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Shockwave used his left arm to hurt him.
No mech could recall how or why exactly he’d lost that servo. It must’ve been a feat— damaging the de facto leader of the Decepticons to such a degree. A story like that, had it been shared amongst troops, would certainly raise morale and inspire young soldiers to fight; however, one day, Shockwave simply appeared on the battlefield missing a limb, and the next day, he’d replaced it.
The new “servo” was detachable. It could be replaced with a gun, a saw, a blade, or any other instrument, most of them lethal or possessing the propensity for lethality. Ultra Magnus had been given ample time to memorize these attachments, and yet, he felt he was no closer to that goal now than he’d been when he first arrived. The only thing he knew for certain about Shockwave’s left arm was that it always preceded hurt.
Ultra Magnus was a fine soldier, but never a smart one. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and although he’d come to terms with it in the past, the reality of his poor intellect had weighed on him every day since his capture.
Elita-1 was smart. She was crafty and resourceful, traits that others wouldn’t recognize if they weren’t looking for them. Most soldiers understood her as merely their leader, a mech who gave orders and did little else, but Ultra Magnus had served as her second-in-command for years. There was a brilliance underneath the headstrong display she showed her troops. And then there was Perceptor, he was smart, too. Their scientist and doctor, who tended to their troops and administered repairs. The Decepticons had adopted an attitude that simply needing repair work was a sign of weakness, and that there was no point in a doctor when both sides were bleeding for troops. The Autobots disagreed. Save every soldier, Elita-1 would say. Or at least, try.
The Autobot second-in-command wished he could exemplify these same traits, but he had a one-track processor. His mind told him to fight, and that’s what he did.
When Shockwave approached him, he fought. Even though his arms and legs had been shackled for a century, and he’d lost feeling in both respectively, he beat against his restraints as if this tried-and-tested solution with a background of decades would finally, this one time, work.
When Shockwave approached him, he often raised his left arm. Ultra Magnus knew what that meant. It meant that the gun or the saw or the blade that rose in the air and glinted in the torturously dim light on the room would come back down on him. It would slice through his armor, wiring, and circuitry. It would gouge out his optic, or dig holes in his fuel tank, or wrap around his internals and pull. It would hurt him. So, without the intellect he knew so many other Autobots possessed, all Ultra Magnus could do was struggle.
This time, however, was different.
When Shockwave approached him, he was quiet as he so often was. He entered the room like a scientist, and nothing like the sadistic torturer he’d become over the duration of the war. His yellow optic glowed, dilating on Ultra Magnus’ frame, and the prisoner felt his body seize with fear at the sight.
They seldom spoke anymore. Fighting was a solution he knew was pointless, but at least fighting was something he was otherwise good at and bred to do. Speaking had never been his job. When Elita-1 said on late nights on the battlefield, we must rally these troops, she never meant for Ultra Magnus to offer himself up as a sacrifice. He stood beside her when she spoke to them, his presence supposedly commanding, but he never spoke himself. What could he say to inspire their army? His imagination couldn’t come up with any possibilities.
So when Shockwave approached him, he knew what to expect. He’d raise his left arm, and the day would begin. But Shockwave didn’t do that. Instead, the scientist stared, and stared, and stared, until finally, his right arm moved.
There was nothing particularly extraordinary about that. Not to the average mech, anyway. He actually had a servo on the right side, and that servo held just as much of an aptitude for violence as any other part on his frame. Ultra Magnus was meant to flinch, maybe yell, maybe struggle more, but instead, something about the movement immediately settled him. Shockwave never raised his right arm.
What happened next was even more unusual. Ultra Magnus didn’t have to be intelligent nor the best at understanding patterns and deviations to understand.
Shockwave, with his right servo, began to pet him.
Now, he’d truly done it. Ultra Magnus had truly gone insane. He’d hoped that, despite a hundred years as a prisoner of war, that he would be able to hold out longer. He did, after all, have hundreds of thousands of other years inside him, and those surely meant something, too, but in this instance, he knew. He was insane. Because there was no universe out there where Shockwave approached him to do anything other than inflict pain. Shockwave lived to inflict pain. But this time, he didn’t.
It was a torturous feeling anyway. A cold, blunt digit stroked his cheek as though it were a valuable piece of metal and not him. Cybertronians weren’t known for touching each other, it was hard to do being made of metal the way they were, but something about it felt good anyway. Safe, comforting.
He shook again, leaning away. No! What was wrong with him? But Shockwave followed, advancing from a digit to two, and then his full servo. He touched Ultra Magnus’ cheek, his helm, two digits pinched one of his finials, and then they worked their way down to what little remained of his arm. The remnants of his shoulders, his bicep, his own servos, strapped and unfeeling to the surface of the table. Then it trailed to his chassis, and tapped at that metal, too, delicate and light and unexpected. Ultra Magnus didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t think at all!
Why did this have such an effect on him? Why did his frame want to relax? What had Shockwave done to achieve this? Elita-1 might’ve known, if it were her. But then, it would never be her. Too smart, he thought as the torturously gentle touch persisted. Too smart to let this happen.
He was powerless against his own instincts. The same instincts that told him fight, struggle, resist, were now telling him to relax, to let loose, to enjoy it. How often was it that he received this kind of treatment from Shockwave? Never, he lamented. Never before.
Finally, the scientist stopped.
Ultra Magnus’ frame, despite years of being sedimentary, buzzed with energy. Electricity sizzled out of damaged components in the most humiliating, demeaning way. When it was over, he realized that there was no fight left in him. It had all sizzled away. And for once, it felt good not to fight, but he pushed that feeling down deep.
All he could do to restore even a sliver of his dignity was glare. The yellow optic dilated again, an unreadable emotion in its lens.
Then, Shockwave’s frame twitched. His left shoulder, and it twitched and then rose and then glinted like it so often did, and Ultra Magnus’ gaze widened in alarm.
His frame couldn’t respond in time. He couldn’t tense, tremble, or fight. Why are you doing this, he wished he could ask, but he could never get the words out right. Without another moment’s delay, Shockwave plunged the gun into his chassis, and finally, the goals of his torturer could no longer confuse him.