Title: Crepuscule
Author/Artist: albydarned
Rating: PG
Warnings: psychological torture, dark themes
Word count: 2,800
Summary: An Autobot travels down the road to insanity under Megatron's watchful gaze.
A/N: Springkink 2010: For the prompt "Transformers (G1), Megatron/any Autobot; slavery/establishing dominance - "Where's your Prime now?""

***

The darkness was suffocating him, pressing in all around the young Autobot prisoner relentlessly. He had curled up into a tiny pile of parts under the only light source in the entire cell; a small, red light which flashed and flickered as though it was about to burn out at any moment.

Bluestreak was certain that his sanity—what little remained—would shatter the moment his world plunged into complete darkness.

The sharpshooter had been a prisoner of the Decepticons for a very long time; exactly how long, he couldn't honestly say, as his internal chronometer had been disabled, along with his communication systems and his anti-virus software, while he was being transported from the battlefield to the Decepticon brig. Alone in his tiny cell, Bluestreak was cold, scared, and vulnerable.

The Decepticons never came for him. Towards the beginning of his imprisonment, Bluestreak had been extremely grateful for that. He knew—he knew, deep within his circuits, to the core of his very spark—that the Autobots would come and rescue him. Any day now, he reminded himself, first mentally and then, when the silence became too heavy to bear, out loud. His voice carried on into the darkness, swallowed by the thick concrete and the miles of ocean that separated him from his friends, his adopted family. They'll come for me.

But they never did. They never did. Time went on and on, dragging by from klik to klik until Bluestreak's mind began to wander into dangerous places. What if they weren't coming for him? What if they decided that he wasn't worth the effort or the risk? What if they were thankful that he had been taken, that his chatter wasn't uselessly bouncing off of the walls of the Ark any longer?

What if the Decepticons had already killed all of them, just like they killed everyone else he had ever known, and he was alone, forgotten and left to deactivate in the bowels of the Decepticon ship?

Soon, Bluestreak wasn't able to keep any words inside. At first, it was his only way to cope with the silence, with the fact that he was alone and that there was no one coming for him. He kept his mind focused for breems, telling stories and jokes that he had heard from the twins, reciting the history lessons that Prowl insisted he complete, and lulling himself into recharge with the lullabies his creator used to sing.

But during one long stretch of talking—about the first time he'd ever been kissed, scared sparkless but unable to turn away as Smokescreen's face plates came closer and closer to his own—there was a sudden, sickening crack followed by a series of gurgles and choking coughs, bright-red warnings flashing across his CPU. Lack of energon and overuse had taken its toll, and Bluestreak, the mech who could always be counted on to say anything and everything and never stop, could no longer speak.

That was when he began wishing for the Decepticons to come, because if he couldn't have his family, and if he couldn't have the other Autobots, then he would just have to settle with his enemies. Anything was better than being alone, mute and in the near-dark. But the Decepticons never came either, and soon enough, Bluestreak's entire world narrowed down to the small patch of red, flickering light over his head, and the endless, silent black that lay beyond the pale halo of light.

***

Bluestreak might have been alone, but he was most definitely not forgotten. One single security camera, perched right over the door, provided a constant view of the Autobot prisoner, special enhancements activated in order to provide a clear image despite the cell's dim lighting. And Megatron, the supreme leader of the Decepticons, commanded that the image be present on one of the monitors at all times.

For the most part, the other Decepticons had enjoyed the show at first. In the beginning, they had spent entire shifts mocking the prisoner as he made considerable efforts to remain quiet, his frame shuddering in fear. When he began talking, they began placing bets on how long it would take for him to completely lose his processors.

But after his voice quieted down again, likely from a broken vocalizer, they began to lose interest. Cycle after cycle, the prisoner would simply sit there, unmoving. And yet, the feed remained constantly displayed on the main computers, albeit in a small corner. His soldiers soon became uninterested in the prisoner that they had seemingly left to rust, and Megatron had overheard more than one Decepticon start to question why he had not ordered the Autobot's deactivation yet.

Only one of his subordinates had remained quiet throughout the entire proceedings, watching the monitor with a combined expression of complete ecstasy and processor-freezing terror. Starscream's trine mates had ridiculed their wing leader for his uncharacteristic behavior, teasing him by suggesting that maybe Megatron was preparing a similar treatment for him. Their remarks had prompted a sudden barrage of laser-fire, null-rays, and audio-fritzing screams that had sent Skywarp and Thundercracker (and several other not-so-innocent bystanders) to the medbay for repairs.

Megatron had watched the entire scene with a cruel smirk on his lip components. If only Skywarp and Thundercracker knew the truth of their words … however, not even Starscream's silence and subsequent violent outburst was enough to tear Megatron's optics away from the sight presented to him on the monitors. Megatron had personally watched dozens of 'bots lose their sanity as well as their very sense of being before, and while the show itself was always entertaining, never before had he been so … intrigued before. Where the others only saw weakness and a broken spark, Megatron saw a gathering storm, electricity and lightning building behind otherwise-empty optics.

Oh, yes, Megatron knew the specifics regarding this particular soldier. He was young, one of the youngest in Prime's ranks, and one of the few survivors of his most successful raid, the razing of Praxis. A skilled sharpshooter, true, but such abilities were easy to duplicate and reproduce in almost any mech; truthfully, there was nothing particularly useful about the Autobot rusting in his brig. He wasn't even a high-ranking officer, just a gun and a warm chassis. Megatron had not ordered the prisoner's capture for interrogation purposes. If it was information that Megatron desired, he would have taken the Autobot's second-in-command Prowl.

No, Megatron had other desires for the young gray mech. And he knew, deep within his twisted spark, that the Autobot would be ready soon. That blasted light bulb would only remain lit for so long …

***

Bluestreak had spent cycles preparing himself for when the light would finally go out; he had steeled himself for it, making himself understand and accept that soon it would be completely dark in his cell and that he would stay there in the darkness until the lack of energon drove him into stasis, and finally into complete deactivation. He believed that he was ready.

He wasn't.

With one final flash and a barely-audible pop, the red light finally sputtered out. It looked just like when a mech's spark extinguished out on the battlefield, the few times Bluestreak had been unfortunate enough to watch another Cybertronian die. However, that realization was quickly subsumed in the processor-stopping panic that assaulted him as Bluestreak frantically looked all around him, searching for some source of light, something that he could focus on, anything to remind him that he was still alive, not dead and rusting alone in the pit, trapped in an endless void. There was nothing.

Sparks flew from his broken vocalizer as he attempted to scream, but the pain emitted from the splintered piece didn't even faze Bluestreak. His optics were too dim from the lack of energy to provide any useful light, and his secondary systems—which would have typically included night vision—refused to activate, presumably for the same reasons.

Bluestreak had no idea how long he sat there, alone in the darkness, before his processor switched his emotions from panic and fear to sheer, unadulterated hatred. How dare the Autobots leave him alone like this? He'd given them everything after his family was killed and after his home was destroyed! His earlier suspicions that he'd been left to deactivate because the others were tired of his talkative nature returned to him, but now those thoughts were accompanied by the most powerful loathing Bluestreak had ever experienced. Before, before the darkness and his cell, before the flickering red light and the press of empty, dead concrete around him, Bluestreak thought that he hated the Decepticons for destroying his life. But those feelings paled in comparison to the fire that was suddenly burning deep inside of him.

***

From the control room, Megatron watched rapturously as the storm he had anticipated finally erupted. There was no one else in the room to watch as cool, blue optics, which had once signified the presence of sappy Autobot sentimentalities such as peace, justice, and righteousness faded to a dark, passionate red. The Autobot was scowling, and while his weak-willed comrades would have been taken aback at the ferocity of the look, Megatron felt his fuel-pump stutter momentarily at how beautiful the prisoner had become. For several breems, Megatron's gaze never strayed from the screen as the Autobot's optics cycled from blue to red, the only real indicator of the internal struggle the young 'bot was obviously dealing with.

Megatron slid off of his throne and made his way slowly to the monitor. The Autobot's optics were crimson once more, and even though his vocalizer was broken, his lips were still moving in what Megatron assumed were silent threats and curses. One black servo traced over the gunner's features, a digit moving over the prisoner's face, completely obscuring his features.

"Where's your Prime now, little Autobot?" Megatron asked the prisoner. "You know that he's abandoned you, don't you? He's not coming for you … none of them are coming for you." The words weren't true in the slightest; the Autobots had tried several times to break into the base and reclaim their missing soldier, but none of them knew about Megatron's special prison, hidden in one of the darkest and most isolated sections of the Nemesis.

The entire scenario reminded the Decepticon leader of the last time he'd played this particular game – the scientist he'd ordered to be captured had held out for several deca-cycles before the claustrophobia ate away at his resolve, irreparably damaging his logic circuits and replacing it with calculating rage. Megatron smirked at the memory; driving Starscream insane had certainly been entertaining.

Almost as if he had sensed his superior thinking about him, the second-in-command suddenly swept into the command center, his characteristic sneer replaced by a look of contemplation. Megatron let his focus drift to the Seeker, who was watching the monitor, completely unmoved by the Autobot's suffering or the … compromising position he'd just found his leader in. Turning away from the monitors to face Starscream, Megatron asked, "Fond memories, traitor? You know, after your outburst last cycle, I should have it arranged so that you occupy the cell right next to him …"

Starscream didn't rise to the bait, but he did allow a small, twisted smile to slide across his facial plates. "I wonder what he will do to the first mech he sees once you've finally let him out?" he wondered out loud, casting a leveled glare at Megatron. The first—and only time—that Megatron had underestimated Starscream's strength had been when he had (perhaps foolishly) entered the imprisoned Seeker's cell, only to be attacked and torn to slag by the mech inside.

But the Autobot gunner was not Starscream by any stretch of the imagination. Whereas Starscream had been in constant movement, even after his own vocalizer had ruptured after the constant begging and pleading, the Autobot had barely moved. While Starscream had, over time, lost his capacity for long-term planning and discretion, the gunner had finally overcome the glitch that had made him such a nuisance even among his own faction. Who knew what new abilities and possibilities would manifest themselves as the mech continued to sit there, alone in the dark?

The smile on Megatron's face was far more intimidating and sinister than the Seeker's, and under its force, Starscream began to wilt and back down. A bright flash of fusion energy shot past the Seeker, clipping his wing and forcing him to the ground. Megatron was upon him in a mili-klik, dragging the smaller mech up by his shoulder vents and slamming him against the monitors, right next to the image of the prisoner, whose optics were now twin blue beacons shining in the darkness of the cell.

Having Starscream and the prisoner both within his line of sight triggered a cascade of memories in Megatron's processor: the wonderful echo of Starscream's screams and pleas as he cringed away from the darkness, his bright blue optics shining in fear and confusion until his rage consumed him, how he had finally began clawing at his own wings and plating, gouging deep holes into his armor in order to remind himself that he was still alive, that he could still feel something, even if it was only pain. That was the moment when Megatron was waiting for, where he had gone wrong with Starscream. Megatron had believed that it was more important to encourage such obviously-destructive behaviors, that it would make his future Air Commander more resilient and unmoved by pain; what it had done instead was turn him into a shameless masochist, who sought out punishment and torture at every possibility.

Megatron would not repeat that mistake again, not with his new prisoner. Whereas Starscream now sought pain, needing it to make sense of the information his warped processor was feeding him, Megatron intended to save his prisoner from himself. When the gunner finally focused his rage on himself, Megatron would arrive just in time to save the Autobot from his own hands.

***

I hate them. I hate them I hate them I hate them all so much … Bluestreak's processor was beginning to overheat from the combination of energon deprivation, loss of recharge, and the whirlwind thoughts that were circulating throughout his CPU. His focus could only settle on one thing for the briefest of moments—I HATE THEM!!! —before he started another mental tangent, his thoughts piling up one on top of another until he was completely consumed by them.

So preoccupied with his own internal monologue, Bluestreak completely forgot about the darkness all around him; he had been captive for so long that he felt as though his life had completely segmented, that the Bluestreak who had been his creator's pride and joy and the Bluestreak who had been the loyal friend and Autobot was another person entirely, someone who had died the moment he'd fallen into Decepticon servos. That Bluestreak was from Before, and the young mech knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never be that mech again. He never could be, not with the memory of cold cement and dripping water and darkdarkdark taking up so much space in his main hard drives.

That's if I ever get out of this place, Bluestreak thought, his rage suddenly dissipating and being replaced by self-doubt and fear once more. If he stopped to think about it, Bluestreak would have to admit that he preferred being angry over being frightened, enraged instead of weak. He had been weak before, he had been lulled into a false sense of security after his family had been killed … they had made him believe that they would always be there for him … they lied to me! They lied!

I won't stay in here forever, Bluestreak promised himself, the ghost of a smile, twisted and wrathful, on his lip components. He had no idea how he would escape, especially considering his current operational state, but that did not concern him. In the back of his processor, he reminded himself that he was a Decepticon prisoner, and that some day, some day, they would let him out—rescue him—and then he could make the others pay, make them suffer for leaving him alone in the dark, for lying to him.

All he had to do was wait …

***

"I will become his savior," Megatron murmured, so softly that Starscream's audios had a hard time picking up the words. A shiver wracked the Seeker's frame in response to the dark promise his leader had just made, but he made no move to struggle. Megatron was hardly paying any attention to his second at that moment, his concentration entirely focused on the prisoner, who was shivering so hard his armor was rattling, blood-red optics darting back and forth suspiciously.

"Bluestreak," Megatron whispered, using the Autubot's designation as he trailed his free hand over the image of gunner once more. "Soon, you will be mine."