CHAPTER 07
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"Wakey- wakey, little 'bot."
Bluestreak turned his head towards the voice minutely, his routines booting up sluggishly due to the lack of fuel. His vocalizer turned on first, as per usual. "Hrrrm, yes, 'm awake. Dunno why the frag 'nyone bothers to wake 'm up here, not like 'm on a schedule 'r somethin... Heh, probably no one is 'n this fragged base anyways. 'M pretty sure you just, like, spend the whole day scratching your afts..."
"Hehehe, hello there..."
He couldn't identify the voice. It was a bit high pitched and it was just too bright...in a completely wrong way. "Primus, who the frag goes around making so much noise. I bet Starscream would approve though, most Pit-spawned irritating vocalizer this side of anywhere..." Bluestreak's own voice begun wavering a bit as he started powering down once more.
"Come on little 'bot. Recharge time is over. If you don't stay awake for me, I'm gonna have to keep you awake myself." This was followed by a giggle and something tapping his helm lightly.
Bluestreak on-lined his optics and saw himself. Vortex's visor was so close to his face that almost the only thing he could see were his own optics as they widened in fear. He recoiled violently and hit his head against a wall.
As the copter retreated a few steps, Bluestreak saw he wasn't in the brig anymore. He was in a small cell at the back of a large room. The front half contained a reclinable table with restraint chains and a few gadgets that Bluestreak didn't want to think about. To the right of the table there was a bench in complete disarrayof spare parts and internal circuits and on the left there was a smaller, wheeled table. On top of it, there was a tool-box open, and the already terrified Autobot could see rows of neatly arranged tools inside. They were shaped differently but almost all of them ended in sharp points.
"Finally! I thought you were going to recharge forever," Vortex said, and there was so much glee in his voice Bluestreak could almost see the smile behind the mask. "I could have woken you myself, but I always do love that moment of recognition. You know, when a processor suddenly pops up the designation to match the face." A contented sigh escaped Vortex's vents, punctuated by more tapping to the sniper's head. "I really, really do."
Bluestreak jerked away from the touch as if it had burned and saw that Vortex had left the energy bars deactivated when he entered the cell. The sniper threw himself at the Combaticon, making him stagger with the impact, and tried to make a run for it, but the copter simply laughed heartily and quickly outpaced him, standing in front of the room's exit. Bluestreak froze on the spot and started retreating slowly. He was expecting Vortex to approach him, to try to force him back into the cell, but the interrogator reclined on the door with a nonchalant stance and crossed arms.
Bluestreak retreated enough to put the table between them. "Well, now- now what? Are we going to play the cybercat and glitchmouse game? Because, to be honest, I'm kinda tired. Dunno you, but I've had the worst of on-linings today... you know, being woken up by a psychotic freak and all. Kinda makes you wonder, right? I mean, we all know your own Pit-slagged faction hates you. Even your slagged gestalt mates hate you, and they're every bit as glitched as you are. That's fragging saying something! I wish you lot could look at yourselves when you combine, Bruticus is probably the most underclocked mech in the history of underclocked. You must be thankful they don't regularly perform sentience check ups, or you might be in trouble there. Well, at least you wouldn't be alone. You could take Motormaster with you, and the lack of contrast would help. We could take pictures and all. I bet my buddies back at the Ark- "
After letting the Autobot go on for several kliks, Vortex snorted suddenly and laughed happily. "I have to admit, I now understand why Swindle thought I'd have fun," he said, tapping his left arm distractedly and slowly moving to the right.
Bluestreak's gaze was attracted to the ting-ting-ting noises and he realized the interrogator had been holding a laser scalpel the whole time. He didn't pause his relentless epithet shower for an astrosecond, but as he moved slowly, keeping once again the reclinable table between himself and Vortex, he hunched his helm a tiny fraction.
It had been such a minute movement that most mecha might have missed it, but Vortex hadn't. The smile widened under his mask.
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When Vortex had returned to the Decepticon HQ, he'd noticed that a few mecha glanced at him with something like expectant looks. Soon enough, he had been told about the chattering Autobot being held for interrogation. The Combaticon had been delighted with the prospect of putting his skills to use so soon but hadn't given it much more thought.
As he'd heard Bluestreak's first slurred words when he on-lined, though, he realized what all the fuss had been about.
The sniper was a really entertaining puzzle. The hail of words masked not only the system sounds that most mecha made unconsciously, but also the facial expressions, since he synchronized them with what he was talking about. All the same, Vortex knew the cover wasn't perfect.
That slight dip of the sniper's chin was proof enough.
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Bluestreak saw Vortex circle the table slowly and mirrored the movement in the other direction. Then the copter changed direction and he did as well. The sniper thought they must look quite silly on the security feeds. Every time he started to get slightly close to the exit, Vortex would change his pacing and force him to walk away from it to keep the table between them.
Bluestreak knew Vortex was toying with him but he couldn't do much about it. It was postponing the inevitable and, as shameful as the thought was, he would scrape up every klik of pain-free time he could. He was scared to the bolts by what the copter would do to him if Bluestreak stopped playing his games, and if all that was required was to walk five paces left and right, it was perfectly fine with him.
All the while, the Combaticon kept on giggling. At first Bluestreak thought the sadistic mech was simply crazy, or even that he was enjoying the bizarre game they were sharing, but suddenly the copter added a couple of words to a comment Bluestreak made on Brawl's hygiene, and the Autobot realized that Vortex was actually listening to him.
Vortex laughed at the right parts and sometimes even added his two cents to the monologue. He nodded and made all the little noises a mech does when he is following a conversation.
Since he'd first arrived at the Decepticon base Bluestreak hadn't had one single mech actually listen to the words he said (except perhaps Soundwave, but he had no way to know). The thought that the interrogator actually did disturbed him greatly. He wasn't even sure why.
Suddenly Vortex stopped and pressed both hands to the table surface, looking at the sniper intently. "I have a question for you."
"You have a question for me. As in, you are actually going to ask nicely what you want. I am humbled by your interrogation skills, Mr. Fragged-up-in-the-helm. I see how that must have earned you the strategic plans of the entire Autobot army, because really, what mech could resist such outstanding technique. You know what, I'm betting you could actually teach this to Soundwave and he'd have every communication satellite under his control. He could call it the "I'll ping you politely" hack. All he has to do is send a request and instant access! You could also use it for-"
Vortex chuckled good-naturedly, "Ok, ok, let's forget about that for the time being. I was just wondering, why do you talk? Because, when someone talks they want to say something or have their opinion heard regarding something, but you don't really like to be heard."
Suddenly, Vortex moved at a blinding speed around the table and caught Bluestreak's handcuffs before he could retreat. The sniper kicked him hard, but his systems were too underpowered to put up any real fight. The copter hit the back of Bluestreak's knees, making the sniper buckle, and proceeded to monologue on his own while he dragged the struggling Autobot to the reclinable table.
"Even so, if it was just the noise, you could also play music or make noises that would leave your vocalizer free to talk as well, but that is not the case. You deliberately like to speak all the time without pause, even when you are talking to no one- I've been browsing security tapes- so really, the only thing I can think of is that you talk just for the sake of talking. But the thing is, no one does anything just for the sake of doing it."
He slammed the battered mech onto the flat surface and fastened the cuffs that held his hands to the head of the table. After that, he fixed the helm looking forward with a thin strip of metallic mesh across his forehead.
"There is a reason for everything a mech does, be it self-gratification, orders, or a number of other things. The importance they have is assigned by every mech, and no two are the same. It is really interesting once you think about it."
When Bluestreak's helm was properly secured, Vortex slipped a hand between the sniper's neck cables and the table, dipping his fingers inside the seam where the base of the helm met the neck struts. For a brief tank-churning moment, Bluestreak thought that the interrogator was caressing his internal cables, but soon he heard a small click, and the hand went away. He saw out of the corner of his optic as Vortex let a tiny metallic object fall on the side table, and he hoped with a shudder that whatever the copter had taken from him was replaceable.
"I love my job, and I'm reeeeally good at it, hehehe. I have opened up more mecha with my words than with this scalpel, though- and that is something, because, let me tell, you this is my second favourite blade, I have my designation carved on it and everything. But back to the point. What I mean is, I know the ins and out of a mech's processor really well, and I can see that talking is what keeps your pedes on the ground...what keeps you sane."
The Combaticon proceeded to tie the still-kicking legs to a couple of restraints at the foot of the table, and also secured his midsection and elbows with more bonds.
"Now, back to the real question: why would a mech duck their head?"
The sniper stared at him in confusion trying to follow the crazed topic changes and battling panic at the same time.
"I think that there are a lot of reasons why a mech would dip their chin, but let's put the question in context, right? I could pretend we are not talking about you, but that would be stupid, so let's cut the slag and say, 'why did you just duck your head when I showed you my very pretty blade?' Why does the mech that needs to be talking even when he is alone, look at a tiny laser scalpel and hunch?"
When the Autobot was properly secured on the table, Vortex touched something underneath it and the surface started rising, almost to a vertical position. He then turned his back on the Autobot and began fumbling inside the toolbox on the smaller table.
"Well, in my expertise, when mecha are threatened, they tend to protect what's most valuable to them. So I say to myself, 'I think I'm finally seeing a pattern here! Isn't your vocalizer right there? Could it be that your most important thing IS talking, after all?' Also, you know what else I noticed? I realized that you only stop talking when someone is talking to you. But not anyone, just someone you are paying attention to, someone whose words are important enough that you feel the need to focus your entire attention on them. I am glad I have your attention, little 'bot."
Bluestreak was still as a statue, his fans working hard with fear. As the last words registered, he realized he had effectively shut up a while ago, and his ventilation roared even more. Even so, he knew that as close to the truth as the sadistic copter might have been, appearing weak would make things even worse, so he just stumbled back to his chatter, mocking Vortex on his explanations.
The copter smiled behind his mask at the brief silence. He finally decided on a pair of long tweezers and approached the talking mech.
"I see you are still in high spirits, so why don't we play a game, hmm? This is how it goes: As long as you shut up, you are safe. I won't harm you, and you'll get to walk out of here with all your bolts in place," he said and retracted his facial mask, making Bluestreak jump in his plating. Vortex smiled brightly at the trembling mech. "If you talk, though, I'll rip the blades from your helm fans one by one. Just like this."
The copter then proceeded to unlatch the right side of Bluestreak's helm carefully, exposing part of the Autobot's internal audio arrays and the aforementioned fan. He stopped the whirring blades with the tip of a finger and then used the tweezers to twist one of the vanes slowly up and down until it broke with a snap. Bluestreak howled in pain but didn't dare thrash in his restraints, fearful that with Vortex's hands this close to his exposed circuitry, something might get damaged from the movement alone.
"You know what the funny thing is? Your helm won't overheat even when the fans stop working, because it has alternative cooling irrigation, but those fans only cool one other system. You know which one it is? Hehehe, that's right, your vocalizer! You do use yours a lot, so I'm pretty sure you need quite a lot of ventilation to keep it from melting," Vortex said conversationally, and he laughed heartily, taking a step back to look Bluestreak directly in the optics.
"I know what you are gonna say. 'It's a one-outcome-only situation, Vortex, where is the fun in that?' Well, to make things more interesting for me, while you concentrate on the very easy task of not making a single sound, I'm gonna take a dive in your processor and see what's going on in there," the interrogator said, as he twirled a data cable between his fingers.
Bluestreak was beyond panic at this point, but even so he couldn't help himself, "You- you, fragging, Unicron-spawned waste-product of an Insecticon. If you think I'm gonna just go along with your- your stupid games, I'm-"
Vortex's laughter echoed in the small room. "Primus, you really like the sound of your own voice," the copter said, and he slipped out of Bluestreak's optic range. The sniper tried to brace for the pain, but he couldn't prevent the scream that escaped his mouth. Vortex returned to look at him silently once more, a playful smile in his lips.
Four more times Bluestreak couldn't stop his vocalizer from bursting in curses.
After the last severed vane fell with a tink to the floor, Bluestreak pressed his lips together hard to keep the words inside. The Combaticon's frame came into view once more, and Bluestreak off-lined his eyes asthe psychopath connected the data cable to his own port. The sniper waited silently with spluttering fans and jerked in surprise as the back of a hand stroked his cheek lightly.
"Very good, little 'bot. You are learning," the copter said with horrible gentleness, and the sniper heard a soft chuckle as the cable was plugged into one of his ports.
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Over the vorns, Vortex had learned that in his trade, in spite of what most mecha thought, blunt violence alone didn't usually work. Granted, when the interrogated were soldiers, a good dose of roughing up was in order before he actually got to the more subtle parts of his art. Civilians were far easier- they were already so terrified they just loved to cooperate -but military mecha were generally tougher. All the same, whatever battering went on was merely to facilitate the questioning process.
A worn and injured mech had to constantly split his attention between what is going on around him and what is going on inside him. Once they reach a certain level of compromise, damaged internal systems start pinging their owners constantly with errors and status reports. Dents and other external minor injuries also demanded space in the auto-repair priority queue that were otherwise engaged in more important matters (like severed fuel lines, for example). Unless they were really extreme, these matters didn't hamper a mech's processing power much, given most ran as autonomics, but they nagged. They translated as little voices in the back of their helms, assuring their hosts that things were just not cool, thankyouverymuch.
That distraction was what Vortex was looking for. The more scattered a mech's attention was, the more difficulty it had masking his reactions and defending him. That unnoticed honesty was what Vortex used to wrench open a mind, because, in the long run, interrogation was not about making a prisoner squeal the security codes to his ship's mainframe. Interrogation was all about priorities.
A good interrogator didn't just find out what buttons to push to get what he needed- he found out which was THE button. The single one that got him all the answers, all the open doors, and turned competent, war-hardened soldiers into quivering heaps of glass.
An interrogator's job was actually investigation: all there was to it was finding out the top priority for each subject. It could be closely competing with a bunch of other high-priority notions, but there was always something that an individual cherished most above everything else.
Given that Cybertronian processors are extremely complex sentient systems, no one event could exist isolated from the rest. Even though there was a priority queue, every process was the center of a cluster of related events.
For example, take a mech who valued his bonded mate above everything else. The importance assigned to other values such as honour, loyalty to his superiors, care for himself, etc. might be extremely high, but if pressed enough, all other values buckled to keep that one important thing intact. To what extent a mech could do this without breaking varied greatly, but in the end, if his bonded was truly his first priority, he would betray all he believed in and tell himself it had to be done. Because every mech had one thing that could not be compromised, and that implied he could compromise everything else.
It all worked just like the concentric rings of a spider-drone's web: the center could move all threads, but each thread in turn reached towards the center. The more important the focal point, the bigger the web was, and the longer the threads would reach. The process with the highest priority connected to all of the other processes, and really, that was what it was all about, right?
A button-push to get all the answers. A web that encompassed all threads. Something that if gripped tightly and shaken would pull everything along with it.
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Bluestreak tried not to scream when the synch-up sequences finished installing. His processor tried to fight the data stream pouring from the port directly, but it was useless. The pain that pulsed in his helm, his low fuel level, and desperate fear had left him extremely feeble. Vortex was bludgeoning his way through his external firewalls with ease.
At some point, all Autobots soldiers had gone through preemptive 'coercive hard-line connection' drills, as Prowl had called them. They had been thoroughly awful. Even though Bluestreak had known the hacking wasn't real- that it was actually a friend masked as an invader- it hadn't made any difference.
All the same, and even though he had finished his sessions with a faint sick feeling, he had managed to internalized a good number of basic defensive tactics (which had been the point of the whole thing).
While Vortex worked on his secondary firewalls, the sniper started to frantically compartmentalize his systems, preparing for the invasion. He interlaced the data adjacent to Vortex's entry point with lines of junk-code and scrambled his memory logs as much as he could. It would give Bluestreak a horrible processor-ache next time he attempted to defrag, but he assumed he would deal with that later... if he had a core left to defrag once this was over. After pushing as many recent memory-file copies into his cache as he could to muddle the copter's advances even more, he hid in a corner of his own mind, writing line after line of firewall-reinforcing code.
Bluestreak knew it was not enough. This was not his battle-field, and for all his aim was worth, he didn't have Prowl's processor power to counter the attacks with massive firewalls, nor Jazz's ability to distract hackers in endless loops while he pointed and laughed.
As mild as his personality was, he was a mech that only knew attack, all bullets flying from afar and relentlessly thrown insulting words. More important than developing defensive skills, he had always trusted in his ability to resist- to just take the blows until it was over. But he had no weapons inside his mind, or at least none that he could use efficiently enough against the interrogator.
Once all his firewalls were down, he knew what Vortex would see beneath his words: a terrified creature, that barked and puffed its chest, in hopes that others would see endurance instead of defenselessness.
And he knew Vortex would swallow him whole.
The despairing sharpshooter felt his second row of firewalls crumble. He could do nothing but shiver as the interrogator found his way across the seas of junk data Bluestreak had planted in his own mind.
The interrogator's consciousness was sharp, and he browsed through his in-cache memories with practiced dexterity, as if he was just deciding on something to read from a bunch of recreational datapads, while he wormed his way ever closer to Bluestreak's core. A few times, Bluestreak noticed the copter selecting a given file and uploading it to his own frame, presumably for further analysis. Bluestreak knew he had almost no information of use to the Decepticon cause. What little he had, he had stashed far away from the copter, but he felt sick at the realization that he might be feeding Vortex information to make future interrogations easier. Personal data regarding his comrades and dear ones. More tools for Vortex to hurt them.
He was startled when he heard a voice through his long forgotten internal comm.
.:I thought I'd be hearing you chatter non-stop in here.:. said Vortex.
Bluestreak didn't answer and tried to block himself from the audio feed, but the hard-line forced the connection open. Through the cable he was receiving more than just words, and he realized with absolute disgust that the copter found his despair endearing.
.:How come you are so quiet? What happened to all that brave-mech talk from before?.:.
.:Go away, fragger.:. was all Bluestreak said. As an insult, it was a bit lame, but he had more pressing issues at the moment to deal with. He was still writing line after line of code to strengthen his innermost firewalls and fighting panic with all he had.
.:Hmmmm, no... I don't think I'll go away just yet. You are quite fascinating up close. There's something very different about you in here and you out there. What are you hiding, hmm?:. Vortex's curious voice was becoming darker and more threatening as he spoke. .:You might as well show me yourself, little 'bot, because I'm a klik and a half away from your core-files anyway. There is a lot of stuff in there I'm pretty sure you don't really need to remain functional.:.
Along with his words, Vortex sent through the link media files of previous victims and, as much as he tried, Bluestreak couldn't stop the assault. There were hundreds of images of unfocused optics and slacked jaws, drooling oral fluid down their chests. Bluestreak heard cropped files of interrogation sessions, were mecha gurgled with staticky voices, incoherent answers. They all looked like drones- worse -like mecha reprogrammed by an incompetent medic.
The horrified Autobot felt as if his chips were crumpling in fear. He was so terrified he couldn't even work on the firewalls anymore, and Vortex still kept on advancing.
.:What do you think, hmm? I could erase a few lines of code here and there- I bet your personality component won't miss them much. But I'll tell you what... if you are a good little 'bot and show me around yourself, I won't have to go through the trouble of cutting my own path through your chips. I could leave your processor intact enough that you're not left a drooling idiot. That would be nicer, wouldn't it? To be able to still answer when asked... enough of a processor to think up the words you need.:. More flashes of expressionless face-plates and mangled minds mixed with the words.
On Vortex's workstation, Bluestreak's ventilation gasped and hiccuped with sobs.
Being left like that, an underclocked, imbecilic mess of a mech with a broken processor... It was just too horrible to contemplate. He simply couldn't let it happen. Perhaps if he gave up, then at least-
The sniper's desperate thoughts were interrupted by the loud blare of a siren. His optics on-lined painfully fast, almost white with brightness, and he cried out, startled.
Vortex looked to the door and unplugged himself from the cable. He returned his visor to the shaking mecha and leaned close, speaking directly into his audio. "I'll be back to continue our chat really soon, little 'bot. I'm looking forward to hearing what you have to say." With that, Vortex got up and exited the room.
Bluestreak felt a wave of relief wash over him, even if it just meant stalling the unavoidable for only one more klik. Exhaustion drove him to recharge without him even realizing it.
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