Notes after. That is, if you're still reading.
XX.
Dead End made no impression on Ironhide—probably didn’t even remember the short, red Decepticon—until he stormed across the hangar floor and struck Flareup with all the force he could get behind his arm’s armored fairing. Flareup’s head snapped to the side, striking Starscream’s hand just where the gun barrels ended.
Next to Barricade, Ironhide sucked in air, hard.
Dead End followed that up with a solid punch to Flareup’s midsection, denting armor. She squealed, twisting in the jet’s grip, her tire spinning for traction. Her own arms clawed feebly at the air, held too far apart by Starscream to do her any good.
“Why are you—“ she cried out before the smaller Decepticon struck her again, this time a shot to the side that took her equilibrium away with a crack. “Stop!” she cried out, twisting around to appeal to Starscream for help. The jet kept his eyes fixed on the wall.
Ironhide pounded on the wall. “Flareup!” he yelled, waving to get her attention. “Fight back!”
“She can’t hear you, you know,” Barricade said. “Or see you.” He tapped the wall. “One way.”
“You filthy, slaggin’—“ Ironhide lunged at Barricade. Barricade signalled the repair bot, who activated that little surprise the bots had installed in Ironhide’s legs. The Autobot’s legs locked. He toppled forward heavily into Barricade’s arms, too shocked by the sudden lock to take advantage of his momentum. Barricade grunted under the weight.
Blackout hauled Ironhide off Barricade and planted him back in front of the wall window before retreating again to the rear of the room. “Knew you wouldn’t behave,” Barricade said. “All that Autobot civility is just a pretense; but especially in your case.”
Ironhide growled at him. “Dirty trick.” His legs were locked into place.
“Well,” Barricade smiled, easily, “Had to do something to live up to our reputations as Decepticon scum, didn’t we?”
Below them, Dead End snapped one of the cycle bot’s delicate fingers. She shrieked, shivering in pain. “I don’t understand,” she begged, “Please, stop, pleeeeeeeease.” The jet’s immobility drew Barricade’s eye. Under the hard mask of his face, Starscream was seething with rage. But he obeyed his orders. Puzzling.
No time for that now.
“Can’t take it, can you?” taunted Dead End, as he scraped his claws down her shoulder. “Think you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.” He found a loose connection and pinched it, hard. She made a choking sound.
“You can stop this any time you like,” Barricade said softly. “You know what I want to know.”
Ironhide’s face was stricken. His hands curled into impotent fists by his side. Blackout inched forward, reminding the smaller Autobot of his presence. “You filthy, sick, disgusting….” Words failed Ironhide.
Below, Dead End was prying one of Flareup’s armor plates off her body, slowly. Giggling while she shrieked. Barricade felt his capacitor flip over. This is necessary. This is necessary.
“Where?” he heard himself ask, his voice thin. “End this, Ironhide. Where is it.”
“Shut up.”
“She doesn’t deserve this.”
The Autobot turned his torso, his eyes blazing halogen blue. “Then stop slaggin’ doing it to her!”
“I am not doing this to her,” Barricade said, forcing mettle into his voice. “Tell me, and it ends. Tell me, and you save your friend.”
“What guarantee do I have that isn’t just a lie?”
“What choice do you have? If you do not tell me, it is a certainty that Dead End will continue.”
Ironhide looked ill, staring down at the red Decepticon. Dead End twitched, below, almost like he could feel Ironhide’s hateful stare.
“Is she worth so little to you, Autobot?” Barricade said, gently. The words bitter in his mouth.
“I—I, oh, slag yourself, Decepticon.” He pounded on the wall window with both hands. “Flareup!” he yelled, his voice barely carrying his agony. The wall shook under the impact.
Yes. Harder. Push harder. Almost there. You can feel it. Like the ground beginning to crumble under his feet. You can feel him give. Do it. Push. This is not you. This is not who you are. “She is worth more than these humans, isn’t she?”
Ironhide choked on a sob. “Don’t get me started on those slagging humans!”
Yes. Harder. This is not me. “They are your allies. They are worth more to you than Flareup.”
“No they are NOT!” Ironhide pounded the wall again. “Useless. Get in our fraggin’ way. All the time. Incompetent. Against their own kind they might be something, but they’re useless against you bastards.”
“Then why do you go into battle alongside them? Surely your Prime values them?”
Ironhide wailed. “Stop him. Stop it.”
Barricade said nothing.
“Dammit!” Ironhide swallowed, hard, his eyes angry. “Stop it. Please.”
Barricade shook his head, sadly. “Your Prime has not made any attempt to contact us about either of you. Surely that means he values the alliance with the humans more highly than you.”
Ironhide raked his hands over his face, the metal plates scraping against each other. “Slaggin’ useless humans. Come along just to keep the illusion that they’re still in control. Like their leaders. Prime has to rub them up all the time. Says he doesn’t want them to see us as invaders, but allies. Slaggin’ interspecies cooperation, he calls it. You know we could glass the whole planet without breaking a coolant seal if we wanted.”
“Don’t like having to hold back for them, do you?”
“Primus no! Hate the bastards. Prime makes them do our maintenance. Know what that’s like, filthy Decepticon? Least you don’t have fraggin’ xenos touching your valves.”
That seemed like enough. Bring him back. Stop delaying. She’s getting hurt. “You still have not told me what I want to know.”
A loud ringing sound as Dead End tore away another of Flareup’s armor plates. He sank his teeth into the exposed cables. Flareup moved, weakly. Starscream kept his gaze hard on the wall window.
“Sick bastard,” Ironhide breathed. He slumped forward, his forehead on the wall. “Meteor Crater. In the US.”
Barricade shook his head. “Wrong answer.” Vortex had explored that and found it unviable. Autobot was holding out till the last. But progress. One. More. Push. Do it. His hand shook over the wall window’s controls. He stared at it like it was a foreign object. Do it. Ironhide closed his eyes, wearily. Now. Break him.
He punched the control, and tapped a signal to Dead End. The little bot had been briefed. He’d better not screw up. Just say the damn speech word for word, Barricade thought.
Below them, Dead End paused. He gestured up at the wall window, which was now transparent. Barricade ducked aside. “You see?” Dead End said to Flareup. She lifted her head, weakly. Interior joint fluid spattered her frame, hydraulic fluid dripped from her audio receptors. “Up there. Your Autobot friend. He does not care. He is not coming to save you.”
Flareup raised her eyes, and caught sight of a large bot standing immobile in the wall window, staring down impassively. Her optical receptors blurred. She couldn’t make out his expression, but she knew the contours. Ironhide. “I—Ironhide?”
Ironhide didn’t notice the wall window’s change until he heard the echo of Dead End’s words. Barricade hit the blanking screen before he could react. “You sick bastard,” he breathed at Barricade. Dead End turned back to Flareup, grinning evilly. Ironhide flinched at the first hit of the red bot’s renewed assault, covered his face with his hands. “I only know one for sure. Tunguska.”
“Energon—you have tested it?”
“We have samples. Yeah.”
“The other? There are two.”
“Don’t know. I’m telling the truth. I don’t know.” His voice was rough. “Stop it. Please. I don’t know the other.”
Barricade buzzed Dead End. The red bot didn’t respond, sinking his dental plates into the cycle bot’s exposed tire. No. Can’t lose it now. Don’t. You knew this would happen. Part of the reason you chose Dead End. You knew it. You should have seen this coming. Should have known. Not now. I am in control. I have to be. He buzzed Dead End again. Comm died. He swore, buzzed Starscream.
“Stop him,” he said, flatly.
The jet spun into action as if the last quarter cycle of immobility had merely been winding up for this. He whipped around, tossing the cycle bot on the floor behind him, out of Dead End’s reach, and, continuing the spin, brought both arms down in a long-fulcrumed hammer blow on the red bot’s head. With a squeal and the sound of crushing metal, Dead End dropped to the ground.
“Stopped enough for you?” Starscream shrieked. Dead End twitched—involuntary processor reflex—at his feet. The voice squealed feedback in Barricade’s ears twice—once from his own comm, once from the audio pickup from the hangar.
Barricade swallowed. “Yeah. Take him to regen.”
“I will not! I am done with this business,” the jet roared, glaring up at the window wall, his hands flexed into claws. As if he would like nothing more than to tear through the plasmetal plating.
Barricade flinched as if the larger bot had struck him. “It was necessa—“
“Do not feed me such filth. Honor is worth more than…,” he gestured around him at the two damaged bots, “than this.” He glared for a moment longer, and stalked out of the repair bay. “Clean up your own mess,” he hissed.
Barricade blinked, slowly. Couldn’t process this. Not right now. Not now. Don’t have time. Don’t have space in my processor for this.
Blackout spoke, his hand on Ironhide’s shoulder. The Autobot slumped down, as if empty. “What do you want me to do with him?”
A sudden fury boiled up in Barricade. “I don’t know, dammit!” he heard himself yell, his voice sounding high and shrill. “I am not in control of everything around here. I’m not even in control of—“ he cut himself off.
Not even in control of—
Myself.
******
Before you howl that I've broken the 'rules' I set up: what Barricade is doing here is just a slightly more violent version of something done frequently in US Army SERE training. It's called the 'warbaby'. Basically, you take the youngest or weakest or otherwise least strong and tough member of a group, tie them (normally to the flagpole) in full view of the other captives, and beat the snot out of him. The goal isn't to break the warbaby--he gets slapped around a lot--the goal is to enrage the others watching about how it isn't fair, and pick on someone your own size, or try that with *me* instead, or...you get the idea. Dead End goes a bit further than ummmm, people do. Artistic license. And they're *robots* so I'm assuming they can take a bit more than the average squishy.