This is under construction: I'm rewriting a lot of this.

This is set after the war, which ended during the battle of Chicago. Cybertron is in a general state of repair, but the Decepticons have discovered that they not only require a slave labour force but also a means of reproducing...

Pairings: Megatron/OC, Starscream/OC, Soundwave/OC, Shockwave/OC
It will be primarily told from one OC's point of view at the beginning, but it will progress and change as the story goes on.

Disclaimer:
I do not own Transformers, or it would be brimming with bad humour and dry jokes. I also don't own two of the OC's mentioned in the above paragraph, but I'll bring that up when they actually appear in the fic.

Synch's brother had always said that the day the Autobots lost hope would be a very miserable day indeed.

Then again, that was back when her brother had actually possessed a functioning voice; the long-ago days before his vocaliser had been utterly mutilated by everyone's favourite tyrant. Who knew what he would've had to say after that incident? It can't have been easy on him, being forced into the life of a passive mute, incapable of accurately conveying his own thoughts and ideas. For all Synch was aware he might have even wished death upon himself. Heck, a total disregard for his life may have well been the source of his bravery.

But to believe such a thing would be robbing him of the commendation he deserved. That mech had always been filled with relentless optimism and steadfast faith, even in the most bleak of situations. It had almost been easy to believe that they had a chance against the Decepticons with him around. And his courage was next to none, Synch knew that. She'd grown up with the little tike; of course she knew that. A simple loss of voice would not have brought him down- not for long, anyway. Somehow he always managed to bounce back...

Except for one fateful occasion.

Maybe his cheeriness had been the reason for Optimus bringing him along in the first place. Maybe his own blind idealism was the reason for his current state. As a member of the group whom had been stationed on planet Earth, her brother had been on of the first ones to go; mercilessly slaughtered like all the other Autobots who had been stupid enough to take a stand against the Deceptiocons. Nobody had survived the catastrophe on Earth. Nobody. And if they had, they'd smartly kept their mouths shut and retreated into the shadows. There was no honour in being a deserter.

Countless numbers of Autobots had perished in the years that followed that single- yet fatal- event. They'd been hunted down group by group, one by one, through different stars and galaxies that spanned the entirety of space. With Optimus gone, the Autobots fell into disarray. Hope was soon abandoned just as her brother had feared. What point was there in resisting when there was nothing left to fight for? All they did now was wait in bated silence, doing their utmost best to prolong their inevitable end. Synch would know- she had been one of them, before she'd landed herself a place in these miserable cells.

The only thing that had stopped the Decepticons from completely wiping Autobot existence from the face of the galaxy- the only reason that Synch herself was alive now- had been the sudden realisation that their species was on the brink of extinction. The scars of war had cut deep, and numbers were noticeably scarce. It soon became obvious to the 'Cons (they actually had semi-functioning processors, believe it or not) that their own femmes were either too few, too unwilling, or too unfit for parenthood, and overall were hardly a reliable source to base their race's revival on.

That's where the Autobot femmes came in. That's where Synch came in.

Though the majority of the remaining Decepticon femmes were bonded, this was hardly an indication of them desiring to have families with their partner. These bonds had rarely been an act of committed affection so much as they had been a form of guaranteed protection. Femmes didn't exactly have the upper hand when it came to combat, and many mechs had been more than happy to save their afts from time-to-time in exchange for the opportunity to interface with something. Love was, after all, a very foreign concept amongst the Decepticon faction. Lust and survival? Much more common. It created quite the dilemma in terms of finding suitable applicants for parenthood.

Which seemed to make the Decepticons think; Autobots are softies, right? They'd be perfect mothers for Cybertron's future generation of murderers. It was simply an added convenience that there were more femmes on the Autobot's side than there were on the Decepticon's. They wouldn't have the spark to offline their own metal and energon, and overall were almost perfect candidates. It worked out well for the Decepticon forces, and they sent out a private transmission that instructed for the capture of female Autobots, as opposed to them being mercilessly slaughtered like the rest of their kind.

The only flaw in that plan?

Autobot femmes were even less willing to be made Decepticon mates than the Decepticon femmes had been.

That was why she was here. Heavy chains hanging from her wrists and ankles, seemingly permanent adornments ever since she'd first visited the dreaded place. A collar had even be added for extra humiliation. The binding material attached firmly to the stone wall behind her, keeping her securely bound in her constantly filthy surroundings. It was a bit of an overkill, to be perfectly honest; as if anyone had a chance of escaping when their Energon levels were kept so dangerously low and vicious Energon bars blocked their way. The small rations of low grade Energon they received once a week barely fought off the constant "Warning: Energy Levels Low" that relentlessly popped into her vision, there was simply no way it was adequate enough to potentially fuel some form of rebellion. The owner of the nicknamed Hell Cells definitely didn't want the precious femmes putting up a fight.

On top of that, the guards were but another factor that deterred opposition. It was difficult to attempt resistance when your body constantly ached and burned from the many scorch marks that riddled your chassis, courtesy of the patrolling officers who took far too much delight in using their Energon prods. Screaming took a hell of a lot more effort than people cared to realise. And it wasn't like they needed to be provoked or prompted (though Synch had certainly done plenty of that in her earlier days, keeping her mouth shut was a skill she'd had to learn- fast); even some of the shyest and most well-behaved femmes had been relentlessly targeted in the past, for no reason other than the slimy 'Cons had merely gotten bored. They'd even been dragged into the middle of the hallways so everyone could bare witness.

Synch didn't know if all femmes were treated equally as badly once they'd been "freed" from the Holding Cells (which the occupants had nicknamed the Hell Cells quite fittingly). For all she knew, life might be genuinely better under the care of a Decepticon mech... even if she were destined to be nothing but a meager possession. As disgusting as the thought was- and indeed she cringed at the idea of having to interface with such a creature- there were days when she silently wished she was out there instead of trapped in here. What she wouldn't do to obtain a single glance of her home planet; the one she had yearned to return to for so long, despite being under complete Decepticon control.

There had been one point when she'd thought she'd had a shot at returning, too. An open transmission had been sent out not long after the Decepticons' decision to enslave the females, offering refuge for Autobots and Decepticons alike. They were proposing a truce; an opportunity to reform Cyberton and unite their race once more, to wipe away the scars of war and turn over a new leaf. It was basically what every desperate Autobot could dream of, and Synch had been no exception. Finally, a chance to make amends and return to a normal life. No more running, no more loss, no more murder... heck, she'd almost completely forgotten what a life without war had been like.

The spoken words- having been delivered from the charming glossa of Megatron himself-had seemed convincing enough. That was until Autobots began foolishly approaching their new, Decepticon-ruled planet, and were met with a much less friendlier welcome than they had been anticipating. Tales of mechs being murdered on sight and femmes dragged from view began to spread throughout the galaxy. Bots stopped coming, realisations dawned, and the Autobots plunged back into depression- and hiding.

Once the transmission failed to drawn in any new customers, increased numbers of hunting parties werescattered into space, until the pursuit of female Autobots eventually developed into a fully-fledged slave trading business. It had been one of these hunting parties that had captured Synch in the end. Though her small band of companions had considered approaching the "new and improved" Cybertron earlier, they'd ultimately decided on sitting back and seeing what happened. Wisely so, it had turned out. Not that their moment of justified suspicion had stopped the end result from being the same.

She released a small sigh, closing her blue optics and leaning her head against the grime-slicked wall. It was confusing to both fear and dream of the day when she would finally be free of this place. Mechs occasionally came and went from the cells, but as far as she knew they were all guards and not potential buyers. Not that it was a huge surprise: Autobot femmes were supposedly quite expensive, and not always affordable to the common mech. In a way it was understandable. The mechs that brought them in wasted a lot of energy and resources tracking the females down, who by no means lived within easy reach of Cybertron. Anyone with half a processor had scattered to the far corners of the galaxy, putting as much distance between themselves and the Decepticons as possible. As far as they knew, to be captured by one of the mech-led parties was to suffer a fate worse than death.

It wasn't a mech that brought me in, though, Synch thought to herself bitterly, a scowl darkening her features.

Strika- the insufferable 'Con who was behind Synch's capture- had initially seemed like such a sweet and sincere femme. Synch's team had found her aimlessly wandering across the deserted plains, and being the kind souls they were they had taken her in without a second thought. What sort of sparkless wench would leave a poor, defenseless femme on her own, after all? Nobody wanted that Energon on their hands or guilt weighing on their sparks. Even Synch had welcomed her with open arms, having almost been thankful for the fellow female company.

As it turned out she wasn't nearly as innocent as they had originally assumed, and had purposely tracked down Synch and her band to the distant planet. Not one of them would have realised, though. She'd had all of them so tightly wrapped around her little finger that they would have traveled all the way to Cybertron just to pick up her favourite Energon, if she had asked. Her elaborate stories, concerning her unfortunate run-ins with Decepticons and "fallen comrades" she'd lost during an attack, merely encouraged sympathy and acceptance on all fronts. Nothing had seemed even remotely hostile or threatening about her.

Perhaps her unusual interest in Synch should have been an immediate giveaway that something wasn't right. That, or the magical disappearance of Topspin a few days after her arrival- the only mech who had openly doubted her presence.

Synch wasn't going to lie; she'd been absolutely flattered by Strika's attention at first. No one else had ever expressed such an unquestionable desire to know all about her, and the oblivious femme had eaten it all up. They'd traded secrets and swapped information (all of it probably false on Strika's part), staying up in the wee hours of the night and always offering to do patrols together. It was the sort of thing Synch imagined normal femmes doing, and for a time she enjoyed it. Strika had a way of making her forget about their hopeless situation and exploit the little things in life, effectively dismantling Synch's common sense within a matter of days. The real Autobot femme had deluded herself into believing she'd finally found someone who understood her, someone she could always rely on.

What an absolute fool she had been.

It took exactly 6 days before Strika's team decided it was time to move in. Synch's fellow Autobots- her friends- had fought valiantly, but were inevitably defeated. All surviving members of their band were hauled back on to the ship as prisoners, with Strika choosing to maintain her "special interest" in Synch during the journey back to Cybertron. The various torturing and taunting she'd suffered had left as many mental scars as it had physical. Her male teammates weren't spared from the fun, either; they'd been specially saved so Synch could witness their execution, which Strika ensured was as excruciating and painful for them as possible. The images of her long-time teammates, being forced to endure things no normal Cybertronian should have to, were burned into her memory.

During on of their "sessions," Synch had once gathered the courage to ask Strika why she did what she did. Why turn the Autobot femmes in, when she was a female herself? (Albeit a Decepticon one, but the point remained.) Strika had merely replied that, if the plan with Autobots didn't work, then the Decepticons would start forcing their own into the same fate. And there was no way in Pit Strika wanted that to happen to her. Imprisoning Auotbot femmes was a welcome sacrifice, in exchange for her own freedom.

"Taking one for the team," Synch quoted her, bitterly so.

A distinctive hissing noise interrupted her reminiscing, a familiar indicator that the doors to the holding cells were opening. For the briefest, most fragile of moments the entire brig was flooded with light, eliciting soft hisses of protest from those who were blinded by it's glare. It had been a long time since any of them had experienced proper lighting- or even seen the light of day, for that matter- excluding these brief intervals that typically marked a changing of guards. Few other Transformer bothered to visit the cells. The rare buyer might stop in every so often, but most femmes found that to be more reason to shrink into the corner and make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

Metal footsteps clicked over the dusty floor, yet nobody made any indication that they were interested in who had entered. How could they be? If they were anything like Synch, they'd have seen enough of the guards' ugly faceplates to last a lifetime. It was the same mechs in and out each day; harassing, abusing, tormenting, over and over again. It was no surprise that the Autobot femmes remained unresponsive, either recharging or blankly staring ahead of themselves, undoubtedly as lost in their thoughts as Synch had been mere moments ago. The Hell Cells contained nothing but defeated spirits, shells that were impassive ghosts of their former selves.

Yet, unlike her fellow prisoners, Synch was the only one who's intrigue was triggered when a new, unfamiliar sound registered in her audio receptors. This constant routine of guards-in-guards-out, the one she had grown so accustomed to, could perhaps account for why she was so surprised when she didn't just hear the echo of marching footsteps, but also the rustling of what seemed to be metallic wings. Her optics darted upwards with open curiosity, settling on the form of a bird-like Transformer to be the source of the noise, positioned at the front of the group of guards. It swooped upwards, landing on one of the support beams that ran horizontally across the ceiling, blazing optics surveying its surroundings.

It wasn't often that someone new entered the Hell Cells.

Synch made absolutely zero effort to hide the fact that she was staring, but it took her a moment to realise that it was unabashedly gazing back at her from its perch, regarding her with a similar sense of curiosity. Even as he tilted his head to the side, she subconsciously followed suit, unintentionally mimicking the bird... much to his apparent amusement. He ruffled his metal feathers, a glint in his optics betraying how entertaining he found the exchange. For a single precious moment, Synch found that she couldn't careless about his faction, and the most vaguest of smiles touched her lips.

"Lazerbeak?" a guard interrupted, capturing his attention and effectively shattering the moment, "This way."

The bird gave a contemptuous snort, spreading its wings and ungracefully taking flight once again. In the blink of an optic, Synch appeared to have been forgotten, yet the bound femme did not let him escape her processor so easily. She continued to silently observe, right up until the doors shut behind them as they entered the next room. Understandably, the bite-sized Decepticon didn't even spare her a second glance.