the Patch's helm dipped back as the Autobot's attention lifted to meet the sound.

A reminder of home. Of Omega. A moment of hope beyond reason as Patch desperately wished those who emerged would be a rescue party. Her back plating folded together a few inches as her spine uncurled a bit.

Alas, this hope was fleeting. A brief wink, as the medic’s addled brain remembered just as swiftly the Enemy possessed this technology too. Her optics grew softer at the sound of the cane and thin sharp steps. A slight intake of air.

It was Flatline.

Conflicted ease settled slightly upon the young captive as it seemed this realization struck her. Her shoulder plating relaxed and loosened a little as she held her relief at bay- still concerned he may be here to do something unpleasant, or dangerous. She prepared herself for this, a slight shift of her hips, of the weight, a moment taken to collect an appropriate greeting for the mech, until-...

He stepped into the light.

Patch winced back, optics widening. Brow ridges lifted and angled down as she straightened away. What Were those things?? Were those HANDS? Why were there tiny little hands sticking out of his abdomen?? SURELY those weren’t there Before?

The last-sparked’s optics flicked from Flatline’s new appendages to the medical kit, then the disheveled medic’s drooping faceplate, then back to the commander with a newfound sense of fear. A new unknown, a new question among thousands.

Had he been punished somehow?? Upgraded? WHY would anyone Choose this? He looked like he’d just seen the trenches... What the frag had Happened to him??

And what was about to happen to her?

Gaze unbreaking from Starscream, Patch softly hunched. Her knees drew upward, pulling her pedes towards her. Unconscious instinct to draw inward, and press herself against the wall. To pull away from whatever this was. Uncertainty was plastered across her nicked, freckled expression.

[Starscream]

As the tell-tale sound of Flatline's familiar footfalls moved closer, the silver Seeker eased back, taking a step away from Patch while he waited. Wings that'd twitched almost nervously only seconds earlier seemed to relax and lower, betraying the relief in his frame. While he would've no doubt handled whoever it was that was on their way here should it have been someone else, knowing it was the one he'd summoned was one less worry.

He didn't move as the other mech made his way over, though would offer him a nod in quiet greeting. No words were spoken regarding just how awful Flatline looked - though he knew the sight of him was no doubt a shock to the prisoner, as she had seen him only days earlier in far better form.

Something had clearly happened to him, and it did not help that the Seeker seemed particularly on edge.

A moment passed, then another.

"Flatline."

Finally, words - an actual greeting, though with them he turned to look at Patch, optics narrowing. He watched as she tried to shrink in on herself, almost, or as best she could- given the fact she couldn't really move much at all.

"Given the state of our prisoner and how long she's been…" a servo would raise, gesturing to her absently as he turned his attention back to the other mech. "...here. Do you think she is capable of moving, or will further work need to be done?"

Being in a stress position for as long as she had, he wasn't sure just how bad things actually were. Flatline had worked miracles, almost, in stabilizing her despite the fact she was shackled the way she was, but it could still all be for naught if she couldn't even walk.

"We need her presentable."

He wouldn't elaborate, though turned his attention back to her, making a point to raise one servo, idly picking at his thumb claw as he spoke.

"Be sure to make this easier on yourself and don't fight him, please."

She looked worn down. Exhausted - yet, he knew even then she was dangerous. Caged animals always were, and should Flatline need to move close? There were still ample ways for her to lash out and do harm.

[Flatline]

Flatline was well accustomed to others having negative reactions to his secondary arms. They were not standard nor commonly seen across many of their kind, almost an anomaly in their infrequency. Small, not proportioned properly to match the mass of the primary limbs... thin and wiry with only two fingers and a thumb each... they could almost look alien even to their species, yet it was what it was and he was normally dead to such looks. This said, something about how Patch responded to it, the flinched wince while looking down at them, mixed poorly within his already fragile psyche, feeling a level of self-consciousness that welled to the surface in a way he hadn't remembered experiencing last.

Perhaps it was a feeling sourced from the fact that the limbs didn’t work. A sign of familiarity that was out of reach... a reminder that what he had wanted so very badly for weeks on end was still so mockingly close... improperly grafting, unable to heal, unable to even help him, and instead becoming a burden to not bump or snag on anything. Ghost pains that had faded some time ago even coming back in full force since they were re-attached. This resulted in his frame angling slightly away as though it did anything to hide the freshly welded-on abominations from sight.

He shouldn't care what she thought. She was just some Autobot that was here as ammunition to use against the other faction. A tool. Currency. Hardly worth looking upon as an individual. Yet, she very much was a living entity that had responded so negatively to something he truly cherished when he had them.

"If she hasn't fought, I do not foresee problems after proper rest."

'If she has thrashed, who knows what tears lay internally.'

He sounded so incredibly tired.

"I will be able to tell you more upon closer inspection."

Red optics dimmed slightly further as he glanced over, resigned exhaustion washing over him once more in a new form as he gave up on trying to hide the limbs as quickly as he had made the half-hearted attempt, the poor feelings but one more strike against him when he was already so down about himself. There was nothing to be done, however, other than listen quietly for Starscream's command to proceed forward. Which... while it wasn’t overtly obvious, he felt it was there enough, and as such he would ease into motion once again, using his cane for desperate support. It was once beside Patch that another issue would become clear as well, and that was the external braces around his knee.

It was gnarled and crude, bent metal and some wrapped rebar clamped roughly above and below his damaged knee in a way that truly immobilized the joint. There was no bend in its hinge, no ability to offer even the slightest of give, as the gaps between it and his leg were even filled by wrappings and some expanding foam. Obviously something had happened to it as well, though he didn’t draw attention to it, stopping at her side before he lowered down into a sort of crouched squat, or... as close as possible, the supported leg crooked painfully to the side and slightly back so that his entire mass was precariously balanced upon his right leg.

"Will you let me clean you up..."

Soft rasped words that were as much a request as they were an 'it doesn't actually matter what you say' declaration of fact. Whether she fought or not, it was going to happen, the difference would likely just be if a Vehicon soldier would need to get involved or not, and just what level of grief she wanted to give the mech who had saved her life.