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As he regained consciousness, he had the distinct feeling that something was very wrong.
Grey and dark purple had replaced the bright interior of the Ark’s medical bay, and as far as Bluestreak was concerned no modifications had been scheduled. They would have been foolish anyways as doing something as fruitless as painting the medical bay would have had Ratchet putting his foot down, since the CMO would have preferred his patients recovering in peace, without workers clambering around.
“You’re awake. Fantastic” a cold voice spoke that suggested his revival was anything but. It matched neither the warm friendliness of First aid, nor the gruff but kind voice of Ratchet.
Bluestreak turned his head to the right, an action which caused the other transformer to grunt in irritation, and found he was eye-level with a green and purple crotch. A human would most likely have found humor in that, but the gunner was too busy focusing on the distinctive paintjob that signified only one situation.
“Do that again and I will weld you to the table” Hook’s snobbish voice finally registered, and he felt a panel being opened on his left arm.
“Are you alright?” Scavenger was the one standing in front of him. The excavator never did seem a creature born for the Decepticon life, but that he survived this long, even with his teammates’ help, suggested he wasn’t as weak as most assumed.
For once, Bluestreak couldn’t respond. As far as he knew he hadn’t been anywhere near the Decepticons in the past few days, and Prime would have never let Megatron charge into the Ark and make off with one of his own.That the Constructicons were repairing him and acting friendly—or one of them was anyways—made it even stranger.
“What’s wrong? C-cat got that quick t-tongue of yours?”
“Mixmaster, stop bothering them and pass me that wrench”
“D-don’t be such a s-spoil sport Scrapper”
“Are you finished?” two pairs of heavy footsteps entered following the hiss of a door sliding open.
“If you want him back in one piece, then you’ll wait a few more cycles” Hook snapped back.
“Hey,” Vortex’s deceptively cheery voice rang too loud next to his audios, and a face full of crotch was replaced with a face full of helicopter. “Brawl actually thought he sat on you till you went offline. Course only he wouldn’t notice that big gaping that was in you chassis. Idiot”
“Who you calling an idiot!” Brawl’s voiced boomed as the tank ran in and attempted to smash his teammate on the head, who quickly ducked resulting in his fist denting the berth inches from Bluestreak’s head.
Oh Primus, he’s like a trained ape… without the training! He yelped as Brawl launched himself at Vortex, who was too busy laughing to get out of the way, only for a strong hand to yank the tank back by the head.
“Onslaught, control your team. Otherwise you can go somewhere else for repairs next time” the Constructicon surgeon hadn’t even bothered looking up from his work.
“Brawl, get out. Vortex, stop antagonizing him” Onslaught released his grip on his subordinate, who didn’t seem inclined to argue, and turned to look at Bluestreak.
“How are you?” the Combaticon leader was colder than ice, but there was just a hint of concern hidden beneath the iceberg of calculation and logic.
Okay, now he was really confused, and just a little bit frightened. As far as he was concerned, the proper ritual for a Decepticon prisoner was a trip to the brig, and a brutal interrogation—at the hands of the psychotic copter standing beside him no less—involving all manner of pointy, sharp instruments. There would probably be a lot of prodding. It definitely didn’t have scary gestalt commanders inquiring about his wellbeing. Bluestreak wondered if he was dreaming, or if he’d drank too much of the twins special brew the other night and was in fact lying sprawled on the floor in front of the enlarged television in the common room. Those options at least offered a sensible explanation to his predicament.
“Swindle!” Onslaught said sharply, snapping him back to reality.
“What…” no other words came out as he lay with his mouth open. A dream, a dream, it had to be a dream! There was no way he could ever be confused with the sly entrepreneur.
“Hello! Earth to Swindle!” Vortex obnoxiously waved his hand in front of his face.
Mad. They were all mad. It was that or he was and he didn’t think he’d like that particular option.
“There’s nothing wrong with his processors?” Onslaught had turned to Hook, who looked beyond offended at the subtle implication that he hadn’t thought to check.
“I have checked over all his systems and, excluding the hole in his chassis when he came in, he’s perfectly fine” Bluestreak heard the click of his arm panel closing as Hook finished his work.
“Now that his repairs are finished, you can all get out of our medical bay” Scrapper said from somewhere behind him.
“And here I was thinking I could get some of Mix’s secret brew”
“Y-y-you can wait like everyone else. W-we’re in the middle of some c-c-calibrations”
“Yeah…,” Vortex leaned down and whispered to Bluestreak. “Ten cubes says that they all start working their magic fingers on each other the second we leave”
“Vortex. Out. Now” Onslaught grabbed his teammate by the back of his rotor hub and started dragging him off. Vortex looked positively cheerful about it.
“Swindle, come on”
Bluestreak had the distinct feeling violence would occur if he didn’t, so he gingerly pushed himself off of the berth and stumbled as he touched the floor. He heard Mixmaster stifle a giggle. Determined not to look back, he cautiously strode forward as his mind continued to work out the details of his situation. However, it didn’t have to work for long as he found his answer the moment he stepped out of the medical bay’s doors.
The walls of the Victory were surprisingly reflective, even with its deep purple color. It represented a cold, clean, pristine, and orderly environment, rigid and unforgiving, a deep contrast to the comforting and welcoming orange of the Ark. It told Bluestreak how trapped, and alone he was in the enemy base, except that was the least of his worries now that two purple optics, and a bright yellow paintjob stared back at him. He suddenly noticed the distinctive absence of his door wings, and groped behind himself absently.
It all made sense now. At least part of it did.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no…”
He was so completely, irrevocably, and utterly screwed.