Company in Misery

[Swerve-3]

OOC: Takes place the night of the Team Evil Victory Party, on Day 11.

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Swerve aches. All over.

It's more than his body that hurts; he's been treated to some of Perceptor's tender medical attentions, enough to return function to his leg and patch up the injuries his self-repair systems couldn't handle. He doesn't feel deep, stabbing pains in his midsection every time he moves and his leg isn't frozen up and searing; his shoulders and wrists still throb dully and he's stiff from remaining bound so long. Worst of all, though, is the way his very self hurts.

No company but his growing doubts and loathing here in the darkness and quiet. Nothing to do but reflect once he realised that, for once, he couldn't seem to think of a way out of a bad spot. He can't let go of the vile things he did and thought, or that he lost control like that after fighting so long against the Prime to keep it locked down tight. He hates what he's done, he hates himself for doing it, and he hates them for pushing him to such a state. Swerve has failed. He's failed himself in faltering and he's failed Emirate Xaaron. Hadn't he promised only a day or so before that he wouldn't give himself to the Prime? And then he went and might as well have.

And then…. No. He won't think about that any more.

So here he sits, silent, trembling, turning his hatred inward lest he loose it again. He stares at nothing in particular: a darker spot on the opposite wall or the floor between his feet, and only because it's so quiet does he hear something that may very well be footsteps. Others have passed him before, paying him no mind in his close, dark, stifling little closet of a cell, but these steps sound heavier. Slower. More deliberate. An awful chill strikes him at the thought that someone is coming for him and he hangs his head, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

[Rodimus Prime-3]

Swerve does, indeed hear slow, deliberate, heavy footsteps, footsteps which pause before the door. The door opens, and the flame-clad Prime, red optics blazing, stands there blocking the exit. A vicious grin settles comfortably on his expression as he studies his captive, and in one hand is a cube of lurid pink - energon brought from the party.

"Good evening, Swerve. Making yourself comfortable?"

[Swerve-3]

At least the scowl that flits across Swerve's face when that voice crawls over his receptors is hidden until he can wrestle it back into a very carefully, stiffly neutral expression. Only then does he look up at all, and then it's just to stare at the wall. He won't look at the Prime, not when his control is already so frayed.

"Not particularly, no," he answers flatly. "But thank you for asking." He doesn't let himself ask what prompts this visit; he isn't sure he really wants to know, anyway.

[Rodimus Prime-3]

"Oh, no. Of course you're not comfortable. After all, you're stuck in here, when the victory party you so rightfully should be a part of is going on out there," Rodimus gestures grandly towards the exit.

Then he reaches down and attempts to grasp Swerve, to haul him up by the arm. "But at least you should come out to see your handwork," he grins.

[Swerve-3]

All the squirming he can do won't get Swerve out of the Prime's reach in this close space; he winces at the drag on his still-sore shoulder as he's pulled to his feet and, catching a glimpse of that brimming cube, he wonders just how much the Prime has had to drink to make so little sense. He has no desire to look at his "handiwork" any more than he already has and he wants no part of whatever party the others are throwing.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, glancing at the Prime in confusion and then looking away again quickly, frowning. The too-quick motion leaves him wavering, just dizzied enough for his balance to suffer. "I think… I've seen enough of Mirage."

[Rodimus Prime-3]

"Ooooh, no. Not Mirage." Rodimus grins. "He's been repaired, anyway. No, my dear Constable, I refer to the city. I refer to our victory!"

Energon cube in one hand, Swerve's arm in the other, Rodimus bursts from the small shack. With the hand holding the cube, he gestures grandly at the city - in this area, the battle damage is faint, but it's still there.

"We wouldn't have had this, were it not for you, Swerve! You lead us here!"

[Swerve-3]

"Excuse me," Swerve begins coolly, "but what do you mean, 'our'–"

The words stop midway through his vocal buffers and he follows the Prime's arm, taking in the scenery. He didn't manage to comb the entire city before his capture, but he's sure it didn't look like this when he left. He's sure there were no scorch marks, sparse or not, and he's sure there were no broken windows or battered, cracked walls. It's all wrong. The Autobots – the Autobots he knows – they did this. For their victory.

And it's his fault. The Prime's words cut painfully deep because Swerve knows they're true.

"N… no," he rasps all the same, denial and disbelief at once, and shakes his head. The Autobots are celebrating a victory he all but handed them because he was stupid enough to think Emirate Xaaron and he would be safe here. Then… what about the other Autobots…? "What did you do to them?" he asks, feeling sick as he looks at the Prime. He can imagine; he doesn't want to. He wants to beat down this monster and rip that nauseating smile off his face.

[Rodimus Prime-3]

"I brought them down, one by one," Rodimus answers, tone almost dreamy. "Oh, a few escaped, but that's just more fun for later." As he speaks, he releases Swerve's arm and instead his arm reaches around Swerve, supporting firmly. It's almost a gentle move, but it holds Swerve trapped all the same. Then, using that one arm, he lifts the constable off the ground. "Shall we get a better look?"

Without waiting for an answer, the Prime leaps towards the nearest rooftop. From that, he leaps to another, higher one, and then higher still, until they have a good view of the city as a whole. The ruins of Autobase, the destroyed lab near the zoo, the rubble that makes up the remains of the back-up power plant... from this vantage point it seems that they are lucky to find a spot to roost on at all.

He lowers Swerve down until his feet touch the ground so that he can stand on his own power, and says lowly, voice a husky whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?"

[Swerve-3]

Swerve listens and his expression as he stares up at the Prime is a mix of horror and, much as he wants to fight it down, rage. Whether he's angrier with his captor or with himself, he isn't sure. Maybe he deserves it more.

No… no, it's the Prime. This filthy monster is to blame for everything. Swerve's too close to him and too unsteady; the proximity, the contact, make it too easy on that thing inside him. Hatred and fury surge to life and the constable's expression twists into something that doesn't belong on his face – something only Mirage might recognise. And when the Prime lets go his arm, he tries to pull away and stumbles instead, hobbled by the chains at his ankles. The only reason he doesn't end up on his aft is that Rodimus catches him, pulls him in close and lifts him. Only after he snarls a vile curse does Swerve pull himself short and go still, clenching his jaw and looking deliberately aside, trying to push away as best he can, as much as he dares when the ground drops away beneath them.

Each upward leap threatens to drag Swerve away from the Prime and he's glad to have something solid under his feet again when they finally stop. He's glad, too, that the Prime lets go of him and he stumbles back, catching his balance only just in time to lock his knees before they buckle under him when his gaze falls on the ruins that make up everything that should be Autobase. He stares and his jaw falls slack and grief – grief, regret, guilt – dim his optics.

"…Beautiful?" he echoes numbly. He turns and he looks again at the Prime in disbelief, face slowly pinching into a scowl. Disgust slides in to replace regret and rage subsumes guilt and his voice turns gravelly, engine growling low. "Beautiful?" he spits. "You – you half-clocked, warmongering lunatic! There's nothing beautiful about this! It's fragging sick!" Every cable and servo in his body strains with the urge to charge the Prime and attack no matter the consequence. It takes every ounce of what little control he can still muster to force himself back instead, one shaky half-step at a time.

[Rodimus Prime-3]

"Oh, but you're wrong," Rodimus says softly. "There is beauty in destruction, in the act and in the aftermath. There is joy in it." He turns towards Swerve, expression intent, the faintest, most subtle of smiles on his face.

"Are you telling me you didn't take joy in what you did to Mirage? That there was no pleasure in the destruction rained down on his form? There is beauty in such release."

The Prime brings his free hand up to Swerve's chin, to try and stroke the tip of it lightly, gently, before he draws his hand away. "You should indulge in such release more often. You're beautiful in it."

[Swerve-3]

"Don't touch me!" snaps the constable, recoiling so fast he does fall this time, tripping over his bonds and landing on one hip. Still, he stares at the Prime once he rights himself. "Don't–" Don't remind him of what he felt. He wants to forget how happy it made him and how good it felt to let himself go. He doesn't want to remember how wonderful it was to cripple Mirage with his own hands, to beat the hound within an inch of his life.

He wants to tell himself he hated it as much as he hates the Prime and his hound. He can't. He'll tell someone else instead.

"You're wrong. It's a horrid thing," he adds, voice cracking briefly as his conviction wavers on the next words. "And no. I didn't… enjoy it." He's lying again and he doesn't care. He's willing to sacrifice some of his integrity if it can save his sanity. But as much as he wants to be in control, he can't mask the anger behind his words. He can't keep quiet, either, too agitated, too spun up by Rodimus's overbearing presence. "So… so kindly save your hollow compliments for someone who appreciates them."

[Rodimus Prime-3]

Perhaps surprisingly, Rodimus does not laugh when Swerve falls. Maybe his smile grows briefly wider, but if so it's tucked back away so quickly that it's difficult to tell.

"If it was such an... unpleasant deed, why spend so long at it?" the Prime asks, tone calm, cool, mockingly rational. "Surely there were faster ways to... discourage his advances.

"But ah, I'm getting off subject. Sadly, you seem to have forgotten that your place is with us, and so you can't fully partake of the festivities, but I felt it only appropriate that you should be allowed to enjoy some refreshment as you take in the view."

With that, Rodimus swirls the liquid in the cube he holds lightly, enticingly, before offering it towards Swerve. Of course, he fully expects to have it knocked away, and is alert enough to snatch it back if it looks like that is what the Velocitronian intends to do - energon cubes can explode if jarred badly enough, and Rodimus only brought one out with him, after all.

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OOC: Neither I nor Rodimus know if the cube is untainted, tainted by Perceptor, or tainted by Mixmaster. Should Swerve end up drinking from it, either now or later, that'll be up to his player.

[Swerve-3]

Swerve wants to say it was because he was bound and drugged. Because he was injured. That's why he was so slow in dispatching Mirage. But he knows that isn't true, either. He could have used his cannon and made it quick and clean. He could have shot Mirage and run. He didn't. And he didn't because he'd wanted to hurt Mirage. And he'd enjoyed it. Nothing had been so glorious as that in so long. Too long.

A shudder wracks the constable and he shrinks in on himself, turning his head away from the Prime and looking down at the rooftop.

"I don't imbibe," he growls hoarsely, grinding his jaw and clenching his fists. "And I don't belong here. And I hate the view."

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OOC: I'll roll a d3?

[Rodimus Prime-3]

"Then how do you recharge?" Rodimus sneers. Ah, the joys of belonging to a species whose basic fuel also causes drunkenness!

"Now," the Prime's sneer turns to a poisonously pleasant smile, "either you drink your energon, or I'll force it down your throat, or I'll force it down your secondary intake. It's your choice." Smile turns into a grin as the Prime bares his teeth.¹

"Personally, I'm hoping you don't drink it willingly."

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¹ Of course he's got teeth! He's the Marvel incarnation!

OOC: If that's what you'd prefer. As I said, it's your choice. If you don't want your character getting drugged, it's untainted. If you do, it's tainted. If you don't know... well, the die roll works as well as anything.

[Swerve-3]

"Fuelling and drinking are two different things," spits the constable. Swerve can't be the only one, ever, to make that distinction. But how, he wonders, scowling back at the grinning Prime, can he expect rationality from a creature who can't go anywhere without destroying half the destination? Once more, he struggles against the urge to charge at Rodimus; he fights the impulse to slap aside that cube, spill the contents across the rooftop so none of the options are viable and he edges backwards instead. Every inch of ground is gained only grudgingly; each step takes more effort than the constable likes. He wants so much to attack and somehow make the Prime suffer for the pain he's causing.

Instead, Swerve pushes himself back, mustering all the willpower he has to throttle down and retreat. Attacking would undo him, he's sure.

"You can't force me," he says, the strain taking further toll on his voice, thinning it out. It's sapping so much of him to keep fighting; if he'd just give in, he might find a moment's peace…. No! Swerve shakes his head violently and wavers, bracing his legs to remain upright. Giving in is the short road to the Pit. That's no option. Maybe, if he can't knock away the cube, he could dive off the roof. It's a stupid idea, but injuries are one thing. Having Primus only knows what sort of energon dumped into his tanks is another entirely. "Y-you can't," he repeats more vehemently.