Pain and Servitude

Chapter 10

Blurr raced through the streets, zooming past mecha and ignoring the startled shrieks and curses flung at his retreating back. There was a sizable stack of data pads grasped firmly in his servos, but it was diminishing rather quickly as he dropped one after the other at the appointed doorsteps.

It was degrading for a mech who used to be the best spy in the Autobot army to be reduced to a mere messenger, but that and running his own bar were his jobs now. Speaking of which.. It was opening hours. His task done, he zoomed through the streets in the direction of the outskirts.

Blurr hated the new system, if you could even call it that way. The war had taught them nothing, instead of leading Cybertron to the next Golden age, they returned to square one. Except this time it was even worse.

The racer had seen the Decepticon slaves and even the memories of the sight made his tanks roil uncomfortably. The decepticons deserved punishment, deserved justice, but this... this was slavery and he could not understand why any Cybertronian who fought for the Autobot cause would willingly agree to it.

Blurr understood the anger and hate they all felt towards the enemy faction, Primus knows he felt the same animosity, but this was just wrong. It went against everything they fought for in the first place.

But even if there were people who disagreed, they were being quiet, probably fearing that they would be arrested or even worse: subjected to the same fate. Cowards. His lip twitched over his dentae, threatening to turn into a scowl. Fragging Cowards.

As soon as the small building came into view, he skidded to a halt, bringing up a small shower of dust as he did so.

The pub he entered was small, slightly dingy, unattractive in every sense of the word. At least on the outside. Indoors, the sight was far more pleasing. Clean, polished tables and booths littered the area, all evenly spaced out to prevent accidental collision. The lighting was dim in a pleasant way, giving the room a cozy ambiance. The bar was just as shiny and polished as everything else in the place.

Blurr could no longer stand living in the center, being surrounded by idiotic, ignorant mechs and propaganda. He purposefully moved to the outskirts, kept his place as unnoticeable as possible. Even if job options and income were very poor here, it was better than working for monsters.

A lone mech sat hunched over the bar, waiting for him. Blurr recognized the form immediately. Ratchet. The famous medic, member of Team Prime and the one running the small clinic just a few blocks away.

At first he'd been wary. One of the best medics of Cybertron and the one who participated in winning the war running a clinic, assisting the poor, more often than not taking no payment for his services and, most surprising of all, treating his deception slave decently. Sure, he scolded and insulted him whenever they were in public to give the appearance of abuse, but Blurr could see right through that guise. He did not miss the sadness that flashed through those blue optics whenever Ratchet was forced to utter an insult, he did not miss how the medic's E.M field brushed apologetically against the 'Con's or the way Shockwave did not cringe away like the other slaves whenever his master approached.

So, when one day Ratchet stumbled into his bar, in a desperate need to be overcharged, Blurr welcomed him. A friendship formed. Which led them to where they were now.

"Tough-night?" The racer asked with easy familiarity, already reaching for Ratchet's preferred high grade, he looked like he needed it. Ratchet only grunted in reply, rubbing at his templeplates with one servo. The exhaustion in both the frame and E.M field was practically palpable.

Blurr knew Ratchet well enough to discern the 'I've spent the whole slagging night in the operating room' and 'I've just spoken to a former teammate' moods. He did not press the medic, instead simply passing him a cube. Ratchet would tell him when he felt like getting it off his chest plate. Several kliks passed. There was a new cube in Ratchet's servos when the medic finally spoke up, voice gruff and layered with exhaustion. Blurr could hear the underlying tones of suppressed anger shining through, attentiveness was a common trait amongst former spies.