Series: The Ghost Unit
Title: Stockholm Syndrome (Only, Not.) (16)
Setting: IDW Transformers, inspired by the "What's Wrong with a Little Destruction" 'verse by ajremix
Note: Many thanks to rexlapinii for beta-ing!
Summary: Finding volunteers to help train a super secret unit can get... complicated sometimes. As the Ghosts learn, much to their dismay.

Stockholm Syndrome (Only, Not.)
"Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training."
~ Anna Freud

Hostage situations were - even at the best of times - touchy situations to say the least. This particular scenario had not been designed to be either simple or easy however and as such, a lot of the "touchy" part of any such mission was certain to rear up its ugly head, more than once.

Still, it was a training scenario all units had to train in, and they'd "found" a volunteer to play hostage for their particular unit no less. Which consisted more of one of the few Autobot officers who was in the know about the unit seeing the scenario in progress while Flagship was working on it and instantly volunteering himself and another of the few people available as participants in the whole thing. That this had somehow also actually netted them a kidnapper as well had been considered a bonus at the time.

Since the simulation had begun things had been going smoothly enough. At least, smoothly enough when one was faced with a kidnapper which suddenly turned out to have more tactical knowledge than any kidnapper in their right processors had ANY right to have. Ever. And regardless of what anyone might want to say about the situation, the Ghosts currently on the field had determined that the mech was not only crafty and scary when it came to turning the tables on anyone, but that the dry sense of humor he was displaying and the creativity shown in the traps he'd laid for them were nothing short of downright terrifying. (Longshot might have still been sulking about it, too, had he not at least managed to wing-clip the kidnapper the first time they'd flushed out their quarry, tagging him with tracking markers at the same time. At least that meant he was too busy being smug "Take that, ha!" to sulk anymore. None of the others save for Callsign were sure that was much better, but they made do. Callsign merely cheered the sniper on, without reserve.)

Finally though, they'd caught up with their target. Solely, they all suspected - and had been informed of yet again by a smug sniper - due to the markers still merged in the mech's door wing components. Fallout had made note to thank Deadline for coming up with those, even as Salvo sang praises to the medic on their team tight link, over and over again. No one minded him doing so. They were in the process of rescuing the captive. The kidnapper was - according to sensor reports - out of ammunition to use against them. And the hostage was safely tucked away behind them, with Salvo providing the mass of his body as a shield if need be.

The low, coy giggle should have been warning enough, really.

"No! You can't take me away!" With a dramatic flourish, the hostage broke free of Salvo's hold and launched himself at his stunned kidnapper, plastering himself to the mech with a determined coo and every available micromillimeter of plating he had. "We were meant to be together! Clearly you can see this!" And then, with a wicked grin and a dramatic wail, he tacked on the final nail to the proverbial coffin. "You wretched bots are just jealous, that's all! Go away and leave us alone!"

The would-be rescuers stared at the scene, dumbly. The kidnapper stared right back at them, optics gleaming nearly pure white, though he otherwise remained entirely still. The look etched on Fallout's faceplates was one of clear horror, with an underlying tension unique to any bot doing their best not to laugh at the worse possible moment. (Longshot failed miserably and did in fact giggle, but thankfully it was over the tight link and not in any way which meant a non-Ghost might hear the reaction.) The hostage cooed and snuggled up some more to his kidnapper, all the while clearly enjoying the reactions this was producing from all bots in the vicinity.

#Oh, wow,# was all Callsign had to contribute, as he glided up from where he'd nearly crashed, rebooting anti-grav units protesting the sudden demands being put upon them.

The kidnapper's right door wing twitched irritably once. Then again.

Triggering the sludge bombs he'd set up at the most logical locations the would-be rescuers would be likely to choose - and indeed had - mostly seemed like a merciful act, at this point. The hostage, wriggling in delight, expressed his approval of the trap by squealing happily.

"Congratulations, Ghosts. You're all dead."

"Eeee! My savior! My one and only true lo-GLACK!"

"You're dead too, Jazz." There was, of course, no satisfaction at all in Prowl's voice as he shot the hostage several more times with sludge laden ammunition in the way best calculated to have him land on a strategically positioned mine or even the slightest glimmer of contentment as he eyed the results as the bot was flipped up and neatly plastered to the ceiling. By the time he was done Jazz, for some reason looking surprised at the treatment, was neatly mired in the same sticky material the others were half-heartedly trying to twitch their way out of.

"I believe this particular training scenario requires a bit more... fine-tuning."

The hostage - no longer infatuated with his captor at all, it seemed - glared and twitched and muttered Very Bad Things under the gummy material holding him pinned to the wall. The Ghosts - more than happy to let Jazz take the brunt of Prowl's not-ire - were content to remain meek and quiet. (And in Salvo's case, desperately holding back a severe fit of giggles.)

Salvaging what was left of his dignity - the only one in the field in any state to do so - Prowl stalked off towards the base to discuss further training simulations for the team with Flagship, (none of which involved him, but some which involved a certain black and white Intel officer being volunteered as a living target), leaving both Jazz and Ghosts-in-training to their own devices. After a moment's consideration he slowed his pace down, making certain not to arrive there too quickly, in order to give a suspiciously silent Flagship the time he would likely need to get himself under control.

Watching the proceedings at a safe (hopefully) distance, Longshot wisely kept any further remark he might have made to himself.

Current Mood: amused