Prompt #5: Strangled by the Line
Warnings: Mentions of Bad Things being done in the past and then the death sentence
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own and never will own.
Prompt: Prompt #5 (Beginning: He'd thought it was just a bad dream...)
Summary: He wasn't sure he could guess what they'd do in a situation like this. The soft thing or the right thing.
Time: 1.32
He’d thought it was just a bad dream, years ago. He remembered it well enough, jerking online, clawing at the air in front of him, everything dark in his quarters except for the rasping of his vents and the hum and purr of his systems, optic light casting blue shadows on his face.
He’d thought it was just a bad dream.
And now they were telling him it wasn’t.
He sat hunched over in the Prime’s office, fingers clacking against his palms as he fisted his hands and released them, rhythmically, a trick he’d taught himself a long time ago and then had to forget.
Across from him, sitting at his desk, the Prime watched, his own hands fisted on the flat surface, over a collection of datapads. He looked sad, regretful, but ultimately resigned. Instinctively, Punch catalogued each flicker of emotion, his optics fixed on Prime’s face.
His hands fisted again, once, and then relaxed.
“I…want you to understand that we do not blame you for this-” Prime began, and though his words were slow there was no hesitation in them, and so Punch tuned him out. He would, of course, be listening. His body and processor designed to gather information even without his consent, filing it away to be reviewed later, but he didn’t have to think about it now. Command had already made their decision; nothing Punch did or said now would change that.
He’d thought it was a dream.
The technology used to recreate you was experimental, at best…
Punch might have dropped his head into his hands, but he didn’t. He was too well-trained for that.
You didn’t show weakness in the Decepticons. You didn’t let them know they’d made you hurt, it didn’t matter if you had energon splashing all down your front, so injured you could barely stand. You didn’t show weakness.
It was training that had served him well for the entire duration of the war, and it was serving him now.
Tighten, tighten, tighten…relax.
“Punch,” Prime started, tone heavy but with a sudden purpose that drew Punch’s attention back to him. “I wanted to ask you what you thought of all this.”
For a moment, Punch remembered why the Decepticons - why he, even, as Counterpunch - hated Prime so much. Respected him, yes, but there was hate, too.
The sort so personal it couldn’t be faked.
“You wanted to know if I thought I had it under conrol, since it happened so long ago. If something maybe set it off,” Punch said, dispassionately, drawing himself up as they finally drew to the base of the matter.
Prime didn’t hesitate, but he paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
Punch felt what Counterpunch would have done, just under his armor plating, growling curses like ghosts against the back of his vocalizer. “No,” he said instead, and knew he was telling to truth.
The silence stretched out longer this time, which gave Punch a twisted sense of pride along with a sting of regret that he’d managed to make his leader look as crushed as that. “…You’re certain? You know what will happen, if this is true-”
“Yes.”
Being interrupted obviously didn’t happen often to the Prime, but Punch didn’t react either way, to smile to himself in triumph or wince in apology. And he said nothing.
“I see,” Prime said, lowering his head slightly, and Punch realized it was as close to grieving as he had - or ever would again - see Optimus Prime. Some part of him sang with disapproval. It was a weakness the leader of the Autobots, who stood face-to-face with Megatron, should have known better than to show. It didn’t last for long, however, and Prime drew himself up once again, ever he commander. “There will be a hearing in three cycles, Punch, which you will attend. The verdict on your case will then be decided…do you understand?”
Punch stood at the clear dismissal, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
They didn’t need to have a meeting, he thought to himself. His punishment had already been decided when they’d discovered the real nature of that incident years ago.
Though, truthfully, whether it would be by permanent stasis or death was something he would have to ponder. Punch hadn’t been an Autobot in a long time, really. He wasn’t sure he could guess what they would do in a situation like this. The soft thing or the right thing.
Prime watched him sadly, and part of Punch railed at that. It’s your decision you self-righteous glitch! At least have the decency to stand by it!
The door opened, and the security mechs Punch knew by name and reputation and not much else filed in to collect him. Punch didn’t resist, quiet and passive as he’d always been, even when they’d argued with their own Prime for wanting to speak with Punch alone and unchained, even when they’d jostled him about and slammed him down in his chair and removied his cuffs with a certain roughness that stemmed from worry.
Punch supposed he couldn’t blame them. They didn’t know him either.
Three cycles wasn’t a long time when he thought of it in terms of the rest of his life, Punch thought. He wondered what he’d do as he waited, whether he’d attempt to escape back to the Decepticons or if he’d be content to simply prepare for whatever it is they decided to do with him. He wasn’t sure.
Counterpunch would have been, but Counterpunch was a Decepticon. Survival was what mattered. Whatever means necessary, and all that.
Punch let himself be led away, back to the quarters they called his but that he’d barely spent any time in at all. There was still dust on the berth, if he remembered correctly, and it was missing his little collection of glass shards he’d kept tucked in hidden compartments in the walls so tricksters and malicious friends couldn’t find them. He wondered what would happen to them when the Decepticons went through his rooms.
Caught up in his thoughts, he might have failed to notice when Prime spoke, but he hadn’t survived so long in the Decepticons by forgetting there was always going to be someone with a knife waiting for an opportunity at his back should he ever waver, and so he heard it even when the others around him didn’t seem to, just before the door shut behind them all.
“I’m sorry.”
Punch let his hands flex again, scraping against the cuffs that were bound too tight against his wrists. In his head, Counterpunch’s words threatened to become Punch’s, threatened to be released in a rapid flow of curses and threats and accusations, all probably valid, at least from the view of a Decepticon. All full of hatred.
Bu they didn’t, and Punch allowed himself to be admitted into his room, to decide what to do. And to think. He wondered if Jazz would come.
He’d know what Punch meant, maybe, if Punch decided to trust him. To tell him.
He’d thought it was just a dream.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own and never will own.
Prompt: Prompt #5 (Beginning: He'd thought it was just a bad dream...)
Summary: He wasn't sure he could guess what they'd do in a situation like this. The soft thing or the right thing.
Time: 1.32
He’d thought it was just a bad dream, years ago. He remembered it well enough, jerking online, clawing at the air in front of him, everything dark in his quarters except for the rasping of his vents and the hum and purr of his systems, optic light casting blue shadows on his face.
He’d thought it was just a bad dream.
And now they were telling him it wasn’t.
He sat hunched over in the Prime’s office, fingers clacking against his palms as he fisted his hands and released them, rhythmically, a trick he’d taught himself a long time ago and then had to forget.
Across from him, sitting at his desk, the Prime watched, his own hands fisted on the flat surface, over a collection of datapads. He looked sad, regretful, but ultimately resigned. Instinctively, Punch catalogued each flicker of emotion, his optics fixed on Prime’s face.
His hands fisted again, once, and then relaxed.
“I…want you to understand that we do not blame you for this-” Prime began, and though his words were slow there was no hesitation in them, and so Punch tuned him out. He would, of course, be listening. His body and processor designed to gather information even without his consent, filing it away to be reviewed later, but he didn’t have to think about it now. Command had already made their decision; nothing Punch did or said now would change that.
He’d thought it was a dream.
The technology used to recreate you was experimental, at best…
Punch might have dropped his head into his hands, but he didn’t. He was too well-trained for that.
You didn’t show weakness in the Decepticons. You didn’t let them know they’d made you hurt, it didn’t matter if you had energon splashing all down your front, so injured you could barely stand. You didn’t show weakness.
It was training that had served him well for the entire duration of the war, and it was serving him now.
Tighten, tighten, tighten…relax.
“Punch,” Prime started, tone heavy but with a sudden purpose that drew Punch’s attention back to him. “I wanted to ask you what you thought of all this.”
For a moment, Punch remembered why the Decepticons - why he, even, as Counterpunch - hated Prime so much. Respected him, yes, but there was hate, too.
The sort so personal it couldn’t be faked.
“You wanted to know if I thought I had it under conrol, since it happened so long ago. If something maybe set it off,” Punch said, dispassionately, drawing himself up as they finally drew to the base of the matter.
Prime didn’t hesitate, but he paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
Punch felt what Counterpunch would have done, just under his armor plating, growling curses like ghosts against the back of his vocalizer. “No,” he said instead, and knew he was telling to truth.
The silence stretched out longer this time, which gave Punch a twisted sense of pride along with a sting of regret that he’d managed to make his leader look as crushed as that. “…You’re certain? You know what will happen, if this is true-”
“Yes.”
Being interrupted obviously didn’t happen often to the Prime, but Punch didn’t react either way, to smile to himself in triumph or wince in apology. And he said nothing.
“I see,” Prime said, lowering his head slightly, and Punch realized it was as close to grieving as he had - or ever would again - see Optimus Prime. Some part of him sang with disapproval. It was a weakness the leader of the Autobots, who stood face-to-face with Megatron, should have known better than to show. It didn’t last for long, however, and Prime drew himself up once again, ever he commander. “There will be a hearing in three cycles, Punch, which you will attend. The verdict on your case will then be decided…do you understand?”
Punch stood at the clear dismissal, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
They didn’t need to have a meeting, he thought to himself. His punishment had already been decided when they’d discovered the real nature of that incident years ago.
Though, truthfully, whether it would be by permanent stasis or death was something he would have to ponder. Punch hadn’t been an Autobot in a long time, really. He wasn’t sure he could guess what they would do in a situation like this. The soft thing or the right thing.
Prime watched him sadly, and part of Punch railed at that. It’s your decision you self-righteous glitch! At least have the decency to stand by it!
The door opened, and the security mechs Punch knew by name and reputation and not much else filed in to collect him. Punch didn’t resist, quiet and passive as he’d always been, even when they’d argued with their own Prime for wanting to speak with Punch alone and unchained, even when they’d jostled him about and slammed him down in his chair and removied his cuffs with a certain roughness that stemmed from worry.
Punch supposed he couldn’t blame them. They didn’t know him either.
Three cycles wasn’t a long time when he thought of it in terms of the rest of his life, Punch thought. He wondered what he’d do as he waited, whether he’d attempt to escape back to the Decepticons or if he’d be content to simply prepare for whatever it is they decided to do with him. He wasn’t sure.
Counterpunch would have been, but Counterpunch was a Decepticon. Survival was what mattered. Whatever means necessary, and all that.
Punch let himself be led away, back to the quarters they called his but that he’d barely spent any time in at all. There was still dust on the berth, if he remembered correctly, and it was missing his little collection of glass shards he’d kept tucked in hidden compartments in the walls so tricksters and malicious friends couldn’t find them. He wondered what would happen to them when the Decepticons went through his rooms.
Caught up in his thoughts, he might have failed to notice when Prime spoke, but he hadn’t survived so long in the Decepticons by forgetting there was always going to be someone with a knife waiting for an opportunity at his back should he ever waver, and so he heard it even when the others around him didn’t seem to, just before the door shut behind them all.
“I’m sorry.”
Punch let his hands flex again, scraping against the cuffs that were bound too tight against his wrists. In his head, Counterpunch’s words threatened to become Punch’s, threatened to be released in a rapid flow of curses and threats and accusations, all probably valid, at least from the view of a Decepticon. All full of hatred.
Bu they didn’t, and Punch allowed himself to be admitted into his room, to decide what to do. And to think. He wondered if Jazz would come.
He’d know what Punch meant, maybe, if Punch decided to trust him. To tell him.
He’d thought it was just a dream.