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Southern Wing – Cell Block M

The smug smirk on Spree’s face shifted into something much more sinister. This ‘Con was persistent. Spree hated persistence; especially in a prisoner. They were supposed to be drooling, broken masses that do nothing more than rock perpetually in the back of their cells mumbling gibberish. But this one, this ‘Con seemed to think he would be rescued…that he, and his comrades…would be whisked away and transported to some kind of Decepticon Shangri-La. Spree was not having that.

“I think you should really reevaluate your thought processes. You’ve been here for thousands of vorns and no one’s bothered to come for you in all that time.” After a short pause, the guard placed his shoulder against the door and leaned in, crossing one ankle joint over the other.

Spree began tapping the tips of his actuators on the surface of the door, each one hitting in precise succession. “You know your behavior hasn’t been very befitting of an inmate who should be, at the very least, trying to become a productive member of his race.” Spree tisked while pushing his shoulder off the door and took a peek in the cell. “I’ve been given permission to transport any inmates to the “The Hole”…you know, solitary?…if I think they’re just not behaving.”

There was silence for half a breem before a swift kick to the door sent a piercing clang through the cell block. “And you have not been behaving AT ALL! Get your sorry aft up! I’m gonna stick you so far down in that dark, desolate pit you’ll be begging me to offline you!” The fury in the guard’s voice simmered a bit as he continued provoking Wildfly. “I think you’ll like it down there. No one and I mean no one can hear you. Nothing but silence. Well, unless you don’t count the voices in your head. I think it’d do you some good.”

Southern Wing – Cell Block G

Airachnid almost laughed at his reaction. It could have been more entertaining only if he had flung the chair or himself at the bars of his cell in anger and frustration. He was the epitome of a ‘mad’ scientist. He possessed fantastic ideas only he truly appreciated and was being kept down by the common, less intelligent fools who feared and misunderstood him. He should prove to be ample entertainment until she could make the move for her freedom.

The Decepticon shrugged her shoulders at Flame. “You see nothing wrong with what you did, and perhaps I don’t. Your Autobot brethren on the other hand likely had some moral and ethical objections to some of that work. Perhaps you never read the ‘Autobot code’ that some of your kind hold so dear? I can’t say I’ve ever read it myself, but some certain ‘selections’ were read to me upon my imprisonment here. Surely an intellect such as yours didn’t skip over reading such an important document to your side? Or that you misread how your fellow Autobots would react to your actions?”

The femme paused, lifting a hand and her to her face and tapping her lips with her index digit. “Did you ever consider working for the Decepticons? Your methods certainly seem more in line with their thinking. None of the ‘crimes’ you listed would so much as bat an eye among their ranks. If you did have a solution for ending the war like you say then you could have found a prominent spot, maybe even at the side of Megatron, should you be able to end the war.”

She dropped her hand down to her lap and smiled at him. “Of course that does assume that you can do what you promise. Maybe the Autobots dumped you here because you failed in your efforts? I have to say if that were the case and you joined the Decepticons, well, you wouldn’t find yourself in such lavish accommodations such as these.” She stretched her arms out, gesturing at the prison around them. “At the very best you’d find yourself in Styx, which makes this look like a pleasure planet.” Her smile widened as she continued. “Or you might find yourself judged by the Decepticon Justice Division, or perhaps Megatron himself would get his hands on you. Then the question is really how long would you want to leave under that kind of pain and torment?”

Southern Wing – Cell Block M

Revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge.

Nothing else occupied Wildfly's core processor. No other thoughts were permitted entry, and that singular thought was barred from leaving. It had the whole place to itself and intended to settle in for a long while.

Wildfly took a moment to calm himself, despite feeling an irresistible urge to lose it. Then again, he'd felt that urge ever since Spree had stopped by his cell to “give” him his energon ration. But to his credit, Wildfly had applied self-restraint and remained relatively composed.

Well, not really. He sort of did let his fury get the better of him. And he might have attacked his cell door as if it were a substitute for Spree. And perhaps he did threaten to kill the guard in many ways, each one more horrendous than the last.

All right. Okay. So he hadn't kept his cool. But at least he wasn't dancing over Spree's shattered corpse, cackling like a madmech.

All right. All right. Okay. So being locked in a cell for the vast majority of the solar cycle dashed even the slightest hope of slaying the guard. But at least he wasn't dancing over Spree's shattered corpse, cackling like a madmech.

Spree tisked while pushing his shoulder off the door and took a peek in the cell. “I’ve been given permission to transport any inmates to the “The Hole”…you know, solitary?…if I think they’re just not behaving.

“And you have not been behaving AT ALL! Get your sorry aft up! I’m gonna stick you so far down in that dark, desolate pit you’ll be begging me to offline you!”

Yet.

Silence robbed Wildfly of words. Where a reply should have been forthcoming, almost instant, hardly a sound was emitted from his vocaliser. That this idiot was about to enter his cell and transfer him to solitary confinement meant glorious revenge would be exacted. Revenge! Revenge!

“Come on in, then, friend,” Wildfly said with no small amount of delight. “Take me away to The Hole. If you have the ball bearings to do it, that is.”

Spree walks in. Wildfly clocks him one. Spree stumbles. Wildfly proceeds to tear him to pieces. The idiot dies. Wildfly punches the air in triumph. Celebrations begin. Severe consequences can be considered later.

A brilliant plan. A superb plan. The ultimate plan.

And maybe while he was at it, he could free his fellow team-mates from their cells. Yes, yes. That would be rather clever of him to do so. Have all the Monstercons roaming the penitentiary at their leisure, inciting maximum chaos and destruction, massacring everyone unfortunate enough to be ensnared within their sights.

Except for their fellow prisoners. Apart from a couple, they were a decent bunch.

Revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge.

Southern Wing - Cell Block B

Umbra heard Scowl's move being tapped out and moved his piece accordingly. This was rather relaxing. Playing this game. She would've never imagined in a million orns that she would be where she was now. What a world. The universe had a pretty...weird sense of humor. Umbra plotted her next move while listening to Icepick's response to her endless tirade of questions.

Umbra understood the allure of power. Everyone did whether they admitted it to themselves or not. For herself, Umbra would have liked some more control over how things went in the past. A little more power over her own situation. Not that it really mattered now. What was done, was done, and nothing would ever change her mistakes. Umbra let out a little sigh.

"I can understand why you joined up. A good mech to inspire you. The power and control. The Autobots definitely had inspiration in spades. And moral authority too, I suppose."

Umbra thought briefly on the war. It was strange to think of it from the outside. She supposed this is how she would've thought if she had managed to remain neutral. Of course, the time came when one had to choose a side, and neutrality was no longer an option if you were to remain alive or remain on Cybertron. If she'd joined the Decepticons, perhaps some of her mistakes could have been avoided entirely...

The reconnaissance agent had to smile when Icepick mentioned that he wouldn't be ripping anyone limb from limb.

"Oh, I have no doubts. Heh, this is the first time in a long time that I've had a chance to talk to someone like this. Like a friend."

Turning her attention to the game board again, Umbra took a moment to figure out how to tap out her move. She'd thought of it as she and Icepick had conversed. Scowl was being adventurous so would she. She tapped out her move to Scowl carefully so as not to accidentally move a different piece than she intended.

'Omega Sentinel to C-6.'

-----

Cell Block H

Examining his latest work, Slog stood at the centre of his diminutive cell. The monstercon felt at home in the solidarity of his cell. The press of the crowd tended to be rather oppressive out in the yard. However, the activity period had been decidedly eventful. Seldom did one see such a gratuitous display of violence in Garrus-9. As macabre as it was, the image was impressed clearly on Slog's processor, every detail crisp and livid. It set his artistic muse ablaze.

Fortunately for Slog, he had managed to forage and gather some new raw materials for his paints during the lull before the excitement had begun. Sitting on the edge of his cot as he crushed the raw material between two digits, Slog mixed the materials into the paste that would serve as the primary medium for the piece.

Slog enjoyed the simple task, one of the few small pleasures that was allowed to him. Other than talking to some of his fellow monstercons, art, and anything associated with it, there were very few things that took up the vorns that seemed to stretch into eternity. Briefly, Slog wondered which of them he would see at the next activity period.

Slog glanced around for a place to compose his latest work. Practically every available surface was covered in Slog's compositions: paintings, sculptures, murals - whatever would fit, wherever it fit. Oftentimes, Slog was forced to paint over one of his more dilapidated works. Such was the case now.

A section of the wall held a painting that had almost eroded entirely. The mural depicted the original thirteen primes. It was strange for a Decepticon to depict the primes in such a way; Slog knew. Of course, the image had eroded to the point where its original subjects were unrecognizable to all except the artist himself.

Slog scrapped away the old material bit by bit, saddened by the loss of the piece. Such a loss could not be helped given the materials that he had to work with, but it was a blow to him regardless. Once the old painting had been cleared away with greatest care and tenderness, Slog dipped his digit into the earthen paste and began his new piece with light, delicate strokes, immediately gripped by the fervor of his fiery muse and intense laser-like focus.

Elba Mines

Steelhand's smile had completely returned when Copperhead instructed the senior guard where he was to work. He spun his pickaxe in his hands with enthusiasm as he could hear the familiar clink of tools hitting the surrounding rocks.

"You don't need to worry about that.", he happily replied before heading down to the shaft where he'd been instructed.

Steelhand took in a deep intake as he savoured the sounds and sights of the mines. It was like he was back home again, no war, no prison. Walking down the shaft he walked past several other miners hard at work until he found an open area at the end of the shaft for him to work. The walls were still glittering, a sight Steelhand felt he would never tire of.

"This looks like as good a spot as any.", he said to himself.

He set his pickaxe down for a moment and rubbed his hands together, then took a firm grip of his mining tool. With great anticipation he pulled his pickaxe back, then swung it at the wall with all of his great strength. The head of the axe hit the rockface with a loud clanking noise, as a good sized chunk of minerals shattered from the wall. Steelhand couldn't help but give a hardy laugh.

"This ain't no dream.", he chuckled, "I'm finally back home!"

Once the initial joy had settled in, Steelhand swung his pickaxe at the wall again, and again, and again. It wasn't too long before the guard had gotten into a solid, almost musical rhythm, his pickaxe hitting the wall at a regular pace, chunks of glittering rock flying off with each clink and clank. As Steelhand kept going, he started to remember a song he and the other miners used to sing as they worked.

"Diggin' and pushin' 'til the end of day, workin' for the mech down Iacon way.", he sang to himself, keeping with the rhythm of his pickaxe, "My servos are achin' and my tank is low, but deeper and deeper and deeper we go."


Rung's Office

Though initially relieved when Fort Max said nothing to him, deep down Armor Aid couldn't help but feel disheartened. Though he hated being reminded of his constant failures, getting little to no feedback from his superiors felt even worse. He couldn't help but wonder if the warden had simply given up on him.

Maybe he's just accepted that anyone who get's hurt will die while I'm here. Maybe I really am just here as an executioner.

Before the acting CMO could dwell on that thought, Rung led the gigantic mech out the door, leaving the just the two of them. The psychoanalyst wasted no time to get right to Armor Aid, offering the acting CMO a seat. Rung sat down first,

"All right, I'll sit.", he sighed as he sat down, "But I don't want to get too comfortable. If there's an emergency I'll need to get out of here right away. Of course, maybe they'll stand a better chance of survival if the medical drones take care of it."

When Rung mentioned that they would be recorded, Armor Aid's optics widened. He didn't worry so much about Rung reviewing their talks, or even the oft chance that this session would make it's way to any of his superiors. It was the thought of anyone who wasn't supposed to listen getting ahold of this recording. His optics scanned around the room as he wondered where the recording device was, not to menion whether there were any other recording devices that Rung wasn't aware of.

"I don't mind if you record this.", he mumbled as he continued to look around the room, thinking to himself, Though I doubt you'll be the only one listening to this later.

Armor Aid sat riggedly in the chair. Despite Rung's intentions, the paramedic had no desire whatsoever to relax. He just felt nervous being out of his office and the medical ward which had become something of a sanctuary for him, and the growing withdrawal from his drugs weren't helping matters. Without thinking he tapped the armrest of the chair with his fingers as his mind began to wander away. It wasn't long, though, before his optics focussed back on the smaller orange mech, as his audio sensors picked up the name of the most important mech of his life; Lancet.

At first Armor Aid calmed down, as the sound of his mentor's name brought up many cherished memories from his databanks; Lancet teaching him more about Cybertonian medicine than he had ever known, bringing mechs back from the brink of death, enjoying drinks at the Grease Pit, relaxing in the office and talking about plans for the future when the war finally ended.

In a blink though, those memories were overridden by one very dark memory, a memory that Armor Aid would do anything to be rid of. His hands gripped the chair's armrest hard, his fingers digging into them. He looked away from Rung at first, but eventually brough his optics back to the psychoanalyst.

"We were. I would have followed him to the Pit and back.", he replied, barely containing the bitterness he felt before quietly adding, "I should have."

Armor Aid stopped to shut off his optics for a moment, stroking his forehead. So many mechs had tried to convince him that Lancet's death wasn't his fault, but no matter how many times he heard it, he wouldn't believe it. None of them knew what really happened, and knowing what he knew, Armor Aid had no desire to tell anyone the whole truth. Armor Aid turned his optics back on and looked back at Rung, his fingers slowly tapping the chair.

"I've already reported what happened at least a dozen times, but fine.", he huffed, "I'll tell you, if only to get you off my back."

Armor Aid took a deep intake as he recalled the events from his databanks. It didn't take long because he had recalled them more times than he could count.

"I strained my shoulder during a break, so I came to the medical ward early to get it taken care of before my shift started."


Armor Aid entered the medical ward, his left hand holding his right shoulder as he slowly rotated it. The pain wasn't too bad, he could have bared with it for the rest of the cycle before his shift started. But as much fun as the Grease Pit was, he was looking forward to learning from Lancet even more. This just happened to give him an excuse.

"Lancet?", he shouted as he looked around the medical ward, "Hey Lancet, you in here?"

>>"Armor Aid? Oh, uh, You're here early. Just- just come into my office if you'd like."<<

Armor Aid looked puzzled as he heard his mentor's voice over the intercom. He didn't sound his normally cheerful self. His mentor had been quite busy with paperwork lately, though, so he thought little of it.


"Lancet was just finishing some reports for Maximus. We'd been running some routine maintenance exams on the inmates for the past megacycle."


"Well you were right, as always.", Armor Aid said with a smirk as he walked into Lancet's office, still holding his shoulder, "Arm wrestling Steelhand after he's had a few was a big mistake. I think I may have-"

Armor Aid stopped talking as he looked at Lancet, and realized that something really was wrong. The thin, white mech was sitting at his desk, his head down in his hands. He was clearly bothered by something.

"Huh?", Lancet said in a daze before he finally looked up at his protege, a thin white tube fell out of his mouth, "Oh, uh, Armor Aid. I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Armor Aid looked down at the table and picked up the small tube. He looked at Lancet with disappointment and confusion.

"A cy-gar-8? Lancet, you said you quit these over a vorn ago! You know how they can clog up your cooling systems and damage your cerebral processors!"

"I know, I know....", Lancet apologized as he shook his head, "I just......."

Lancet looked down at his desk, pausing as if he was trying to think of what to tell the young paramedic. This worried Armor Aid. As long as he had known Lancet he had always been honest and forthcoming.

"Lancet, look at me.", Armor Aid pleaded, which made the doctor finally look at him straight in the optics, "If something is wrong, please tell me! You've known me long enough to know that you can trust me!"

Lancet took a deep intake. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but stopped and shook his head.

"No, Armor Aid. I can't tell you....", the doctor said painfully, "I can't tell anyone. They've already- no, no I'm sorry, I can't. If I tell anyone, I'm a dead mech."


"Since I was back earlier than he expected, Lancet decided he'd bring the reports to the warden personally."


Armor Aid didn't know what to think. He'd seen a number of violent inmates threaten his mentor countless times, only for Lancet to brush them off as meaningless outbursts by desperate mechs. This had to be serious, he had never seen the doctor look so scared, so uncertain.

"Who's 'they'?", the paramedic inquired, "Which inmates are threatening you?"

Lancet looked up at Armor Aid and took another intake.

"It's not just some of the inmates.", Lancet reluctantly said with a whisper, "Some of the guards, too. There's a lot going on behind the cell walls than you know. I don't think Maximus even knows how deep it goes."

"And you're just going to sit here and do nothing?!?", Armor Aid asked incredulously, "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you!"

Lancet shook his head, and picked up the cy-gar-8 that had fallen onto the desk, "Armor Aid, I just..... This is too big for me to deal with, all right? Too many are in this, and they know that I know. I try to do anything and I'm dead, and Autobot Medical is already stretched too thin to send a replacement any time soon. I mean no offense when I say this Armor Aid, because you really have grown as a medic since you came here, but you're just not ready to be Garrus 9's only medical officer. For now it's best if I lie low, and hope someone in security finds out about it."

As Lancet was about to put the cy-gar-8 back in his mouth, Armor Aid slapped the doctor's hand, sending the small tube flying across the room. Lancet looked up in surprise, Armor Aid had never done anything like it. The paramedic looked down at his mentor with a scowl.

"What was it you always told me? 'If you don't cure the disease early, it will destroy the body over time'? Well it sounds to me like Garrus 9 has a disease, and it needs to be cured right away!", Armor Aid said with fire in his optics, "How many have died by these mechs? Because if it's more than one, than it's too many if you ask me. If this is really going on and Fort Max doesn't know it, then you need to tell him before it's too late!"

Lancet looked down for a moment, and slowly a smile came across his face as he nodded his head. He looked back up at Armor Aid.

"I guess I taught you too well, didn't I?", the doctor warmly said as he patted Armor Aid on his non-injured shoulder, "You're right, I need to report everything I know to Maximus right away- in person, there's no telling if the comm-lines are bugged."

Armor Aid noticed several datapads on the desk- the ones that Lancet had kept the maintenance reports on. He picked them up and handed them to the doctor.

"Take these- that way you'll have a legitimate reason to see the warden. They'll be less suspicious", Armor Aid assured, "And I'll go with you, just in case someone tries to stop you."

Lancet got out of his chair and raised his hands, walking past Armor Aid to the door.

"No, no, they'll know you're there to protect me, and that'll just make you a target as well.", Lancet explained, "I can make it there on my own."

The door slid open and Lancet walked out of his office, Armor Aid following right behind.

"Lancet, let me go with you!", Armor Aid pleaded, "You know I can take a lot more than you can."

"No Armor Aid, and don't make me order you.", Lancet insisted, "Besides, someone needs to stay behind and keep an eye on things. And you can gain some experience by fixing up that shoulder of yours."

As Armor Aid was about to protest again, Lancet turned around and smiled. It was the same warm, reassuring smile that put Armor Aid at ease, that said no matter how bad things might seem, everything would be all right in the end. Armor Aid relented and went to the nearby med station.

"All right, Lancet, I'll stay. Anyway I'm sure there isn't much to worry about. They wouldn't dare try to kill the CMO in a crowded hallway, right?"


"I stayed in the medical ward and fixed up my shoulder. Turned out to be nothing serious, just needed a little more lubricant and a couple of servos realigned."


Sitting in the chair, Armor Aid seemed to get more rigid. He tapped his fingers harder on the armrest, his optics looking around the room, away from Rung. Without thinking about it he opened a small storage compartment on his hip, and without looking pulled out a data rod. He held the data rod between two of his fingers, and started tapping it against the chair.

"Right after I fixed up my shoulder the medical ward doors came open, and one of the guards ran in.....", Armor Aid paused as he could feel lubricant start to well up in his optics, he choked up a little, "Carrying what...... what was left of Lancet...... in stasis lock......"


For a moment Armor Aid did nothing but stare in horror at the sight. Lancet, his superior officer, teacher, mentor, and best friend, with a gapping hole where his chassis was. He could feel his fuel tank try to purge his system as he saw the trail of fluids and scraps of metal that followed behind. The guard carefully laid Lancet onto one of the surgical slabs, by which point Armor Aid came out of his shock and hurried over.

"Drone 2 and 3 over here, NOW!' he ordered two of the medical drones, which in turn came over, "I- I need a neural stimulater and, uh, uh," the paramedic stumbled as he desperately tried to think of what he would need to save his mentors life, "An energon regulator, and, uh-"

Armor Aid stopped as he felt something weakly grab his hand. Hesitantly he looked down, trying not to focus on the mess of broken parts and energon that lay below him. He didn't look down at his hand, for he knew already who was holding it. Instead he looked to Lancet's face, and was shocked to see his optics glowing dimly, and his faceplate had the same warm smile from earlier.

"It...... It's all-all right, Arrrrrmor Aid.....", Lancet weakly assured his protege, his vocallizer struggling to function, "It-t-t-t's all r-r-right....."

"Don't worry, Lancet!", Armor Aid said motivated as he held onto his dying friend's hand, "I'll fix you up, I promise! I won't let you down!"

Lancet barely shook his head, though his smile was still there, "Y-you were my b-b-best stu-student-t-t..... I-"

"SLAGGIT, DON'T TALK LIKE THAT!!!", Armor Aid shouted, as he tried to find where to start operating, "YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE IT!!! I'M GOING TO SAVE YOU, DON'T GIVE UP YET!!!!"

Lancet's optics went dark, though he was still smiling, "I'mmm prrroud..... of youuu....."


Without realizing it Armor Aid had placed the data rod in his mouth. He couldn't have been more tense as he looked at Rung, cursing the psychoanalyst for making him remember that awful day. He stared at the small mech like he was trying to shoot lasers out of his optics.

"I did everything I could think of, everything that Lancet had taught me.", he said in a huff, taking the data rod out of his mouth and tossing it behind him, "Reconstructive surgery, electro-dynamic nullification, systems realignment, I practically used up the medical ward's supply of energon for transfusions, but nothing worked. And after 5 cycles .... I finally had to admit that I'd lost him, and recorded his time of death at 1840 hours......"

Armor Aid shook his head, a shiver came over him as he remembered the sickness he felt when it was over, and he was covered in his mentor's fuel. He wished he hadn't left his office, he needed his cy-gar-8s more than ever.

Southern Wing – Cell Block G

Flame moved from the bars of his cell to the far corner. The scientist stopped just before the wall and placed his forehead against its smooth surface. Everything, everything he did was for them. And now he was being punished for it. Of course he accepted his punishment but he still had work to do. And being incarcerated was putting his work on hold.

“My dear, I live by the Autobot Code. I did what I did in order to help. That is what the code stands for…helping.” Flame shut down him optics and gently began to tap his head against the wall. A steady rap, rap, rap sounded throughout his cell.

The sound stopped suddenly as Airachnid asked about working for the opposing side. “Work for the Decepticons? You obviously have me confused with a mech without morals!” Flame turned away from the wall and slowly, carefully stalked back to the cell’s bars where he could see the femme more clearly. “I do not believe in the Decepticons or their absurd cause! I am an Autobot and an Autobot is what I shall stay!” Flame grabbed hold of the bars and gave them a violent shake. “Do not presume that I am not loyal to my faction’s cause because you are not to yours!”

Southern Wing – Cell Block M

Spree watched Wildfly through the bars on the door for several moments before turning around and leaning heavily on the door. This was getting exciting. He could go as far as he wanted and if the inmate misbehaved then he had every authority to discipline him.

Finally the silence began to grade on him, surly this mech had something more to say…anything. Spree pushed off of the door and peeked back inside. “You’re awfully quiet in there. Mulling around just how you’re gonna tear me apart? Typical.”

Spree waited before he began tapping on the doorframe. “Never thought you slaggers were ones to hold your tongues.”

“Never thought you were one to harass an inmate.” Spree’s optics widened at the sound of the intruder’s voice. The guard spun around his weapon in hand. Spree relaxed when he spotted the figure’s one bright golden optic. The mech stood at the end of the hall, his arms crossed just under his protruding chest.

Spree relaxed and replaced his gun, a small awkward smile plastered on his face. “Whirl! Sir! I…I didn’t see ya there.” The senior guard remained quiet but lowered his clawed hands and very calmly made his way to stand directly before the much shorter mech.

“Of course you didn’t see me. You were facing that clutch-munching little glitch.” The cycloptic mech took a look through the door’s window and stared at Wildfly. “Having fun at his expense are we?”

Spree let out a nervous chuckle as he stepped away from the cell. “I was just letting him know that his actions were completely unacceptable, sir.” Whirl looked over his shoulder at the other mech. “His actions? What’d he do?” “The inmate deliberately dumped his ration, sir. I was advising him that that behavior would not be tolerated.” Spree said; his head held high and with an air of smugness.

“That so.” The senior guard looked back into the cell and tapped lightly on the cell. “You! Is that what happened?” Immediately Spree stiffened. “Sir, you know he won’t…” “Shut your chrome-alloy cake hole!” Whirl shouted causing the other mech to clam up and retreat back. “Answer the question, ‘Con!”

Southern Wing – Cell Block M

Taut posture, optics wide open, neck craned forward, and actuators crumpled into compact fists, Wildfly waited for Spree to enter his cell so he could finally annihilate the guard for causing him ample amounts of grief. Even if spark extraction resulted—which remained a strong possibility, if not a certainty—slaying that idiot would be well worth it.

Wildfly waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

He continued to be the only individual occupying his cell. Not a good sign. Not what he wanted.

Come on, come on. His features contorted now and then, morphing his concentration into viciousness. Why are you busy babbling out there? Why aren't you coming in here so I can kill you, you fragger?

The answer arrived in the form of a voice, a voice Wildfly could not immediately identify. But he remembered who it belonged to sooner than he thought. Mainly because Spree uttered the name like a little glitch.

A single golden optic appeared and studied Wildfly through the viewing panel for a moment before withdrawing. Whirl was, in the Monstercon's blunt opinion, a weird looking Transformer. That gigantic peeper of his... He couldn't even make any further comments on Whirl because he was incapable of not thinking about that freaking colossal optic.

Wildfly pondered over the probability of he and Shockwave being long-lost spark-brothers, somehow separated during the beginning of the Great War. It wouldn't have surprised him if they were.

Whirl and Spree conversed briefly. Spree's tone suggested hesitation, even fear at one stage. Wildfly loved how awkward he sounded, how weak he sounded. It was spectacular.

Then justice came—or at least a fragment of it. Justice for the energon ration Wildfly never properly received. With any luck, he would be given a fresh ration for his depleted systems, though he'd learned to not rely on luck to any degree. Countless vorns stuck at Garrus-9 had taught him that.

“Nope, that's not what happened at all.” Wildfly carefully approached the door, peering through the viewing panel. “Your responsible friend here, your considerate colleague decided it would be entirely reasonable to pour my ration on the ground.” Ignoring Spree, he gazed directly at Whirl. “Do I look like I'd want to toss my ration on the ground, rare as they are? And do you see any liquid on me?” He flashed Whirl a smile. “Tell you what, boss, I'll save you the trouble of answering those questions. That would be a no and a no.”

Rung’s Office

The psychoanalyst gave Armor Aid a slight nod as the facility’s CMO relented and decided to take a seat, but he made it quite clear that he was not going to get as comfortable as Rung had hoped he would. Rung darkened his optics before leaning back in his chair. “That’s fine. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.” He nodded at the mention of the doctor’s concern of being away should there be some kind of emergency. “I understand. I’ll try not to keep you from your duties.”

Rung waited. A good part of his work was based on just the waiting. Pushing a patient was neither productive nor was it healthy. Along with the waiting came the watching. Rung kept his optics on the CMO and noted when Armor Aid averted his eye contact, but he soon returned his gaze.

And then it came. His waiting was over. Armor Aid finally broke the silence. Rung nodded and let the disturbed mech just talk. He needed to talk about…everything. And he did.
The slim orange doctor listened intently while taking mental notes as well as physical notes. Everything that poured from Armor Aid was recorded and filed so that a reliable and proper diagnosis and treatment plan could be arranged.

And the reveal of his patient’s past trauma was disturbing to say the least. While the medical officer spoke he seemed to begin some kind of obsessive compulsive behavior with the use of a data rod. The action did not go unnoticed by Rung and a note of the action was taken and duly recorded.

As Armor Aid continued with his recall Rung brought up the records that had been filed on Lancet’s death and compared them with what he was hearing now first hand.
Without so much as a flinch Rung kept his optics on his patient even while Armor Aid’s glare grew more intense.

After his account was finished the CMO shook his head and shivered; he also grew silent. Rung waited for several moments before he unwound his actuators and settled back into his chair. “I am very sorry for your loss.” Rung’s voice was low, but it was full of honesty. He just hoped Armor Aid could see it. “You did everything you could for Lancet. There was nothing, nothing that you could have done to prevent such a horrible tragedy.”

Rung leaned forward in order to gain the medic’s attention. “The loss of your mentor and trusted friend has thrust you into a deep despair. This is something you already know, but the despair is only part of it.” Rung let out a heavy sigh before he continued. “You’re suffering from PTSD, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. You’ve been exposed to a horrific psychological trauma and you cannot cope with the loss of Lancet.” Rung paused for a moment and studied Armor Aid. There was more, much more.

“I know your hurting and that you’re angry, but turning that anger in on yourself is only doing a disservice to Lancet’s memory.” Rung leaned further forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Armor Aid, self-medicating and self-loathing is not the answer; it never is. When did you resort to self-medication to ease the pain and depression you feel?” The fidgeting the unrest and the obsessive use of the data rod were a clear signs that the medical officer was under the influence of some kind of substance abuse. Granted it was probably not anything illegal, but his secretiveness only proves that he’s not comfortable with his dependence on it.

Once he got Armor Aid to talk about his own feelings, and once he was comfortable with being open, Rung wanted to press further. He needed to get more information out of the distraught mech about the allegations Lancet made concerning the corruption within G9. But helping Armor Aid came first.

Southern Wing – Cell Block M

Whirl’s lone amber optic focused in on Wildfly as the ‘Con flier stepped in closer to the door. The senior guard made no attempt to intimidate the inmate; instead he radiated a sense of concern. It was Whirl’s own special way to throw off, not only his fellow staff members but the dregs that occupied the various cells.

After Wildfly’s much anticipated, and truthful, response, Whirl placed a pincer to his chin in a thoughtful manner. Letting out a contemplative “hmm” the mech turned away from the door and regarded Spree who had, to Whirl’s surprise, stayed put. “I’m pretty inclined to believe him.” Whirl tapped the end of his pincer against the metal door. “He’s got no reason to lie to me, you know.” He leaned down so he could look directly into his subordinate’s optics. “So, why did you?”

Spree’s mouth dropped open and quickly closed as no answer came to his racing mind. “I see.” Whirl finally said. He straightened up to his full height and placed his clawed hands behind his back. “You’ll be donating your ration to the prisoner, but…” He looked back to the door and peered back inside catching sight of Wildfly still standing by the door. “…the prisoner will be cleaning up the mess.” Whirl’s golden optic glistened before pressing further… “And I’ve got the perfect cleaning device for you to use.”

Without pulling that lone eye from the ‘Con, Whirl motioned for Spree to retrieve the ration and return as soon as possible.

(OOC: I'm fairly certain I haven't contradicted any important details here. If I have, just let me know and I'll edit.)

Cell Block B

Stingray scrolled the page with a gentle nudge of her digit on the touchscreen of the datapad. She was sitting in a relatively comfortable position on her bench, her elbows resting on her knees as she stared at the display, reading in silence.

It was that passive activity she had developed the most liking to. During the free activities period one particular orn, she had visited the libraric archives and had picked up a short treatise on sociopolitical history, The Nature of Balance written by Boltax. Though she had done so merely out of boredom, she could hardly put it down. Afterwards, her visits to the archives had become regular. She had immersed herself in numerous essays and studies on Cybertron's history, mythology, politics and philosophy. Then, at one point, taking her exceptionally orderly behavior into consideration, Fortress Maximus himself had granted her a permit to take a number of the works with her to her cell.

Stingray wouldn't claim that she understood everything she read. Not by far. She was far too simple in her thinking, despite not being lacking in the intelligence department to grasp all the comprehensive concepts and theories laid out within the many pages. But she kept on consuming them nonetheless. Many of the inmates, and some of the guards, too, looked at her strangely because of her non-rebellious conduct and the mere fact she was more interested in texts than interacting with any other individuals.

It was true, Stingray was wary. She had been injured, nearly killed, and abandoned by those she had believed to be her comrades. She had been picked up by those she had believed to be her enemies and had been given more fair treatment than ever before. She didn't yet know what to make of it. Too many of her old beliefs were shattered and she was still not ready to accept new ones. So she kept three paces of distance from everyone, regardless of allegiance. In reading she found a measure of clarity, detached from the conflicting notions all around. So she used that to try and array her troubled thoughts.

The piece Stingray was currently sifting through, Alpha Trion's Virtues of The Adamant, was quite entertaining, if a little too philosophic and straightforwardly bipolar. It was concerned primarily with the qualities leader figures possessed or should possess and what differentiated them from tyrants. To it's merit, the work was easy to understand, even for the simplest footslogger. Decepticon propagandists could have drawn much inspiration from it, Stingray thought.

She looked up, as the noise of firm steps grew louder in the background. Every now and then, patrolling guards would pass by her cell. Sometimes in groups of two or three, prodding one of the inmate's along. This time, just a lone guard went by.

Good. Stingray was in no mood for interaction just now.

She turned back to the datapad.