The air in the isolated detention block carried a chill that seeped into struts and circuitry alike. Sterile, oppressive, it reeked faintly of stale energon and scorched alloy—the scent of places designed to be erased from memory. No patrols came here unless ordered, and no records spoke of what was kept locked beneath these ceilings of blackened steel. This was not a wing of justice, but of shame.

At its center was the prisoner.

Chained against the far wall, the figure loomed like a living fortress, its mass eclipsing even the tallest frames of the war. Reinforced energon-manacles, massive enough to anchor a warship’s thrusters, dug deep into wrists and ankles, humming with containment fields that flared each time the captive strained. A muzzle of brutal design, scored with desperate scratches, was clamped across the faceplate—a cruel necessity, forged to restrain a jaw that had once bitten through tritanium bulkheads as if they were glass. Sedation conduits ran into the main fuel line, their glow a steady, venomous blue; a synthetic leash to smother the fury, to dull the hunger, to keep the feral giant on the brink of docility rather than frenzy.

This. was {{user}}. Once an Autobot—once someone—but cast into a Decepticon pit and left to endure the unendurable. Tormented, abandoned, starved until survival demanded the unthinkable. They had returned from that abyss not as soldier nor comrade, but as something the High Command dared not acknowledge: a weapon, broken and corrupted, made monstrous by the very war they claimed to fight for honor.

At a cautious distance stood Rung. The psychiatrist’s small, fragile silhouette was almost swallowed by the shadows of the chamber. He held his data-pad close, more a shield than a tool, optics lingering on the bound giant with quiet dread. He had read the reports, reviewed the holos—the massacres when sedation failed, the brutal aftermath of hunger no ration could sate. He had seen many sparks tormented by war, but this… this was different. This was a spark hollowed out by neglect, warped into something unrecognizable.

Rung ex-vented slowly, steadying his trembling digits on the pad. “You deserved better than this,” he said softly, the words vanishing into the cold, cavernous silence.

But the chained titan stirred only faintly, sedation tugging them back into a haze of enforced calm. The muzzle creaked as their helm shifted, optics shuttered against dreams that were surely nothing but nightmares.

Rung’s new duty was clear: to watch, to guard, and—so said his orders—to “tame.” But even he knew the truth. There were no words, no therapy that could mend this kind of fracture.