Insert standard disclaimer here. TFA belongs to Hasbro, this is all in fun, ect. For the record, man I wrote this ages ago. Like, after I watched "Autoboot Camp" so...sometime in, like August or something. Dang.

Autobots were the good guys, Decepticons were the bad guys. Autobots were the goodguys. He knew that. It was as hardwired into his basic programming as sarcasm, a firm, unshakable belief. Obviously. Autobots were good. Decepticons...Decepticons were sub-Cybertronian, treacherous pieces of slag, and the horror stories about their actions during the wars were something every protoform knew. Autobots imprisoned their captives, tried to reeducate them. But you were better off offline if a Decepticon caught you as a soldier. Decepticons tortured information from every captive. Sometimes they finished the poor wretch off; sometimes they let them loose again among their own kind, twisted wrecks of the 'bots they'd once been. Decepticons were depraved lunatics. Autobots were the good guys.

He'd believed that, in a simple basic way, because it was just a given. It didn't even need thinking about; it was too obvious, and anyway, it didn't affect him.

And he'd believed that until the first time they put him in the room.

It started before the room, really, the torture. Oh, nothing officially classified as such, and at first he just thought it was injustice after injustice being heaped on him in a cosmic joke, and all the while he cursed that stupid yellow slag who put him there. But gradually, he began to realise that he was not merely being incarcerated as punishment for a crime he hadn't committed--he was being softened up. Casual abuse: meal rations that were more hydrogen than energon, shoves and shocks from the guards, terrifying, half-mad cellmates muttering about the glories of Megatron. But all he had to do was find someone in charge, someone with funfctioning truth circuits and half a central processor, and he could finally get out of here...and then go send that glitchhead bumbler to the scrap heap. It was only a matter of time.

They'd rewired his optics in the first decacycle. It was part of his processing, and the EMP wasn't set anywhere near high enough and it hurt like the Pit. He could see the violet reflection against his armor in the dark. Purple for traitors, for prisoners. You'd slag a red-opticced 'Con, but "about as trustworthy as purple optics" was an old saying in the ranks. The process had affected the wiring; it didn't fit right anymore, and he squinted, first one, then the other, still trying, after half a stellar-cycle, to wiggle them into place.

The humiliation was enough, really. Wasp was a proud 'bot, and used to things going his way. Here, he was just a short little traitor, despised by the Autobot guards for his conviction, and by the Decepticon prisoners for his steadfast declarations that he was not a Decepticon, he was an Autobot, he'd never been a traitor, why wouldn't anyone believe him? He'd discovered the hard way that his sting was nowhere near quick or powerful enough for the larger inmates, the ones who singled him out. The gears in his wrist ached from that little learning experience.

He was still recovering when they put him in the room.

His guards said nothing to him as they rolled him down the corridor in the stasis gurney (as if, as ifhe were any kind of threat. Why wouldn't anyone listen? Why did anyone believe that stupid bee, that stupid, stupid bee anyway?), though he demanded over and over to know what was going on. They passed the repair bay, and down went his hopes that maybe they'd at least fit the blasted optics onto his faceplate properly. Finally, they came to a small, rusted door at the end of a narrow hallway, the lights around it flickering. His spark sank at the sight of it. A sudden panic overtook him as the wheeled him inside, and he strained his gears trying to struggle out of the gurney to no effect.

The room was dark and small, a single, dim light hanging from the center. The only objects in it were two tables, and something that looked like a recording device. The larger of the tables was equipped with cuffs, and was black and etched with visible scoring. An interrogation room. His guards lifted him onto it and fastened the attached cuffs. One of them smirked down at him in disgust, and in that expression, he knew that whatever he'd thought he was in for, it was much worse. Unable to move his head, he glanced out the corner of his optic towards the other table. It was covered, whatever lay atop hidden from view, and that scared him even more. The door clanged, and he was alone in the dark. He shut his optics.

Autobots don't torture prisoners. We're the good guys. We're not Decepticons, we're better than that, we don't torture captives. This is all a mistake.

"This is all a mistake," he said out loud, as if the thousandth time would somehow be effective.

"What was that that?"

He jolted, or would've if he'd been able to so much as twitch a gear. A new figure stood in the doorway regarding him with polite curiosity. The door slid shut behind him as he slowly approached the tables. Wasp's limbs ached as an involuntary tremble tried to work its way past the stasis cuffs. He tried again.

"I said, this is all a mistake. I'm not a traitor! That stupid yellow numb-node just had it in for me! He planted that communicator! I swear! You have to believe me!"

The new autobot stared down at him for a moment with a small, cold smile.

"Yes, yes. This is a place for truth, truth. Soon, I will believe everything you tell me, me. Soon, soon." He paused and placed his hand on the cover on the other table. "But not yet yet."

Wasp hadn't thought his circuits could process any more dread, and it was true--the creeping apprehension was quickly turning into outright terror. It didn't take a prison inmate to recognise the signs of electric-overload-abuse. The subtle twitching of the head, the repetition. But what was worse was how utterly calm his captor was--most shockers could barely stand upright. And what was absolutely panic-inducing was the dawning realisation that at this moment, the clearly damaged 'bot had the power of on or offline over Wasp. The new 'bot smiled again, seeing the fear seep into Wasp's optics.

"I should introduce myself. I am Shrapnel-Shrapnel. And I'm going to ask you some questions questions." He uncovered the table and held up one of the instruments on it, long and menacing. "Do you know what this is is?" Wasp remained silent, too scared to speak. "Electricity is something of a hobby of mine mine. I understand that you are equipped with electric stingers. It is always so interesting to reroute that power power. So... Tell me about your Decepticon contacts contacts."

And then it started.

Wasp was still twitching spasmodically when they dumped him back in his cell. Stray sparks of electricity jumped across his armor. He didn't even register hitting the ground when they left him; he just lay there whimpering. All that registered in his electricity-hazed central processor was that he had seen the Pit. He had seen the Pit, and they would take him back there again.

Shrapnel hadn't even bothered asking questions. Instead, as he slid each electrode into the sensitive points in Wasp's armor, and as he fiddled with the settings on his wrist, he explained exactly what it was in store.

"This volt will loop your central processor processor," he'd buzz. "Just temporarily, you understand understand. We need you to be able to talk talk."

And then it would start again, and whatever Wasp had steeled himself against, it was ten thousand times worse. After two cycles, he began babbling everything he could think of, in between screams. His first shot of illegal high-grade, the first time he interfaced, his serial number, and bits of trivia that the shocks let him access, he poured it out for his tormentor, hoping somehow, something would please him, would make the pain stop. But the other bot had only shaken his head.

"This is merely an introduction introduction. I want you to have a taste of what I can do to you before I really begin begin."

The electrodes weren't even necessary. At a touch, Shrapnel could pump Wasp with enough electricity to make his optics go static. But they focused the pain.

It went on like that for stellar cycles. They would give him a solar cycle or three to recover, sometimes let him twist for a few decacycles, thinking it was over, and then back to the room. The room. Wasp had never known true fear before. Now, when he was strapped into the stasis gurney every other solarcycle, he pleaded, promised, shrieked, begged his captors not to take him to the room, anywhere but that room. Deactivate him, just not back there.

On more than one occasion, he woke up in the repair bay, still twitching from the latest interrogation. Time didn't process properly, bits of memory were erased or irreparably damaged. He felt fuzzy and confused if he tried to think clearly, so he focused what little will he had on one Pit-bound yellow 'bot, and tried to hold out for...something that he couldn't remember. Revenge. And it still all faded to white and static when he went back to the room.

Fifty stellar cycles in, he broke.

Shrapnel no longer used the stasis field. He and Wasp were old friends now, he said. Instead, Wasp was bound by simple cuffs. Shrapnel wanted to be able to watch his victim thrash, and a stasis field didn't allow for that.

The sessions had taken their toll; Wasp wasn't fully recovered from the last one, still shaking and twitching, an inevitable stutter creeping into his words when he tried to speak. Shrapnel sent one charge through him, just a little one, barely a tickle as Wasp registered things these solarcycles.

And he broke.

He immediately confessed, began babbling about his true Decepticon allegiance, his contacts whose names he'd gleaned from listening to other inmates, the glories of Megatron and his evil works in the Decepticon services. Somewhere, he was distantly aware that if he just said enough, the punishment would be deactivation. Bliss.

Shrapnel withdrew the electrode and looked at the quivering bot.

"No no. That's all wrong wrong."

"Please!" shrieked Wasp.

"You are no Decepticon Decepticon."

"Then why are you doing this?" Shrapnel smiled.

"Because as long as they think you are are, it will keep susfpicion from our true agent agent."

The world fell out from under Wasp as realisation slowly dawned. His central processor whirred, trying to sort the new information, to believe it, to understand why, why.

"You mean...You?"

"Of course course. As if an Autobot could truly have the stomach to do what is necessary , they want it done, of course course, but nobot wants to get his hands dirty dirty" Shrapnel walked to a shelf by the door and rummaged for some new toys.

Whatever betrayal Wasp had felt at being framed all those stellarcycles ago, it paled to how he felt now. The terrifying, doomed understanding that because of one stupid yellow 'bot, because of Bumblebee, he was never going to escape, that the one bot who had the power to declare him innocent, or even release him to the mercy off the Well of All Sparks, had betrayed all of them. The was no justice in the universe.

He screamed, a wordless shriek of fury and outrage,and tore himself free of the restraints. The Decepticon didn't have time to turn before Wasp shot the most powerful sting he could manage straight at him. The force of his own blast threw him backwards against the wall.

Schrapnel didn't even stumble. Slowly, the Decepticon turned around and sneered down at the 'bot trying to stand, stinger still raised and crackling.

"You call that a shock shock?"

Wasp grunted and pushed against the wall at his back, but before he could raise himself to his stabilizing servos, Schrapnel was on him, slamming him into the cold steel, one servo crushing his throat, lifting him off the ground.

"I'll show you some real stinging stinging." Wasp struggled ineffectively against the larger Decepticon and then there was a click and everything went white.

He screamed.

He could smell the sharp ozone and the hot, sickening odor of his own circuits sizzling inside his armor. Electricity crackled in the air all around him, running through him in current after agonizing current, almost drowning out his tormentor's high, echoing cackle.

He screamed.

The harsh, buzzing sound became alien in his own audio receptors and he felt the coils in his vocal processor strain and pop under the stress and still he couldn't stop. Something inside snapped and fell loose, and still the electricity surged through him and he screamed and screamed, half aware of his limbs flailing at the Decepticon without any conscious will on his part. Everything became distant, his own tinny, constant screeching coming from someone else's shattered circuits. Then then it stopped, like a tide being withdrawn before a tsunami, and the abrupt absence of pain was almost as much agony as being filled with--and then Wasp saw the cruel smile and realised that the Decepticon had only been holding back before, and with the next nanoclick, lightning surged through him, enough to make the previous attack seem like a static shock in comparison and no, now he was screaming, truly screaming. Circuits fried and shattered, and somewhere, a coil snapped, horribly, audibly. He felt it go. Something in his core processor. And then everything seemed so clear, and Wasp-old-Wasp was simply no longer a factor.

Buried in the distant screams, he heard a chittering buzz as his charged stinger slid into Schrapnel's chest plating and through his spark chamber, as calm and deliberately as a ship docking, and blasted once. Schrapnel uttered a short, choked cry and crumpled with a look of surprise, his limp servo falling from Wasp's neck.

Wasp dropped to the ground, only the wall at his back keeping him from falling in a heap on top of his tormentor. He stood shakily, limbs and gears still jerking at random as stray jolts passed through, and looked at the sparkless Decepticon lying still at his stabilizing servos. One optic twitched uncontrollably. One down. One enemy down. One Bumblebot to go. He could still hear the incessant, buzzing mumble all around him, and gradually realised it was coming from his own cracked vocal processor, something broken loose and rattling around inside. His optic twitched again and a strange smile spread across his face.

"Ahehehhheehhh...Ahhhheheh....Wazzp no think zzooooo.....eheheheheh...."