"You fucked up, sub commander."
Ironhide's cuffed servos are attached to a chain that is pulled tight the moment it's attached, stretching his arms upwards, and leaving him on the tips of his pedes.
"I chose to retreat as the casualties would be numerous, and at a considerable price." He defends himself.
It's true, even if he mainly did it because he hates the pointless deactivation of his brothers; Warframes doesn't come for free, and a continued assault would've been made at a substantial cost, and that's a truth.
"That may be so, but all our calculations show that it would've been an easy enough win, and the losses would be made up for by the profits gained from taking that space port. Your superior commander told you to continue, but still you pulled back. You should be thankful that we don't just deactivate you for this glitch in subordination. You've served well up until now, so we'll let you get away with a warning, and a fair punishment."
The first lash of the energon whip lands across his back, and in spite of how insensitive his frame is — created to withstand battle — it burns like pitfire. Ironhide's lips curl of their own accord into a silent snarl.
For his brothers.
The lashes come at a brutal pace, lining up across his back, sneaking under plating to hit more sensitive parts, and every time his sensor net is lit up with agony, it fuels the fire of hate in his spark.
He's hit with a sucker lash, snaking under the plating on his lower abdomen, and Ironhide roars in pain and blind range — a determination to not ever cower for them.
They may make him scream, he may even beg before this is over, but he'll never let them truly break his spark.