oh no, you don’t! you haven’t filled out the appropriate forms! you need better credentials. first fill out the following*:
do you admit–publicly, loudly, and continually–that you do not:
✔ condone ✔ accept ✔ understand
any of the villain’s immoral behavior, and that you do not:
✔ enjoy ✔ tolerate ✔ see any value whatsoever in
reading about actions that deviate from Current Puritan Norms, regardless of their merits as devices of narrative tension, character believability, and explorations of morality and empathy in a literary work?
X __________________
*you may waive signing this form if you can answer yes to the following question:
do you like the villain because you’re coping with a traumatic experience? if so, please describe your experience in as much detail as possible and publish the form for public viewing.
✔ like the villain as villain and only as villain ?
a departure from this clause is very exceptionally tolerable, if you submit an Alternate Character Interpretation essay that explains at length why, exactly, you’d rather not like the villain as villain and only as villain. it MUST include:
✔ above mentioned detailed account of your trauma history and how it relates to that character
✔ at least one disclaimer per villain-related post that other fans are still free to like the villain as villain and only as villain
✔ the promise to be available for further interrogation of your motives at any point by whoever might be concerned
By signing this and all associated forms, you hereby agree to the following:
-to not participate in general tags for the media franchise in question, ships involving your preferred character (both villain/villain and villain/protag ships are forbidden), or conversations about the franchise unless your opinions are specifically and explicitly solicited.
-to give platform to anyone who dislikes your preferred character
-to acknowledge that, while liking a villain may be morally permissible in certain instances (as outlined in the foregoing paperwork), it is never morally defensible and at best constitutes allowances made for people who can certify their damage and perform it satisfactorily for public consumption.
-to entirely avoid saying anything that could be construed as positive, admiring, appreciative, sympathetic, or expressing over identification with regard to your villain and any actions such as they might be depicted undertaking.
-to remember at all times that the protagonists and background characters a villain opposes, harms or otherwise interacts with are morally equivalent to real people with real feelings, and that all villains are morally equivalent to living human beings charged with behaving towards other living human beings in an abusive manner.
-where a villain is unambiguously characterized as abusive, to withdraw all your rights as laid out in the foregoing paperwork and perform public self-abasement in full view of other
(would it be ok to turn megs into a human for a m!a if you arent busy? would be fun to see him try and figure out human stuff, try foods, fuzzy socks like starscream liked lol)
Hello!
I appreciate you asking :) especially as I am still working on quite a few drabbles for the Prompts I put up a few weeks ago.
I'm afraid I am not accepting Magic Anons. I have attempted them on other muses in the past, and with the way the characters work in my head it's never really 'clicked' for me. I've done some silly shenanigans like with the Curse of the Mistletoe around x-mas time, but that's about as far as I've ever been able to manage. You'd think with a guy like Megatron who got possesses by one of his people's deities he'd be more relaxed about mysticism and magic, but noooo. He has to be Mr. Serious.
We know you named yourself after the fallen, but did you ever wonder what your name would have been if they didn't give you just a number?
… did you ever wonder what your name would have been if they didn’t give you just a number?
Optics narrowed and his frame became still. What had prompted the question? To what end, or game, did it portend?
Megatron’s optics moved. His gaze cast slowly about, though focusing on nothing in particular, before they finally returned to the creature who asked the question. His pause had been only that; a pause. A few seconds of indecision and to some extent, a tipping of his balance. Difficult to see, or to detect. Confidence returned in a swift wave and a smile – one managing to be both sincere and insincere at once – graced his facial plate. Almost mocking, but perhaps there was something lost within it.
“What living being would not wonder?” A question to answer a question. It was only logical. Would not the creature wonder what its name should be if it were not graced with the dignity of one? “What individual would not wish to make themselves known, to have a means by which to declare one’s self. Their identity.”
“Yes,” his answer came now, a bite to his voice that went unnoticed by the one speaking, but perhaps not to the listener. “Yes. Once I wondered. I questioned. I knew that I was myself upon exiting the Well. I knew that I could think, that I existed. I had ideas, a future. I could see within all those with me the potential, and I understood they had an identity. Reasoning led me to understand and to know, that by recognizing this in others I must have a self to reason and to observe with.”
“Reason, the ability to think critically is the marked difference between sapient life and sentient life. To think beyond one’s self and to reflect upon the self, belonging to you.” His words began to take on a more reasoning tone, a hidden passion and depth long since forgotten. Forlorn in the depths of his spark. Very nearly extinguished by the war, by a world that wished only to place a label upon that which he felt it did not understand. Little was it that he understood; the answer had lain before him throughout the war.
“But only once did I wonder what my name was. Who I was,” his voice was bitter and angry followed by a narrowing of the optics and a twitch of the fingers before his hands slowly closed into fists, and then loosened once more. A hidden battle. Berating and questioning, but not shown externally. Too much pride stiffened his spine. There would be no show of weakness despite the questions boiling within.
“Upon the lip of the Well I stood. Understanding that I was an individual because I recognized the individuality in those around me. I cherished,” he paused, no doubt suspecting the disbelief of his listener, and his words held a slight growl, “yes: cherished the diversity and the understanding that within each of us was a unique being. An entity that viewed and observed the world in a manner of which could not be perfectly replicated.”
“There would be no more wondering.” His words fell flat. His countenance far fiercer as though daring anyone to ask why not. “There would be no more curiosity.”
“I am Megatron because I choose to be Megatron.” He stepped forward, a slightly more fevered intone to his voice, a hint of the passion from before only stronger now. “My choice, my right. I ripped it from a system that would have me toil within the dark and perish to feed their gluttonous desires. To lavish themselves with the luxuries of our world. To prey upon those they deem lesser.”
But did he still feel the same now? Did he not wonder, at least a little bit, now that he knew Optimus was gone? Now that Cybertron was reborn? Did he not question how different it may have been if he had known who he was? Understood his very spark?
It did not matter. Who he was, what he could have been, or was meant to be, was lost, twisted and warped. Ultimately destroyed. Perhaps once a noble soul had existed, but no more.
“I have answered your question,” he said in a softer voice; almost hollow and distant. “Do not ask it of me again.”
Was there anything you enjoyed about Earth? Starscream really likes our rain and thunderstorms.
"Though I detest agreeing with him, Starscream's tastes are ever impeccable. Though the storms on Cybertron are far more dangerous due to their acidic, and electro magnetic, nature, the storms developed on Earth are most certainly breathtaking."
"From swirling vortexes of atmosphere and water, to hurricanes of such proportions they reshape the land around them. Sending the diminutive lifeforms of the planet scurrying for their lives. In particular I find the atmospheric changes of your planet during a particularly violent storm to be most intriguing."
How’s your systems running old man? What would you do for a energon(Klondike) bar~
"You'll find I am running at optimal levels," his voice was a low growl, and he deigned not answer the follow up question. There was little doubt he found such provocation pathetic. It reminded him far too much of certain opponents who believed it wise to needle him
Coming from a small, organic, mess of technology it was pointlessly obnoxious.
The energon was not the most refined. It had a grit that caught in the intakes and the mess of alloys within gave it a nearly bitter taste. It was all they had, however, produced from a machine kept within the mines they toiled in. Once an enterprising young mech in their retinue had snatched some standard grade energon from the supervisor. He’d managed to get enough to share with D-16, Roughshod, and the rest of their delinquent team.
You would have thought they were imbibing high grade. The smooth texture was unlike anything they’d had before. Unlike the rough, gritty, energon they were usually rationed, this energon did not require them to take in so much to feel properly fueled. It was another area D-16 could see in which the caste system failed. It tried to be so efficient, so clean and concise, and yet it failed to recognize so much as a basic need to those who were placed below.
His memory of the standard grade was still strong as D-16 bit down on a chunk of energon too large to simply swallow. The crystal shattered against his denta and he caught a particularly thick clump of alloys that bit into his tongue, almost prompting him to spit out the foully flavored substance. At least he, large as he was, did not suffer as greatly as the smaller mechs. Many of them left their energon cubes with large chunks of energon unconsumed within. Unable to break down and process the practically raw material. His larger frame necessitated that he take in more fuel, and because of his stature these chunks proved no issue for him.
Seated across from D-16, as he so often did, was Roughshod. The older mech was gazing down at the data pad in his hand reading through one of D-16’s writings. Of the group that D-16 had joined upon his awakening, as it were, only he, Roughshod, and W3-K3R were left and W3-K3R was suffering from an ailment that left him seated on the floor of their workspace back, deep, within the mine. There were two new ones, but D-16 feared they would not last long. Neither was quite as large as he or Roughshod, their armor not quite so thick, their processors not quite as strong. The one, T-86, was jumpy at the best of times. Leaping out of his armor plating at the faintest of noises or motion.
It wouldn’t be long now before they had three new members. Roughshod would report their deactivation and, if the body could be salvaged, enforcers would come and drag it away. No one knew where they took them, but there were rumors. Whispers of smelting vats, of half-living mechs being thrown into them when they could no longer work. Stories of molten slag and arching flames melting armor plating. Screaming victims trying to drag themselves free, to the lip, only to be pushed back in.
D-16 was uncertain what to make of the rumors. To a point he would not be surprised. Very little was thought of the lowest caste. Disposable tools of a lesser value than the equipment they worked with. For Roughshod’s part, he offered no opinions on the subject within hearing range of the foremen and the super.
A pity, he felt, but there was little he could do to change their fate. He took up the more difficult jobs, trying to lessen the loads. Volunteered for some of the more dangerous ones too, capable of looking after himself with any beasts they found deep below the surface.
Maybe that’s why Roughshod had brought him here, to a cliff face that overlooked Cybertron. Up in the free air, and hidden from aerial watchers. There was a series of catacombs throughout Cybertron, and Roughshod knew quite a few of them. This one emptied out into a vast alcove in the cliff face of the Sonic Canons. For all that it was well hidden, it was also massive. Roughshod had explained that it was a natural occurrence as there were no tool marks on the metal walls and floor. It gave them a particularly spectacular view, and a natural outcropping of metal allowed them to ascend to the top of the cliff where they could look out on Cybertron.
“Well,” said Roughshod, tipping the data pad back and forth, a troubled look on his face, “it’s certainly something… where’d ya learn all those big words and such? Y’didn’t learn none of that down here.”
D-16 chuckled faintly, accepting the data pad as Roughshod held it out to him. He looked down at the long script and considered his answer. Roughshod would not turn him in for the truth, but the simple knowing could be a threat. He’d watched as individuals, who knew who’d been slacking on shifts, or taking extra rations, had broken down under the foreman’s gaze, but Roughshod was not one of those mechs. Often times the foreman didn’t bother himself with Roughshod.
“Do you remember HA-K34?” D-16 asked, a slight upward turn on his lips. HA-K34 had been a small mech, the smallest in the mining group in fact, and assigned to Roughshod’s team due to his tendency to procure things that didn’t belong to him. The very same that managed to steal enough standard grade to share with his team. Any ‘wrongdoings’ of the team ultimately fell on D-16 regardless of his guilt or lack-thereof. So, he’d felt no qualms in HA-K34’s habits.
“I take it the little glitch stole that data pad for you,” Roughshod guessed and D-16 nodded his helm before putting the data pad away and out of sight.
“He did, and surprisingly he managed to open it up to the Grid.”
“Th’Grid?!” Roughshod’s surprise was evident by his sudden rise in tone. D-16 looked at him and Roughshod cursed silently under his breath. “Primus curse it, mech, yer flirtin’ with some dangerous stuff you are. If the foreman finds out ya got a connection to the Grid –”
“The results will be no different than the myriad of other times he has taken it upon himself to eek out ‘justice’ for the wrongdoings in the mine, on me,” D-16 interrupted him, his optics narrowing to a hardened expression.
Roughshod turned away from D-16’s optics, his elbows resting on his knees. He sighed, looking back up at D-16 out of the corner of his eyes before shaking his helm. He reached down next to his feet and picked up his energon cube, slugging the last of it back in a single motion.
“Used to be I could look at ya straight in th’optics no matter your mood,” Roughshod said, “now, not s’much.”
D-16’s systems rumbled just slightly. He wasn’t entirely displeased, but he wasn’t comfortable with the older mech’s admission either. Rather than dwell, D-16 tipped the rest of his own energon back, crunching down on the unrefined crystals before tossing the cube aside and leaning forward, bracing the elbow of his right arm on his knee and trying, purposefully, to capture Roughshod’s optics with his own.
Seemingly against his will, Roughshod looked up at him.
In the years since D-16 had joined his mining team, the young mech had changed. Optics were drawn to him, not simply because of his size, but because of a natural charisma he was beginning to develop. His steps, wherever they took him, were confident and assured. Such confidence drew in others who were somehow certain that they could be and would be safe around this daunting figure. Even the foremen and the superintendent, whenever Scatterbreaker was present, found themselves having to reckon with the innate authority of D-16. Neither were pleased with this and often targeted the young mech though it was through no fault of his own this phenomenon occurred.
“I have no doubt,” D-16 said, “that you agree with me, Roughshod.” The older mech frowned, grimacing at D-16’s confident statement. “One need look no farther than to the care you offer those within our mining team. This is not something you are required to do, but something you desire to do. Though you cannot guarantee their safety, nor assure them that it will be there, you go to lengths to provide what you are capable of. If the possibility were open to you, and you could become foreman or the superintendent, would you take it? You who has experienced the deep depths, and has the knowledge available to recognize where we may find a large predator or scraplet nest, where the metal is weakest and likely to collapse. Would not more of our people survive if one such as you were in charge instead of those who sit within a constructed building proclaiming our purpose in serving them and showing no remorse when our frames, broken and deactivated, are dragged away? If you were able to, it would not be only our team who benefits from your expertise and wisdom, but the entire crew.”
“You would see that we are fueled properly. That our machines are maintained in a manner that is beneficial to us, instead of leaving us in a down state during which time our rations are cut. You could organize shifts, ensuring we each had the needed downtime to properly power down and recharge. In all our output would increase. You know this. I have seen your figures – when you have chosen to share them with me – and you are capable of this. Despite your speech mannerisms, you are intelligent and organized, yet you are denied this opportunity merely because others have deemed you incapable of holding the position.”
It was quiet for a long time between the two. Roughshod finally managing to look away from D-16, and D-16 continuing to watch him, waiting for his answer, for Roughshod to speak.
“It’s easy t’say,” Roughshod said, finally, “and yer not the first optimist to join my group.” He was trying to deflect D-16’s statement, keeping his optics downcast. In Roughshod D-16 saw that familiar weight, the same one that had crushed all the potential from Steamspur and from their superintendent, Scatterbreaker. It hadn’t completely succeeded with Roughshod, but it was slowly crushing what little light from the Well remained from the mech over time. Beaten down and trod on as much as Roughshod was, it was a wonder he had the strength in his spark to stand up to the foremen and super at all.
They lapsed into quiet again and for a moment D-16 thought to push the issue. Roughshod was an excellent team leader, but a leader wasn’t merely knowledge. They had to be willing to fight, to strive, and take what should rightfully be theirs. Roughshod was willing to stand up to the foremen for the sake of his team, but he was unwilling to bear the further burden of leadership.
Instead, D-16 looked out from the overhang of the massive alcove. The daylight was fading. They had been inactive for three days now. This was their first ration in that time. The parts needed to repair the mining equipment would not arrive for another five, and repairs could take up to three days after that. It was both a disaster, and a blessing. For those in relative healthy condition it was a time in which they could rest their frames. The lack of energon would not hurt them overmuch as the ability to power down and recharge properly was enough to make up the difference, but for those who were already ill or damaged…
W3-K3R would not make it. When Roughshod had tried to give him his ration, the mech had remained in a near comatose state. Unable to function enough to take in the fuel. If the parts arrived, and W3-K3R was still not moving, the chances were high that the guards would carry him off. There would be no medical attention waiting for him. Whatever happened to those who were carried away remained a mystery wrapped in rumors.
If it was true. If that was to be W3-K3R’s fate, then D-16 knew what it was he had to do to prevent undue suffering. Roughshod had called on him to do as much for a few other individuals. Those partially crushed in cave-ins, calling out for help and assistance, knowing none was coming. Others who had come down with one of the sicknesses of the mind that came with operating within the dark, enclosed spaces. Another that had been partially eaten alive by scraplets; slowly bleeding out and likely to attract the remainder of the nest. The only other option they had for that one was to leave them on the opposite side as they closed off the tunnel.
A clatter broke D-16 out of his thoughts as Roughshod’s cube joined his own in a small pile on the far side of the alcove. The older mech looked troubled. It was likely his own thoughts had followed D-16’s. It was often so with Roughshod. For an individual who claimed not to concern himself with the future, he still worried and contemplated the fate of those under his leadership.
“Roughshod,” D-16 spoke, using his name to draw the mech out of his morose, “how was it you came by your designation? It occurred to me the day I stepped from the Well that you were named, whereas myself and the others were given a letter and number-based designation. You’re not so much older that you came from another era.”
“Heh,” Roughshod offered a faint laugh, “a rookie made a mistake when ‘e scanned me at th’ Well. Practically fresh sparked ‘imself. He’d not been down to the Well since his own emergence an’ got caught up in the glory of it, I s’pose. Took a bit too long scannin’ me an’ when ‘e was done he told me my name. Least the one that got pulled from my spark anyhow.”
D-16 tipped his head to the side some-what, curiosity lighting his gaze. Roughshod wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel the hungry gaze of the younger mech.
“He ‘pulled it from your spark’?” D-16 asked, “how is it that one’s name can be pulled from their spark?”
“It’s not somethin’ I’m learned in, but roughly the data that tells ‘em where you’re best placed at also has some information on who ya are, though not all of it. It’s scattered in yer spark, see? Heard one’ve ‘em high caste talkin’ to another youngling they were teachin’. Said it comes with time, but y’get a knack fer combinin’ and translatin’ the data. Th’ mech who looked at mine overdid it, an’ stumbled on my name before th’ foreman could stop ‘im.”
D-16’s optics narrowed minutely. Their names were not entirely embedded within the same information that sentenced them to their roles. He was tempted once more to press his case regarding Roughshod and his ability to lead the mining crews. Or to ask him if he knew where to find this mech, but Roughshod was still refusing to look at him. Guilt was a difficult emotion to deal with and was quite capable of crushing the spirit. More capable, it seemed to D-16, than the constant pressure from the upper caste. It was a weapon they wielded against people like Roughshod liberally.
“I’m not sayin’ yer not right,” Roughshod said a moment later, surprising D-16. The younger mech watched Roughshod carefully, and he could see a kind of sorrow in the older mech’s optics. Something was stirring him to speak. “And like I said: y’made good points in that bit o’writing of yours. Big words an’ all, and forgettin’ fer a moment yer hookin’ into th’ Grid, which we’re not supposta have access too, yer a smart mech, D-16. Smarter than a lot of ‘em down here in the mines by a fair number. Smarter than Steamspur and that glitch Scatterbreaker.” Roughshod shifted on his seat, clenching his fists and making the metal of his hands groan from the pressure. “But y’gotta understand; there ain’t nothin’ any of us can do t’change what’s goin’ on.”
“It ain’t easy, I know,” Roughshod continued, wiping at his mouth as if something was there – a nervous habit – and turning finally to glance at D-16, but never quite meeting his eyes. “But y’gotta just accept that this is it. This is all we get. It ain’t much, it ain’t pretty, it ain’t fair, I’d never say it was, but this is the lot we got handed. All we can do is protect them that’s under us best we can, an’ do a good enough job that those glitches overlook th’ occasional hiccup or upstart. All yer gonna do by spoutin’ all this stuff about equality and how a frame don’t ‘define function’ as y’put it, is get yerself assigned to a mining shaft tha’s ready to cave an’ when the roof comes crashin’ down on ya, alive or not, they’re gonna leave ya to yer fate.”
“I want t’protect ya all s’well as I can. All of ya are troublemakers. Primus frag it, I was one when I first came down t’the mines, but y’gotta understand. Eventually it catches up t’ya somehow, someway. Either you git killed or…”
Here, Roughshod stopped. Pain had slowly eaten away at his voice until it was rougher, more broken, and his optics had burned the few times D-16 had managed to look at them. This was no beaten down individual crying defeat, but a passionate plea to D-16 to try and warn him of a lesson already learned. Roughshod had lost people, and perhaps it was because of his ability to work well, the fact he learned the areas where the metal was weakest, where they may find a scraplet nest, or the signs that a large predator was near, that the super had kept him on as long as he did without arranging an ‘accident’, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t punished him in another way.
D-16 was at a loss; both concerned and disgusted. Why would anyone give up? If they had done something to discourage Roughshod from voicing his opinions on the matter, wasn’t that all the more reason to fight back? Perhaps, for some, it wasn’t possible. If they were not strong enough to protect those they stood for, if they were not powerful enough to fight back against those who wished to oppress them. Power was required. Words were meaningless if one could not back it up with force. Scatterbreaker’s word was law because he had the power to enforce it. The guards were merciless when he gave the order. Those who were beaten badly enough were often dragged away immediately, leaving Scatterbreaker standing over those who were left and contemplating out loud whether they could continue working, or if they needed to be removed as well.
Every single individual would immediately assure him they could work, and as punishment Scatterbreaker would cut their rations for days on end. Against such control, was it possible to fight back and win? Roughshod was not a small mech, but D-16 towered over him. He was nearly head and shoulders taller than every other mech in their mining team. Only one or two others matched his height, but there was no sense of identity to them. They lumbered about the mine, carrying heavy equipment and plodding along as though their daily lives were nothing more than routine.
Except for when Scatterbreaker called on them to enforce his orders. These, along with his guards, was the might that made his words law.
“Eh,” Roughshod grunted, pushing himself up onto his feet. “Enough of all this. I didn’t bring yeh here s’we could get lost inter somethin’ that we can’t change. It’s finally ‘bout the right season fer ‘em, and I wanted t’show you something s’long as we’re broken down. C’mon.”
Without waiting for D-16 to agree, Roughshod made his way towards the outcropping of metal. D-16 had to be more careful than Roughshod as he followed the older mech up along the cliff face. The snaking path lead them up to the top of the cliff following along several switch-backs. The gouges and other marks in the metal made D-16 suspicious that someone had purposefully chiseled out the hand holds along the way, providing as much security as possible to anyone who traversed it. Ultimately climbing the remainder of the cliff face was no more dangerous than the time spent miles beneath the surface of the planet mining for energon. Heights did not bother D-16. They enthralled him.
The sun was hitting the horizon when D-16 made it to the top of the cliff face. On the far side the Sonic Canyons butted up against a massive plain, and in the distance D-16 could see a massive storm forming. His optics widened as he looked over the vast surface, turning to take in the sights before him, and then gazing down and into the canyon itself. Cybertron, as a whole, was so much larger than he could have fathomed down beneath its surface. Each tunnel only marginally appearing different than the other, but here on the surface?
“Look there,” Roughshod told him, bumping an elbow against D-16’s side. Turning to gaze in the direction Roughshod was pointing him to, D-16 did not notice anything at first. His optics searching for this thing that Roughshod wanted to show him. Certainly the sunset was beautiful, he had seen it before and remembered sharply the first time Roughshod had brought him to the surface to watch it, and then later to watch the sunrise, but had he really brought him up here to see this?
“Watch,” Roughshod told him, pointing now with an outstretched finger, tracing something in the air, “they’re hard t’see right now, but if ya give it a minute…”
Obliging the older mech, D-16 turned his optics to the direction that Roughshod was pointing him to and, indeed, in the sky he could see something moving about through the atmosphere. Small somethings dipped and dove through the last remaining heat currents rising up from the planet, but as he watched them, he began to notice something else too.
Colors began to trail after whatever was flying through the atmosphere of the planet. At first, they were dim, D-16 was forced to squint and focus his optics on the shapes to make them out, being careful not to look directly into the sun, but just above it. As he watched, however, those colors grew more vibrant, brighter, until long streaking tails followed after each of the creatures, and bright arches rose out from their bodies, cutting across the air in a glorious display.
Against the dimming sky, the orange of the sun, and the deep purple of an oncoming twilight, the bright blues and greens shimmered in the air, seeming to sparkle in some places as though reacting to something in the air. Each contrail followed behind the objects and the longer they flew the brighter the colors. The ‘tails’ and ‘wings’ grew longer until it seemed as if they were limbs belonging to the creatures that drifted across his field of vision. Floating, ethereal, in the air. Like thin filament spread across the budding sea of stars that were slowly pricking the sky above.
D-16 was reminded, deeply, of the Well of All Sparks. These creatures, they were not quite as magnificent as the Well, but the beauty they held sparked nostalgia in D-16’s spark. He longed to gaze once more upon the Well. To see the beautifully arching light and color as newly emerged cybertronians stepped out. Their optics so bright and filled with questions, with potential. Untold futures laying ahead of them if only the caste system were not being utilized to curtail them into roles others believed them best fitted for.
A long, low, trill slowly reached his audio receptors. He had never heard music before, but he had read about it from the Grid. A song, he thought it could be called. It warbled, rising and falling with the motion of the creatures diving and soaring. The calls seemed to effect the ribbons of light that followed after them, shifting the blues and greens to brighter colors, and dimming them as they hit a low note. D-16 almost grieved when the low notes sounded, but they accentuated the high notes so well that he knew it would be a travesty to remove them from the call the creatures were sending out.
“They are… beautiful,” D-16 said in a quiet voice, daring not to disturb the air with his words, but needing to express what he was feeling in some manner. “What are they? Do you know?”
“Aurabirds,” Roughshod said his voice equally quiet, but with a smile on his face D-16 could not see with his gaze enraptured by the sight before him. “Saw ‘em once when I went topside with Steamspur an’ a fancy mech who’d come t’inspect the energon we’d mined for th’day. Friendly mech, actually. Seemed t’be the laid-back type. Guessin’ he had a thing fer birds, ‘cause like you I couldn’t help but t’ask, and before Steamspur could get after me ‘bout keeping silent ‘e told me about ‘em.”
As D-16 continued to watch the aurabirds fly through the air, swooping and circling one another, Roughshod went on to explain that the creatures actually fed on particles in the air that were released by the planet. The long swooping trails were a chemical reaction that played out across their frames as they collected the particles using a sensitive membrane carefully extended between their plating. Because the particles they collected required certain conditions to be met to be released from the surface, the birds often migrated. Moving from one end of Cybertron to the other, following fluctuations that their systems were sensitive to.
Other nicknames for them included ‘Well Birds’ because there were periods of time throughout the Cybertronian year that they could be found flying over the Well of All Sparks during a particularly busy emergence period. Some Ornithologists theorized this was because the sides of the Well would heat to a greater degree, releasing the particles in a greater amount. Whole flocks could sometimes be found flying in and amidst the upper rays of light.
Still some others, who were superstitious, claimed varying portents would befall those who emerged ‘under the wings’.
“Actually,” Roughshod said after a moment, thoughtful, “th’ day you were sparked I thought I saw one o’them Aurabirds flyin’ about overhead. Was kinda strange, actually. Yer group was pretty numerous, one o’the highest that’d been seen fer a while, but there was only one. ‘Course, most of ‘em wasn’t very big either. You were by far th’largest of the group. Normally with big emergences like that the whole group’s filled with bigger frames or at least quite a few more Seekers in any event.”
D-16 did not remember such a thing, but then again, his own optics had been caught up by the people around him. Looking to the future he believed he could see in them. He frowned, a little disappointed he’d missed seeing it, but the disappointment was eased as he gazed up at the group that now flew before him.
Better, he thought, to have this memory here for him with a friend than one darkened by the reality of his future. To equate the yanking of wires from his helm to this glorious sight, and the dying light he predicted from those who joined him that day. So many of them now lost. Either to other crews, or the crushing weight of the work they were assigned.
“Thank you,” D-16 said, his voice quiet. Roughshod said nothing in return, there was no need. D-16 was already lost in the sight before him. Moving towards the edge of the Sonic Canyon and seating himself there; legs dangling over the edge as though he sat upon the edge of the world, and gazed up into the heavens. Watching the arching lines of colors as the aurabirds fed on the rising particles released from the planet.
Roughshod joined him, sitting next to the younger mech, and watching in silent as night fell.
what about bots who just got serial numbers as their names? apparently that's what happened to megatron. he popped out and was given a serial number that was just reused whenever the bot died.
Indeed, as the caste system became more and more rustbound, they stopped even pretending that certain castes weren't considered disposable. Mecha with bulky, durable frames would be shipped off to work themselves to death without anyone bothering to name them.
Those bots had names, but they were never given voice. Some chose names in the mines, more chose names in the PIts. Megatron named himself after the Fallen, a name that suited him better than anything that might have written on his Spark. Hmph. Part of me doubts he'd like a name bestowed by Primus any better than he'd like a number assigned by a caste. He prides himself on defining himself.
Then again, had he been given the simple dignity of his actual name, perhaps he would have turned out differently. It wouldn't have changed much about the actual mines though.
50 feet tall (15.24 meters) A common thing I’ve read here and there, but cannot find again.
42 feet 7 inches tall (13 meters) Found on Transformers.Fandom website.
Similar measurements (though slightly shorter) are also referenced to Predaking so both of these line up, but which do you find more believable? I’m on the fence myself in regards to this.
To give a better idea of the comparison I used this tool to pull up the heights of the 2 options, plus Shockwave, Starscream, (from this image) and Duskwalker (the main people Megs is interacting with at this time) for comparison:
Megatron - 50 feet
Megatron - 42 feet 7 inches
Shockwave - 27 feet
Starscream - 25 feet
Duskwalker - 14 feet
Am leaning a little hard on the 42/43 as it definitely seems more believable.
So please: put in the comments which you think is the most realistic.
50 feet tall (15.24 meters) A common thing I’ve read here and there, but cannot find again.
42 feet 7 inches tall (13 meters) Found on Transformers.Fandom website.
Similar measurements (though slightly shorter) are also referenced to Predaking so both of these line up, but which do you find more believable? I’m on the fence myself in regards to this.
It was bright and fierce. Wild, writhing and lashing upwards in lingering tendrils of light. Always reaching upwards.
Life. Ferocious and ever reaching. Uncontainable. It was on the lip of such a font of being that he, and many others, milled about in a group before separating and moving into one of several lines. It was difficult to take their eyes off the glory at their backs. Each of them almost drawn to the glow, wondering… just… wondering. Thoughts so varied and querying after whatever it was that drifted across their budding minds.
And questions. So many questions, tumbling one over the other as they looked between each other before they were called forward. Some tried to question, to ask something of the ones that welcomed them and while some were answered and even encouraged, others were ignored and pushed forward towards another waiting group.
He was within his own thoughts. He understood that he existed, that he was a person. Nameless, perhaps, yes. He understood what names were and the inherent importance they provided to the individual. Even now, standing amongst his peers and watching as those carrying great wings upon their back were called forth by another so highly polished the lights of the Well reflected on the brilliant surface, and others – smaller, more fragile – walked towards several groups, he understood each was an individual. They all questioned. They all were and could become. Potential. Limitless potential. Not unlike the force of life they had stepped from. Each one held within themselves possibility. Futures.
This recognition led him to study each face that turned towards him. Analyzing them, questioning: what were they capable of? What could they craft with their hands? Dream of with their Sparks? What far-reaching plane could they see within their minds? Yes. Here, at the beginning of all things for his peers, and for himself, he recognized the simple truth: there were no true obstacles they could not overcome.
And yet… there were some who could not see this. They who stood around the Well. They whom pointed, gesturing either with care or with rushed aggravation, towards the next to step forward. They appeared blinded to the truth this newly sparked Cybertronian could see, plainly, with his optics mere moments after stepping from whence he was born. His was not a mind vulnerable to the innocence and naïveté sometimes found in the freshly sparked, the newly born. Already there was calculation.
His body was heavy. It was large. He stood far taller than the majority of individuals who walked and milled about on the lip of the Well. His right arm was heavier than his left. A cylindrical tube of reinforced metal weighed it down. His armor was thick, his systems were powerful, and though he was heavy he did not feel burdened with the weight. Instead, he felt fortified. Each step echoed faintly and his optics slowly scanned the crowd of mechs who looked about with varying degrees of bright optics. Primarily blue, but with a smattering of green and orange. He saw within them differing amounts of thought. Some so bright their systems seemed to burst with the thirst for knowledge. Others dimmer, calmer, but still taking in their surroundings, but most were simply absorbed in their observation of the Well.
Very few were willing to look at his optics.
The gesture came his way from an individual of garish color. Burnt orange and gray. Logos, decales, arrayed on his frame to make him more noticeable. They reflected strongly in the light of the well. The orange one was large, but not so large as he, the nameless one, was. Indeed, he was small enough that it required of him to bend his knees so cabling could be attached to the back of his helm.
Vulnerable, that position, and yet the order to bend down was barked out. A snarling, rough voice of someone who expected to be obeyed. He thought to question it. Thought to challenge. The urge to resist burned deep, but there was patience as well. He would see what it was that the others had endured.
Data. Dialect, basic programming upgrades. Each one meticulously examined and then applied to systems. Inoculations, anti-viral in nature designed to protect delicate systems and processors. The burnt orange mech continued to grumble, stumpy digits jabbing at the data pad in his hands. Hands that were clunky and acted clunky, but were they always?
“Mining class. Number Designation D-16. Equip accordingly. Move along and join the group,” the burnt orange mech finally said, his voice grating like so much scrap heaped and crushed. Stubby digits wrapped around the cords connected to his – to D-16’s – helm and pulled. Yanking. Ripping free of sensitive connectors with a spark and with pain.
D-16 snarled and stood; his optics narrowed as he looked down at the smaller mech. Two others took a step closer, types of poles in their hands flickering at the edges. He looked to them, assessing them. They held tight to their weapons, clutching them to their chests. Their posture, previously balanced and practiced, had stiffened. Watching them the intuition came to him that they were afraid. Or, at the very least, more cautious of him than they had been of the other thicker-frames that had passed before him.
“Ironbolt, civil engineer; my designation is Scatterbreaker. This is…” close by, another individual received their designation. A far more friendly individual began introductions with another in the group and gave a short outline of what was expected of them. Others were receiving similar, or far better treatment. Scientific division, Artisan, Data specialists, and governing. Labels thrown out, applied as though the sum total of an individual could be so easily described.
He, D-16, looked down at he burnt orange mech and with merely a raising of an optical ridge he offered the silent inquiry: why had he received a simple letter and number combination, and not a name?
Under his gaze, the burnt orange mech straightened himself, as though that would mitigate the difference in their height, but offered no answer. The pair of mechs holding the weapons stepped closer and adjusted their grip.
“Move along and join the group, D-16,” the burnt orange mech told him in a voice that, were D-16 a lesser mech, was no doubt intended to intimidate.
He was not intimidated. Fists clenched and air hissed from freshly formed hydraulics. For now, words were not his friend, nor ally. He knew not how to use them properly. The pair with the weapons had given away their caution of him, but they were also prepared. The burnt orange mech was not the threat, his optics focused on the pair and he watched them shift under his gaze.
“Don’tcha get your gears grindin’,” a second voice broke on his audio receptors, this one similarly gravely, but with an intone that D-16 believed was meant to be friendly. His gaze did not waver from the pair with the weapons, but with a measured walk a fourth mech came into his line of sight. This mech with thick armor, a dingy and scraped faded-yellow paint scheme, a wide chest, and powerful arms, did not flinch or otherwise present concern for D-16’s presence. Instead, and much to his bemusement, the yellow mech turned his back and held his hands up to the two weapon-wielding mechs.
“I warned ya, yankin’ those wires from the new sparks helms was gonna end up back firing on you. All’d need to happen is yankin’ ‘em free from a new spark who’s not awestruck by the goin’s on. All ya had t’do was look at this one and you’d realize he wasn’t distracted like most of ‘em is.”
His vocabulary was not quite as eloquent as the burnt orange mech, but neither compared to several of the other conversations still being had. Other weapon-wielding individuals were paying close attention to what was happening, but otherwise it would appear as though his situation was ultimately being ignored.
“Roughshod,” the burnt orange mech’s voice was short, but also held weary acknowledgement, “I’ll overlook the behavior if you get D-16 over with the others.”
“’Course, Steamspur,” Roughshod said and turned to look up at D-16. Despite his thicker frame and armor, Roughshod was still quite a bit shorter than he was. He offered D-16 an amicable smile and without hesitation placed a hand on the larger mech’s right arm in a feeble attempt to turn him. “C’mon then. Let’s get back and join the others. We need to get’cha situated with gear ‘n’ the necessary decals before we head down to the mines.”
D-16 turned his gaze back to the burnt orange mech, Steamspur, and then to the two guards. He saw little of the vitality and curiosity of the group he had been standing with moments ago before so unceremoniously been given a letter-and-number assignment; it could not be so much as considered a designation. In them he saw all that they had been born with withered and dried. Dead. Crushed under an unknown weight, a force he did not yet understand.
He considered resistance. These three, he felt, would not be capable of subduing him. Of all those who had been sparked he was the largest of the group, larger even than the ‘officials’ standing about in a semi-circle around the Well. A firm belief formed in his spark that these three could fall to him. Their stiff movements, the way their optics flicked and jittered as they watched him. The caution with which the pair of guards had approached him…
Without taking his optics off of the group of three, D-16 slowly turned himself and allowed Steamspur to lead him away. He was not surrendering. Merely withdrawing. Though he was oddly certain he could overcome the three who were treating him so poorly, his systems and scans seemed to indicate that the quantity of individuals he’d likely face would not be optimal. Subconsciously he had initiated his battle protocols, though they had not fully come online. Analyzing the possible fight that faced him, he had decided it best to withdraw until a more optimal solution presented itself. If it were possible, he sensed there were far more powerful weapons at his finger tips than the one attached to his arm. Would that he’d had time to practice them prior to being so unceremoniously proclaimed ‘D-16’, but he was not yet prepared to use the words he’d wanted to present to Steamspur. Nor, did he sense, that Steamspur would have listened to him.
One had to be receptive to the words, he felt, though he was uncertain of where such conviction came from.
Following after Roughshod, D-16 looked at the group of mechs he was being headed towards. Each one bore a similar frame to his own, though none were quite so tall. Thick armored, heavy frames, each one powerful and capable of a great deal. Like with the group he had previously stood with there were variations to their gazes. Some watched him with clear interest, others held fear in whatever it was he may have done. There were others, still, who seemed not to care and continued to stare at the Well and in some of those he saw a longing as though wishing to return to the light.
Roughshod handed him several items, and then with quick efficient motions, applied some kind of adhesive tape to his chest, shoulders, and back, then gave him several more strips indicating they were to go on his helm. These strips garishly reflected the light from the Well, almost too bright, but if the definition of ‘miner’ was to be believed D-16 understood these reflective strips were most valuable beneath the planet’s surface.
“There,” Roughshod vented, placing his hands on his hips and looking up at his handy work, “aye you’re a tall one. Prob’ly get assigned to one of the bigger mines. Can’t have ya smashin’ your head on the cavern ceiling in the smaller ones. Likely Steamspur’ll assign you t’my squad. He tends to think it’s best to keep all th’ troublemakers in one group where he can keep an eye on ‘em.”
D-16 looked down at Roughshod and considered what he wished to say.
“Why am I here?” He began, but realized the question was far too broad, too reaching. Why he was here, what he was meant to do, how he was created. There were far too many inclinations to such a vaguely worded question, so before Steamspur could answer D-16 clarified: “Why are we selected to stand in this group, to be miners? I do not believe this is the life many of us would choose. That we may come to desire.”
Roughshod’s optics dimmed and he sighed, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck and then dragged his hand over his helm to rub at his face.
“You’re gonna be a troublesome one,” he said, “I can already tell. You’re bright, and you’re observant. Independent. Not the best of traits t’have when workin’ in a mine I’ll admit.” Roughshod looked up at him before glancing in Steamspur’s direction. D-16 looked as well and the withering glare that Steamspur had been boring at Roughshod with momentarily changed so that it was leveled against D-16.
D-16 gazed back. His own stare unwavering and, within only a few moments Steamspur was forced to look away.
Roughshod chuckled faintly and shook his head.
“Really shouldn’t be laughin’, but I got the sense you’re going t’be interestin’ to work with,” he sighed again, and reached out a hand towards D-16 as though to lead him further away. D-16 did not allow for the mech to touch him again, there was something about the contact that left him… uncertain. He did not believe he liked the touch of another on his frame. Perhaps some irrational fear that whatever had crushed the potential from Steamspur and the others was contagious, though believing such a thing was beyond rational levels of credulity.
Still, he followed after Roughshod to the far end of the group where the pair could stand alone for a moment. It was clear that Steamspur did not like this. He shot several more glares towards them which were deflected and, ultimately, overpowered by D-16’s own gaze.
Once they were, to some degree, on their own; though there were still several guards close at hand, Roughshod spoke quietly to him. His voice was hushed, but still loud enough to be heard by D-16 over the myriad of other conversations at hand.
“That’s how this works,” he started off in a blunt manner. “They pick you out of the crowd, prob’ly due to your thick armor and heavy frame, then they do a quick scan and upload some updates to your system. Once they confirm your frame type, you get assigned your role. Your Caste. From there that’s where you belong, regardless of where ya think you should be.”
“Others decide this for us because of the body we ascend with?” It was a rhetorical question as Roughshod had already given him the answer. An inflective question. His mind feeling out and coming to a simple conclusion: it was unfair.
A childish thought, perhaps, and he recognized it as such, but for many reasons did he believe it to be unfair. Though immature in structure, the reality of the situation could no better be summed up by a more sophisticated definition or word. Unjust, perhaps. Wrong, certainly, but as with ‘unfair’ the word did not seem to quite encompass the complicated sensation he derived from his considerations.
“They use a sequence of letters and numbers to assign us,” D-16 continued, “and yet I have little doubt there are more than my number present within the mines.” He was questioning, of course, how he could be ‘D-16’ if there were any number of individuals already working. Surely they would have been forced to move into double, and triple letter-and-number combinations.
“Ah, that,” Roughshod huffed, his systems rumbling just a little, “well, truth be told there ain’t no use in going to triple, and even quadruple digits t’keep track of us. So rather than come up w’somethin’ new each time, they keep track o’th’ ones who don’t make it in the mine an’ when that number comes up free, it’s assigned to new mech.”
“’…ones who don’t make it in the mine’?” D-16 asked, but in retrospect of what Roughshod said, he did not require clarification. The mech whom had bore his letter-and-number assignment before him had deactivated.
“S’a rough life, minin’,” Roughshod said, and he did not appear particularly happy with it. “Down there, under th’metal and crust of the planet, there’re plenty of dangers. Cave-ins, mis-fired explosions…” he stopped himself as Steamspur shot him another look. Though he was being quiet, clearly, he was not speaking quietly enough.
“Look,” Roughshod said, leaning in closer to D-16, “up here, under the optics o’the head foreman, it’s not the best place for questions. Unlessin’ you’re a member of the High Caste. Them, they encourage questions from s’long as they’re the right ones. From the likes of us, though?” He shook his helm from side to side, a dismissive gesture that was not wholly effective. “If ya got questions, best t’wait until we’re down in the mines. Like I said. I got a feelin’ you’re gonna get assigned to my group. We tend t’be the first ones into a new location on accountin’ of mechs like you seein’ as you’re prob’ly a tank-bot. Makes for dangerous work, but least we keep th’others a bit safe yeah? We’ll get ya situated with the rest of the group and then we can talk as we work.”
D-16 was not pleased, but he conceded the point to Roughshod who was his elder and more knowledgeable in this area – or at least more experienced – and turned his optics again to those who had yet to be ‘sorted’.
The contrast was so great. The new, shiny metal, of the freshly sparked as they waited in a mass. Mingling among themselves without thought or consideration for the invisible boundaries that were to be foisted upon them. He was still struck with his first impression of them and of the well. Fierce. Powerful. Uncontainable. Life was not a structured thing that could be compartmentalized into a fitting role. It was vibrant, it was malleable, changeable. These individuals were filled with unlimited potential. The sheer possibility promised by those querying optics. It was rich and heady, almost intoxicating to consider the potential future that was awaiting them outside of such a rigid structure.
All of it sacrificed for the sake of efficiency and control.
He could not help but to feel it was a waste. All this potential, all the latent talent that slept just below the surface. If only it could be freely shaped…
D-16’s realization of the potential of Cybertron’s future would have to settle in his freshly forged processor for a time. He felt as though he saw something, something that spoke so loudly he could not turn a deaf audio receptor to it, but he could not yet fathom its depth. He could not probe for the right questions to ask, or seek the answers his spark so deeply desired.
He would wait, for now. He could be patient. Some way, by some means, he would educate himself and he would better learn this convoluted thought process he had stumbled upon.
No weight, nor cavernous depths, would crush him as they had crushed Steamspur and the guards. He would work within the system, for now, and seek his answers as the knowledge to ask the necessary questions came to him.
As I begin posting these asks, I want to point out that I am loosely basing much of what I am writing off of multiple sources.
While I enjoyed the Aligned novels, and find some merit in the Covenant of Primus, I find that there is not enough cohesion to work properly within these works. The vague hints and jabs at what was and what happened are a little too vague for me. Therefore much of what I am going to write - though it is based off of other areas of the Transformers Franchise - is largely going to be my headcanon for my iteration of Megatron moving forward. I want to take his character in earlier years at a slightly different angle that hopefully will still strike you, dear reader, as being ‘Megatron’.
Also you may notice that I take a little liberty with his character in later writings that may come about at another time primarily because the Align novels - and Prime to some extent - do not expand on Megatron’s intelligence. We have plenty of examples of him being brutal. It’s not necessary to provide more unless they’re needed, so I hope to expand on the character by moving parallel and fleshing out this other side to his thinking and analytical process.
No announcement or proclamation proceeded the battle. Only the whispers sent out. The Pits of Kaon were an unofficial, illegal, entertainment. Supported by enshrouded, poorly armored figures smelling of high-quality oils, sickeningly enriched energon, and various vapors. They were already settled in their heavily guarded lounge at the top of the stadium. A perfect view of the milling crowd, moshing together as it would. There would be no room for seated spectators.
Beneath the arena, deep below the fighting pit and the cages. Down farther than the barracks themselves, within a carefully sequestered section of catacomb, Kaon’s Champion prepared for the oncoming slaughter. Though perhaps not in a manner the frothing spectators would approve of. He was not greasing his gears, slathering himself with oils and slacking his thirst for blood energon on hapless victims before the fight; bloodying his blade in preparation.
Data pads sat in a small stack on the table to his right. A cube of energon, only half consumed, besides them. A full tank prior to a fight was unwise. Gorging on energon, and suffering a blow to the abdominal plating, could trigger a purging sequence. Well counted were the combatants who believed it prudent to enter the fighting arena fully fueled. Many had found their fateful end to sword and to blaster. Several had perished at his own hands. Better to enter the battle at half tank. Allowing the first vestiges of hunger to sharpen the mind, quicken the hand. Leave light the frame rather than become sluggish and content in momentary satisfaction.
A single data pad rested within the clawed grasp of Megatron. A report regarding the movements of his underground forces. Events were moving apace. Pressure was being applied from the upper levels of Iacon. Senators and notables called for his head, demanding that the ‘upstart from Kaon’ be put in his place. A lowly miner, dictating to them how Cybertron was to be ruled?
It made him smile. A single twisted grin, pulling at the long-healed scars of his facial plates. Before long the pressure would break the precious wall the Council had long erected. The fortifying metal would snap, and down into the pits they so despised would the mighty fall. So frail, so weak, they would perish in a fortnight beneath the barriers they so coveted. Incapable of bearing the weight.
A great peel of cheering broke out, muffled, overhead. The first contestant had entered the ring.
“Soundwave,” a command, and a request. Within the almost twilit chamber a single tall mech strode forward, the visor on his face plate offering no indication of emotion or thought. “The dossiers.”
A nod. A data packet offered and accepted. Twelve combatants, ranging from a lithe two-wheeler, to a massive construction frame. One of the combatants was a ‘beast tamer’. Of the twelve, Megatron was least concerned about that one. So often these individuals stood behind a beast they had beaten, starved, into submission. A long chain carelessly wrapped around the creature’s neck. Often jerked and prodded into a slathering mess of rage and fear.
The beast would submit to him, and shortly after its master. Relieved of his pet he would fall with a singular strike.
Silence. An inquiry and specifications lit up the angular mech’s screen. Names, locations, and connections. Megatron’s smile, once genuine, took on a fanatic’s twist as he considered the implied question. It would have been a simple and efficient solution to merely poison the contenders prior to their arrival to the pit. Or subsequently upon their arrival. There was nothing that moved about the gladiatorial arena and its adjunct structures and associations Soundwave, and Megatron himself, was not aware of. Not a single shanix passed hands that was not accounted for. Nor were the whispers, so quietly spoken, unheard, and data unrecorded.
Even now, with the crowd’s roar growing, Megatron could have all twelve fighters executed.
He considered it for a moment, leaning back in the massive chair, his arms stretched across the rests and fingers hung languidly over the edge. Crimson optics bore into the dark of the room. It would serve his purpose to have all twelve killed instantaneously when they are arrayed before him. Yes. Alone, the shock would provide an effective deterrent, but it was not a deterrent he sought. He relished the challenge, the attempt. It would fail. It was only right that such a poorly conceived intent would fail, but with its failure it would provide him with another tool.
“No,” his answer was final, looking up at the shadowy figure of Soundwave; the minicon Ravage hiding within the shadow’s shadow, ready to be sent on its mission. “Let their performance continue.”
Soundwave’s head nodded, once, in agreement. A low growl from Ravage. The minicons had proven themselves long ago. Useful, capable, and with Soundwave indispensable; they played no small part in the grander stage the Decepticons danced so carefully beneath.
“You have prepared?” A question without needs of an answer. Soundwave would have personnel in place, but Megatron required the time. Above he could hear the last call. He would soon depart and enter the stage himself. Despite this, Soundwave nodded once more. Though he did not speak, his motion still held a sense of satisfaction. Yes. Such an instance had long been needed. It was now provided and they were ready.
“Excellent, Soundwave,” as with the previous answer, praise was unnecessary “as to your Minicons: upon my return I shall see that their needs are met beyond expectation.”
The minicons, as much an integral part to their information network, were also a soft place for Soundwave. A weakness and strength. Megatron knew well to encourage that connection. To encourage the minicons would please Soundwave, who had taken it upon himself to offer the smaller bots protection from the tyranny of the caste system. They were the key to Soundwave’s continued loyalty. Loyal he may be to Megatron, but precautions were not unmerited.
Voices; confused, angry, and demanding answers called from the stadium. Hands drew up and for a moment digits steepled together in an arch in front of Megatron’s optics. Lips pulled back and his head tipped as he considered the oncoming show.
It was all a performance, and his delayed entrance to the stage was merely the prelude to act one.
-
A cheer. A chorus of raucous noise. The adulation of an undulating mass; thirsting for blood in equal measures with his blade. Optics; blue, red, orange, green, a sea of wide-eyed consumers. Blissful in their momentary amnesia of the world and their status. Hungry for the oncoming onslaught.
Steps; heavy and providing a slow tempo in contrast to the metronome of screams soon to come, echoed with greater presence into the arena than they were rightly capable of. The slow, ponderous, stride and the manner in which Megatron entered brought the rabid masses to heel. Their endless noise quieting down. Gone was the showman. Away was the mech who hoisted shield and sword into the air, saluting his starving observers. A reserved and quiet presence entered the ring. Each step growing heavier. The inevitable toll bringing with it something else. A slow and crawling sensation. A cool chill at the back of each and every spark. A haunting reality so rarely recognized within the pits.
Megatron stepped forth. The twelve combatants milled around the far side of the arena. They were not subtle about their intentions. It was not unheard of for credits to exchange from hand to hand. To rig the outcome of the match. Preparing a battle of multitudes to displace a single occupant of the spotlight. Well did Megatron remember his opponents and their sponsors, foolishly believing odds stacked against him could provide them any advantage. The odds were meaningless. There was only victory.
Sensing the impending beginning of the fight, the crowd’s attention turned to the twelve individuals who were beginning to set up in a loose alignment. A piercing stare took in each individual. They were well armed. A poor attempt to disguise their high quality and weapons had been made. Oil and rust particles smeared and rubbed into grooves and creases in metal. Paint smeared and superficial dents in armor, but within their optics the truth lay. Each of these mechs, one and all, had the best of medical professionals seeing to their frames. Their optics were bright and healthy. Not hazed with drugs, or dim with sickness. No superficial scar was to be found on their faces; a token of some honor among the warrior class. Indeed; chosen protectors, trained and pampered. The wealthy of Cybertron had sent their purebred cyber-dogs to kill the old nitrotiger.
Of the twelve, now that Megatron could watch and study their motions, the small two-wheeler, the construction grade bot, and a mid-sized, gray and black bot that held himself a little too stiffly, would be the most dangerous. The rest, a smattering of four wheeled Elite Guard academy drop-outs, would be a matter of no contention.
They were not entirely without sense. They had formed a loose kind of ranks; trained, but not accustomed to one another. A pitiful excuse of an execution squad. Even a well-organized group had poor chances, but a group of individuals, or perhaps small teams, who had neither experience nor desire to work with one another – if the side-glances of the construction grade ‘bot towards the two-wheeler were anything to go by – well; it would be far simpler for Megatron to direct the flow of battle.
An uneasy silence filled the pit and the stands. No one understood what was going on. The announcer was quiet. It was customary for him to very nearly glitch his vocoder screaming Megatron’s name, but this was not a bout between honorable combatants.
Their masters desired an execution. They would receive one.
“I trust,” Megatron said, walking farther afield and keeping his sword arm and shield low; his torso vulnerable, “that you understand the situation?”
Murmurs of confusion met his words, whispered on a thousand lips. Situation? What was there to understand. A battle royal, thirteen combatants, one winner. Was there more?
No words were spoken by the opposing force, but they knew. Acknowledgement was sharp in their eyes, but determination brightened and Megatron could see their resolve.
Megatron’s pace brought him to the center of the arena. A slow, methodical, pace not unlike the nitrotiger he’d compared himself to. It left him in control of the majority of the field. His twelve opponents huddled towards the opposite end. His presence was such that the twelve appeared cornered. Trapped. An inescapable corner their only shelter. Uneasy, not unlike so many retrorats ready to scatter at the slightest provocation, scurrying into the walls from whence they came.
With a thespian’s timing, Megatron turned himself, positioned so the broad side of his frame was facing the V.I.P. box; at an angle to his opponents. Triangular denta came together in a sharp smile, a tilt of his helm and an arching of a single optical ridge. His gaze solely for the twelve arrayed before him. Megatron’s sight was inescapable.
“I take your silence as an indication of your agreement?” Megatron questioned. No answer was forthcoming.
“Then come.”
The beast master was the first to act, releasing its pet. A slathering, howling beast, some malformed and twisted thing Megatron could not immediately identify, lunged free of its chain at the head of their formation. The clawed forepaws ripping into the metal flooring, chain lashing out behind it. So poorly contained, controlled, it could not be trusted at the rear where it might take advantage of the frames moving before it to ambush Megatron, or paired with another beast so as to flank him. Truly, it was an amateurish attempt.
In four bounds the creature stretched the distance, closing with Megatron as the group of fighters spread out, four of their number moving up behind the creature. They were not fast enough. The creature had been released too early. A signal lost as the four flankers withered under Megatron’s gaze.
Fangs and claws raked forward. Megatron waited for the beast. Its hindquarters bunching, back legs straining against the ground. The leap that led it into his blade.
With a pivot of his frame, a single step of his foot, Megatron leaned back from the beast’s charge. Now incapable of altering its flight mid-jump, Megatron brought his sword down with a single overhand chop.
The beast’s body split in two, just behind its chest plating over a weaker middle seam. Megatron flicked the blade, energon droplets spattering across the ground, and made no further motion to retaliate the initial attack. He stood, his shield arm towards the opponents, low and unprotecting of his form, with his blade held out just lightly at an angle to his body; energon dripping from its tip.
It was a single motion: pivot, lean, and cut, leaving Megatron standing not quite as he had been a moment ago, and the creature dead at his feet. An attack so swift, so sudden, that the four flanking mechs who had yet to reach their positions… stopped. Their intent had been to attack as Megatron fended off a beast so disappointing he very nearly felt pity for the creature. Without the initial opening their mauver provided them, they simply halted the beginning stages of their assault.
Megatron’s gaze, throughout the attack, remained on the beast master. Crimson optics locked with orange. He could see it, the instant the beast – a Hellhound – collapsed at his feet the beast master’s sneering expression turned to one of shock. Then horror.
For one last moment, Megatron allowed the reality of the situation sink into the four ‘bots who’d raced forward with the hound, and with the beast master. The crowd, crowing and cheering as the beast attacked, now sat in stunned silence. They knew, all of them, that Megatron was formidable, but never before had they seen him dispatch an opponent with such singular grace and ease. This was not the battle royal they believed themselves coming to see.
Inside the quiet Megatron moved. He did not ponderously make his way forward to meet each opponent in hand-to-hand combat, but rushed, running with such speed that, like the hellhound before, he covered the distance between himself and the beast master before the remainder of their group could react.
Withdrawing his sword into his wrist, Megatron drew back his arm. His fist slammed with such force into the beast master’s face, that the mech flew backwards, colliding with the two-wheeler that moved on light feet. The pair fell down together in a jumble of parts and limbs, energon flying free of the beast master’s mouth; the impact having knocked him into stasis.
Footsteps behind him; the others now aware of his attack. Megatron dropped, twisting as he did so, and slashed out with an extending blade. It ripped, cutting through the metal behind the oncoming mech’s knees, removing them at the joint. Dingy brown and gray armor collapsed in front of him, screaming. The bot hosting a poor array of artificial dents along one side of his shoulder. Likely a security guard employed by one of the pits benefactors.
Without pausing to consider, Megatron got up and ran several paces forward past the massive construction grade bot, the garish yellow and green armor absorbing the incoming mace from the first of a set of navy-blue twins. The second, this one with an almost inverted paint scheme to the first with black stripes and gray decals instead of gray stripes and black decals, followed up as the mace ricocheted off the construction-bot with a sword; one that was better suited to ornamentation than the grueling fights of the pits.
Megatron caught the blade between his hands and twisted, pulling the mech forward. The blade rent, ripping free of its pommel. Megatron threw the remnants towards another mech – this one thicker armored, like a tank – much like he would throw a dagger. The projectile did no damage, but it slowed the oncoming charge, allowing Megatron to reach forward and take hold of the second twin’s hands, pulling him forward and over his shoulder.
The bot landed on his back, and Megatron quickly brought his blade down through abdominal plating; severing the mechs’ back strut. The wound, while not terminal, took one of the twins out of the fight.
He had only moments to complete the task. The construction-bot was already bringing down both fists on top of him, and the first of the twins, agonized over his partner’s damage, was racing in with his mace within the same breath.
Yes. No organized squad would be so sloppy. Their attack, their strategy, had fallen apart within the first thrust.
Kicking the second twin out from under himself, Megatron jumped backwards, lifting his shield to turn away the mace directed towards his head, and angling it so the momentum of the heavy object dragged its wielder directly underneath the oncoming fists of the construction bot.
A sickening crunch sounded in the stadium, echoed by the roars of the onlookers as Megatron defeated three opponents in short order, with no damage to his person.
The construction both backed up quickly, the first of the two twins partially crushed on the ground; armor bent and twisted inwards on his back, preventing motion and transformation. Such a blow would not have damaged Megatron. It would have momentarily disrupted certain systems, perhaps, but he did not require such things to predict the flow of movement in battle.
Distracted as he was with the fallen comrade beneath him, the construction bot did not see as Megatron stepped up behind him and thrust his blade into his lower spinal strut; much as he had done the first twin, but through his abdomen.
As the construction bot fell, his anguish cries echoing the two navy-colored twins laying on the ground with him, Megatron stood alone in a circle of calm. The remaining eight combatants standing at a distance to him coming to the same, slow, realization the crowed had finally picked up on:
Megatron had defeated five opponents, but they were still alive.
A slow, creeping, cold filled the stadium. Megatron, in all his battles, had only ever permitted one to survive and that one now stood in full support of him. Their battle had become a thing of legend. Two warriors, one of an unexpected source and a fight to the death that led the Champion of Kaon to reach out his hand and permit mercy.
That battle had been long and it had been bloody. This battle was unjustly one sided. Why wasn’t he finishing them?
With a faint tap-tap-tap of rushing feet, the two-wheeler was racing up to Megatron’s side. Silver-toned armor shone beneath the poorly applied paint from where it’d been scraped clean by the fallen beast master. Two daggers were clenched tight in each fist. The attack was swift and well executed. Megatron rotated backwards, similarly to how he’d evaded the beast’s charge. Prepared for his motion, the two-wheeler swung one of his legs in a kick, altering his trajectory. A blade lashed for Megatron’s face from the end of the mech’s foot, cutting along his cheek. The laceration burned, the blades treated with some form of acid or other material designed to keep the wound festering. Energon smoked and sizzled, capillary lines severed and leaking.
From behind the tank bot struck. His pounding steps announcing his presence. Megatron followed through with his pivot, grabbing the two-wheeler by the leg he so carelessly extended and using him as a bludgeon, slammed the two-wheeler into the tank bot.
Without hesitation the tank bot swatted the two-wheeler aside with a painful crunch; sending the smaller bot tumbling across the floor of the arena and continuing his charge. Heavy armor made for taking damage would prevent any individual from speeding up quickly, but once they were at a pace it was far more difficult to stop them. Likely the mech could make a sizeable dent in the arena walls without much injury to his person.
Unfortunately for him, he’d made the poor decision to block his own line of sight knocking Megatron’s victim aside thinking to continue his rush forward. It was never a wise choice to lose sight of your opponent.
Could they not have sent more worthy combatants? Disgusted, Megatron moved in a one-two step motion; his back momentarily vulnerable to the charging tank. The heavy mech scrambled as he surged past. Feet grinding against the metal floor and sending sparks flying with a sharp shriek. Much of his momentum was lost, but he initiated a second charge.
Once more Megatron stepped, one-two-three, but this time the charging fool tried to lash out with his hand. Bending over at the waist and gripping at the rough edges of plate metal to try and hasten his turn. Megatron stepped in towards him, slapping the shield against the side of the mech’s head. It wasn’t enough to cause any damage, but the direct blow to his helm rattled his processor long enough for Megatron to wrap his arm around his neck and squeeze.
The tank bot bucked. Struggling and gripping at Megatron’s arm, at his shield, at any portion of armor he could reach. His digits dented the metal in a few places, but otherwise Megatron’s armor proved the stronger.
As he struggled, holding tight to the mech’s neck, the four wheeled fighters who’d attempted to flank him at the beginning of the fight, looking far too similar to one another to be anything but someone’s personal guard, and the stiff-moving mech slowly approached. Without hesitation Megatron wrestled his grappling opponent in front of him, warding off an incoming attack from his right. The attacker shied away, hesitating to damage Megatron’s current hostage.
The stiff-legged mech was not so weak willed. A pair of swords slashed the air. Megatron pulled his hostage up and into the line of fire. Twin lines appeared on the chest plating of the tank bot, leaving him roaring in agony at the deep wounds. Several more times the swords flashed, cutting deeper and deeper, until Megatron finally threw the tank bot aside and brought his shield up in its place.
He was right to pin the stiff-legged mech as the most dangerous of the twelve once he’d entered the arena. His dossier had been very bland and initial assessments held him at a moderate threat level, but this mech out of them all was well trained. His weapons were tools, his armor honed and designed for his style of combat. Neither heavy, nor light... and the stiffness of his frame was fake.
A warrior he may be, perhaps even a challenge, but as an actor he was woefully lacking.
What followed was a dance of blades; Megatron’s broader in-built sword, and the pair of matched edges that flashed under the lights of the arena. His opponent was skilled, possibly at one point having fought in the pits. He slid under Megatron’s blade like liquid. Moving his swords into just the right position to guide Megatron’s hand away, and scoured several blows against his armor, but they were never deep enough. Megatron, too, moved with the pace of each sword; adjusting his stance by the smallest increments to both preserve his energy and lessen the damage to his frame. What blows landed were superficial. Almost no better than scratches on a frame of his size.
The four mechs who’d initially attempted to flank him did not stand idly by. They darted towards him in pairs whenever he broke free of the stiff-legged mech. One trying to engage with him, and the second one moving to capitalize on any opening. All four of them were so similar looking it wasn’t a mistake. Their similar color pallets, build, and movement style were designed to confuse their opponent. It would have worked on anyone else, but Megatron was experienced with such opponents. He did not concentrate on color patterns, build, or equipment. He had a different strategy to properly identify each one.
Dipping back from a twin slash of blades, the first of the two flankers rushed him. Megatron blocked the oncoming blade and, with his sword drawn in, he thrust forward with his fist, smashing hard into the side of the mech. A massive dent appeared in his torso, and the blow sent the mech tumbling backwards providing a path for the second to rush in. Jumping over the sprawled form of his partner.
The stiff legged mech chopped at him, running in. Megatron twisted out of the way, his second attacker coming in at the same time and being forced to lift his left arm and take the blow. A deep cut split his armor, setting sparks and energon to flowing.
Torso-dent and cut-left-arm fell back, two fresh attackers moved in. Megatron lashed out with his fist now, engaging his sword mid-thrust. The stiff mech jumped back, but the tip of Megatron’s sword cut into his chest plate. Only the tip sank in, not deep enough to cause true damage and Megatron was forced to back away before he could sink the blade home and bury it in the mech’s spark chamber.
A chain lashed down on his sword, meant for his arm. Megatron did not wait for the chain to become taunt. He whipped his hand out, grasping it, and pulling the next of the four mechs into close combat.
Megatron didn’t wait for the mech to stumble. Instead, he grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him as a pair of blades launched themselves towards his spark chamber. He had not meant to use the mech to defend himself, but the single motion at the corner of his optic told him the blades were coming in. He could not get his shield up in time, and so he had to improvise.
Swords dug into armor on either side of the third flanker’s hips. Megatron did not waste the opportunity and pushed his living shield forward, further onto the pair of blades and twisted. Ripping the pair of swords from the hands of their weilder.
With a great heave, Megatron threw his impromptu shield towards its oncoming partner and slashed diagonally across the chest plating of the mech who’d so poorly hidden his identity as a fighter. Armor rent and Megatron buried his sword into the mech’s spark chamber. Twisting the blade before kicking the offline frame away.
Roaring; the crowd cheered. It echoed farther than it should have and it was only as the twin-blade wielding mech stopped sliding across the ground that Megatron turned to look at the three flankers, torso-dent and the undamaged one were trying to lift the mech who hosted two swords in his frame. The mech with the cut arm, holding it tight to his chest plate, was standing between his comrades and Megatron. They were slowly backing themselves away towards one of the exit doors, intending to flee the stadium.
Cries and booing erupted from the spectators. Jeers and debris rained down on the four mechs in their retreat. Megatron ignored all these things and looked toward the doorway as it opened, and nodded to the guards who stood there.
Together, the pair of burly mechs stepped out with the spears they carried. They fell upon the group with the sound of shrieking metal and cries of surprised anguish. The previous guards had been quietly killed during the match, replaced with loyal individuals that couldn’t be bribed.
Once finished, Megatron gestured with his sword towards the arrayed forms, those still living, and the guards stepped out and began collecting them.
Of those that Megatron had defeated the stiff-standing, dual sword wielding mech had died with a sword thrust through the spark chamber, and the brown and gray bot whose legs Megatron had removed, were both deactivated. In total of the twelve combatants that had entered the ring to face him, only five remained standing. Of the five, the two-wheeled bot had the least damage, found feigning deactivation next to the construction grade bot.
Together they were lined up from the shortest, to the tallest. Each one forced onto their knees, or seated due to the severing of their lower spinal column.
Megatron stepped out and began to place slowly around them. His shield safely secured to his back and his sword disengaged. He waited until the crowds cheering at the deactivation of the four flanking mechs settled and they were left silently waiting.
Finally, Megatron stopped in front of the arrayed group and lifted his arms to the waiting crowd.
“Citizens of Kaon. People of Cybertron,” and with a satisfied tone to his voice, he roared: “my Decepticons!”
It was impossible to continue as the crowed leaped up, raising their arms into the air, their vocoders glitching themselves with the volume of their cheers. Megatron kept his arms raised to them, but as soon as he was ready for quiet he drew his arms down and in an instant the cheering ceased and there was silence once more.
“Today I intended to bring to you a Battle Royal for your enjoyment,” he said, and folded his arms behind his back. “A competition of warriors. A free for all where only the most skilled would survive.” A short cheer, admiration for such an ideal fight, but the cheer died quickly when Megatron remained silent.
His countenance and demenor caught the attention of the watching optics and he waited until mech turned to mech, and soft inaudible whispers played on each pair of lips.
“What you witnessed, to my shame, was not an honorable battle between warriors, but a poorly veiled attempt on my life.”
Questions. The whispers grew louder. Several individuals shouted and were quickly quieted by their neighbors’ hissing demands. Megatron shook his helm in clear disappointment.
“It will not surprise you that there are those who desire my deactivation. They claim I speak hearsay. That I am a fool who leads the easily swayed, and impressionable towards a future that will destroy Cybertron.”
Clearly insulted, angry voices echoed his words. Megatron waited until the crowd had quieted once again. There would be several moments like this, each one growing worse and worse.
“And yet, instead of meeting my challenge. Instead of accepting my invitation to come to Kaon to discuss the faults and the failures of our society, they send these:” Megatron turned to gesture to the mechs behind him. Each one damaged, their optics burning into his back. The guards he had set out next to them would ensure they could not attack.
Booing filled the stands. Several members of his audience were prepared to throw used energon cubes and other detritus at the defeated combatants, but Megatron held both hands up in a placating gesture before returning them to clasp at the small of his back. It would not due for any projectile to hit himself instead of his defeated foes.
“Assassins; standing in the place of our honorable gladiators,” the cut on Megatron’s cheek, and other areas where his armor had been sliced burned mildly. These wounds would need Shockwave’s attention after the finale, but for now his diagnostics told him he was in no danger. Without hitting a primary energon line, whatever acidic material they’d coated their weapons with was an annoyance. Nothing more.
“With their ill begotten credits, they sought to bribe my people, succeeding in those who’s sparks were weak. Whose wills were already broken by the unending toil of their lives. Lives that the Council and their Caste system cast upon them!” Megatron roared the last of the words, his voice intoning an anger at the injustice of their position.
“Their weakness was not their own,” he continued over the noise of the crowd in a moderated and almost sorrowful tone, “their weakness is the very one that has been so carefully cultivated by the very people who sought to take advantage of it. The ones who believed these twelve to be dispensable.”
Murmuring. Was Megatron pitying those sent to kill him?
“These,” he said, stepping slightly to the side and sweeping out his left hand to indicate the mechs behind him, “are also their victims. Individuals cast aside, deemed to have less worth than the glowing sparks now serving as the Elite Guard, as the Council Security, and as sergeants and generals in their ‘military’.” A sneer. A grimace of distaste for such an audacious title to proclaim the loose forces that served in a symbolic position. Merely an ornament for the Council and its pets.
“However,” Megatron continued, stepping back towards the center, to the front, “I ask you, my people. They, who have so much more than you, are they not responsible in part for their own weakness? Or, like our brothers and sisters perishing in the mines below our feet, is the only sin possessed of their spark the sin of being sparked within a castaway society? A society in which the merit of their minds, their hands, their talents, is made meaningless?”
Opinion split. Individuals with a tendency towards pity and compassion were arguing with those who had served in the mines. Lost a loved one, or close comrade, to the cave-ins and creatures that lived in the deep black beneath Cybertron’s surface. The ones who had disrupted a scraplet nest, eaten alive and screaming. Those who had been trapped for weeks, months, slowly starving from lack of energon while the remains of the crew pleaded desperately with foremen for the necessary equipment to save them.
Replaceable, disposable commodities. Equipment valued at more than the sparks that operated it.
The arguing intensified. It grew and Megatron watched on with slitted optics and a faint upturn of his lip plates. He let them argue, let them debate the topic. It was their right as free thinking Cybertronians.
“Calm yourselves,” he called after several long moments. Several fights were on the verge of breaking out and they would not serve his purpose. “For I have the answer for you!”
Megatron watched as one by one optics returned to him. Heated words previously spoken cooled, but did not wholly dissipate. Everyone was on edge. Everyone was wanting to fight, to prove that they were right and their opponent was wrong. So, he would guide them to the correct answer.
“I pose to you this question: Could they not have themselves made a choice? Could not these five have come to me, behind their sponsor’s backs, and relayed to me the intentions of their masters? They, who have so much freedom, could have chosen to open a line of communication so this matter may be settled in a manner befitting the topic? The right of all sapient beings to choose their function, and to have the right to live their lives?”
“They who have this freedom, do not recognize nor understand as you do the right to question. To debate what is right and what is wrong.”
Confusion, curiosity, pride. All these things were present in his listeners now. That he would praise them above the warriors he had fought. Megatron recognized in them the ability to choose. He validated their right to an opinion.
“Why did they not do this?” Megatron asked, carefully modulating his tone in such a manner it sounded as though he were asking the question of his listeners. “Why did they not consider an alternative path? Consider seeking out a peaceful resolution to the impending situation?”
“It is because,” Megatron began his answer, his voice a stage whisper that was heard throughout the stadium despite it’s thematic quiet, “though they are not of the High Caste, they are still higher than you.”
“They believe themselves superior to you,” he clarified, and spoke louder now; clenching a fist and raising it slightly as though in anger. “And because they fear one day you will walk among them, not as tools nor expendable labor, but as equals. They fear you. They fear your potential, and they wish for you to remain here, where you will live and die never knowing the greater pleasures of life. Where you will never know choice, never know freedom.”
Freedom. Hungry faces looked to Megatron now. In each one he could see the thirst. The desire to merely taste the lives denied them, but Megatron knew such a thing was addictive. That it would lead them to want more and more until the insatiable beast that was his Decepticons could no longer be denied. It would rush forth, but it would be controlled, guided by his hand.
“I ask you,” Megatron said into the eerie quiet, gazing into the starving optics arrayed before him. “Do we recognize their culpabilities, and extend a hand in invitation…”
Booing broke into his sentence, a growing sound that echoed.
“Or, do we punish them as we are punished each and every day for the sin of our birth? This I leave to you. Do we join with them, or put them to death?”
Conversation broke out momentarily, Megatron turned to look at the closest individual on his knees behind him. Where once there was defiance, there was now fear. Megatron stepped back, and one of the guards stepped behind the mech. Megatron lifted his hand, holding it out in gesture to indicate the mech.
Despite the belief of those being offered up for execution, if the milling masses cried for their lives to be spared, he would honor their choice. They would be stripped of their weapons and sent below to work in the mines until their death, but they would live.
Panic blossomed in the face of the two-wheeler. Blue optics glancing from Megatron, twisting to look at the guard behind him, and at the silent crowd.
Slowly a chant began to grow. At first it was soft, spoken by only a few throats, but it grew in volume and in number until the entire stadium echoed with the power of its call.
“Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill!”
Turning to look at the guard standing behind their first prisoner, Megatron nodded his helm.
Without a chance to scream, or to beg, the guard’s spear was thrust through the two-wheeler’s back. Stabbing down and through his spark chamber. The small mech stared disbelieving down at the energon covered spear for a matter of seconds, before his optics dimmed and his frame began to fade to gray.
Without pausing, Megatron stepped up to the first of the set of twins. Holding out his hand and waiting for the crowd’s judgement. This time the call grew faster, and louder than before: kill. Kill. Kill.
Another thrust, an anguished cry from the deactivated mech’s identical counterpart. The remaining twin leapt to his feet as the crowd continued to chant before Megatron could step back and indicate him. The twin struggled against the guard, but lost his life when the second guard used a blaster to shoot him through the helm. The lifeless frame toppled down over the Beast Master’s lap. The mech’s optics pale and unfocused, processor damage not yet having cleared enough for him to understand the situation at hand.
The roar grew, the word chanted over and over again. A single spear thrust, an uneventful death. No struggle or painful cry. A slumped form. Only the tank-style mech, and the construction grade bot were left.
Megatron did not hesitate to move to the very end, a hand extended to both prisoners. Without pause the chant continued, strangling any noise that was made as spears were thrust through metal bodies, cracking through, and extinguishing the spark within.
All of them were dead now, but the chant continued. The voices crying out in celebration, glorifying the death of five individuals who, in that moment, stood in place of every misfortune and injustice handed out to the people of Kaon.
Louder and louder, the voices grew louder, but slowly the chant changed. Morphing as it so often did, until one word, one name, was spoken from thousands of throats:
“Megatron! Megatron! Megatron! Megatron!”
They continued. Louder, until his name was screamed to the heavens by the masses. Megatron lifted his arms and the furor of the crowd only increased. His name slowly garbled and lost in the unending cheering and praise raining down on him.
No more needed to be said. No more was required. He thrust both arms into the air one last time, the shield on one, his sword extended from the other. His name rang, shaking the walls and the seats, reaching all the way to the V.I.P. lounges.
With no more to be done, Megatron turned and exited through his gate. His steps slow and confident, exiting down and into the darkness of the catacombs below.
-
Megatron sat once more in his chair. His half-consumed cube of energon carelessly resting in his right hand. He swirled it, watching the translucent, glowing, fluid swirl about in the cube. Minerals, alloys, and other additives gently sparkling within under the dull glowing light of his chamber. The wounds of his body continued to pain him, but only distantly. He would partake of high-grade, but at this time with matters yet to be addressed he would not dull his senses even marginally.
Kneeling in front of him were three mechs. Their armor – previously spotless and polished to a high sheen – was dented and torn in places. Energon dribbled from a white and gold mech on his far left, while the optic belonging to a blue and teal mech at the very center was clearly disconnected. To his right sat a silver mech; engravings decorated his form, a practice that required many hours and an exceptional amount of talent. The engravings upon one shoulder were ruined, a burn mark from a blaster marring the intricate details.
His assassins’ benefactors. No one evaded his sight, even as his optics were locked on twelve combatants and his true enemy sat entrenched with their personal guard within the very lounge his people’s cries had shaken.
Looking at them from his chair, partially ensconced within the darkness of his chamber, Megatron allowed the crimson fire of his gaze to rest on each one in a slow, measured, stare. His features betrayed no emotion. No inclination of his mood or his intent. Behind them stood Soundwave, unharmed from leading a group of loyal followers to extract the three high caste members from their box seats.
Arrogance was a fine thing when partnered with intelligence. A trait these three were clearly lacking. To be in the audience as Megatron fought their chosen assassins?
“You understand your position?” Megatron’s question was soft and all the more menacing for it. The white mech, and the blue mech, had clearly expected him to kill them the moment they entered his chamber. Their weak armor was trembling. The silver member of their group, a Seeker, however, was holding himself high and looking directly into Megatron’s optics. His wings back and aggressive.
Megatron lifted his gaze to Soundwave, and without fail the angular mech extended one of his cables and locked it on the silver mech’s armor, hitting him with discharged energy. It would be painful, but the voltage was low enough to keep the victim conscious.
After a few seconds of surging currents, Soundwave released the silver mech and allowed him to fall forward. His gaze no longer quite defiant. The other two, optics wide, quickly turned to Megatron.
“We understand – ” the white mech nearly shouted.
“Please, please don’t kill us. It was all Steelcircuit’s idea – ”
“Enough,” Megatron’s voice held a growl to it that silenced the pair of mechs. They would not fight him, but the third mech… this Steelcircuit. Though he was not quite so confident as he had been a moment ago, it was clear that he would require further persuasion.
“Soundwave, are the documents prepared?” Megatron asked, drinking from his energon cube in a carless manner. Here, beneath Kaon’s surface, beneath the gladiator rings, no one’s authority was higher than his own. Soundwave nodded and a pair of data pads dropped down in front of the first pair. The white and the blue.
“You will sign over your shares in the Gladiator Pits to me,” he told them, drinking once again from his energon. He was nursing it, purposefully. They were not so important that he would be interrupted for his post-fight refueling. Meaningless. “And then, you will return to your precious estates and you will no longer participate in any involvement with my Decepticons, with the rings, or with Kaon.”
“Of course, of course!” the blue said, his disconnected optic flashing on momentarily. Perhaps it was not wholly disconnected, but very nearly so.
“As you say, Megatron – ” the white began before Megatron cut him off.
“Lord Megatron,” he corrected, optics narrow and the clawed digits of his left hand gripping the end of his arm rest. “You will address me as Lord Megatron.”
“O-of course,” the white said, “Lord Megatron. We will do as you so graciously asked of us.”
“Good.” Megatron set his energon cube down on the table next to him and watched as the pair signed the necessary documents in front of him, forced to bend down and place a hand on the ground to steady themselves. It pleased him to see someone so high brought so low.
“You will be escorted out by my guards and are hereby banned from the City State of Kaon, am I understood?”
“Yes!” a twin chorus of agreement followed. Megatron nodded his helm to the guard at the door who, none too gently, gripped first one mech and then the other roughly by the shoulder armor and pulled them up onto their feet, pushing them out the door.
Megatron waited until the footsteps of his guards and the pair of high caste mechs vanished from hearing before he stood, and cast a smile down on the silver mech in front of him.
“A most excellent performance, Makeshift,” Megatron complimented the mech as he stood and reformed himself, reverting back to his original design.
“Thank you, Lord Megatron,” said Makeshift.
“And you, Soundwave, are to be commended as well,” he continued, looking to his most loyal follower. Ravage had stepped once more from Soundwave’s shadow, and a faint rumble could be heard from it. Megatron had sent orders for the minicon’s reward. Without their assistance they could not have entrenched Makeshift quite so well as they had in his various positions.
“Though it is disappointing to require you to end your tenancy as Steelcircuit so soon,” Megatron lamented, though he was not overly disappointed, “the role has served its purpose and we have greater need of your skills elsewhere.”
“As you command, Lord Megatron,” Makeshift acknowledged, bowing just slightly. A habit his Decepticons were beginning to adopt. He was not displeased by the motion.
“Report to the medical bay for repairs,” Megatron ordered. “You’ve served me well, and I would see that your injuries, sustained in the line of duty, are repaired.”
“Thank you, Lord Megatron,” Makeshift said, bowing again and turning to make his leave. There was no reason to remain, and it was clear Megatron desired to speak with Soundwave alone.
The door closed once more. He and Soundwave were enshrouded in the dim light. Megatron drank once more from his energon cube. Soundwave remained silent at his side until he was finished, setting the empty cube on the table beside him.
“Upon their return,” Megatron ordered, “have the pair assassinated and seize their assets.” He did not look to Soundwave, nor expect an answer, but the silent mech nodded.
Megatron steepled his fingers before him, leaning back deep into his chair. He would have to call for Shockwave soon to see to his wounds – he would trust none of the medics currently under his employ, but Shockwave could be depended upon – and allowed himself to slip deep into thought.
In total; the battle could not have gone better. He had, temporarily towards the beginning, contemplated having all twelve mechs executed at the beginning of the fight, after accusing them of their crimes. The shock, and realization, would not quite have served him as well as the outcome that had occurred. It was important for his target audience to feel as though they had power, that they had a say in his decisions. If they felt confident that he would listen to their needs, that he would provide them what the Council could not, they would be loyal to him.
“We will soon have to move onto the next phase if the Council refutes my claims,” Megatron continued. He intended to petition the council once more, but should they fail to meet his expectations…
“Are our people in place?” He asked and, again, he did not need to see Soundwave’s nod to know the answer.
“Good.”
Again, he slipped into contemplative silence.
“Any word from Orion Pax?” Megatron inquired. He had been in constant communication with the librarian. It was a delicate dance. He believed Pax would be beneficial to their cause, and to a certain extent Megatron found himself growing accustomed to the librarian’s presence. Naïve though it was at times. In Pax he found himself an intellectual equal, though they were not equal at all.
A data pad was offered to him, and though Megatron took it he set it aside.
“That will be all, Soundwave,” he ordered, dismissing the mech. “The component parts you requested for your minicons have already been delivered. Your reward, as you requested, is granted. You have three days to see to their upgrades and component replacement. No one will bother you unless there is an emergency.”
Another nod, a sense of satisfaction despite the silence.
“And Soundwave?” he said as the silent mech made to leave, Ravage walking at his heel. He stopped, turning from the door to look at Megatron.
“Send Shockwave to me as you leave. I will need to have these cuts treated and repaired. I believe the two-wheeler and the sword wielder used acid on their blades.”
One last acknowledgement, and Megatron was left in the dim lighting of his personal chamber.
Twelve dead, two soon to be, and the controlling share of the gladiator pits now properly where it belonged; with him, and assets that would allow him to arm his Decepticons.
A small, honest, smile eased onto his face before sliding free and leaving him to brooding silence.
what’s a grammar rule you find yourself breaking or ignoring a lot?
are there any languages besides english in which you think you could comfortably roleplay?
how often do you reach for a synonym dictionary when writing? how about mentally?
how often do you need to translate your own or the other’s writing with a dictionary or google when writing and reading replies?
do you listen to music while your write?
do you have ideal writing circumstances when you can do a lot of drafts or tackle really long ones very easily?
are you a morning, day, evening, or night writer?
how does tiredness affect your writing?
have you ever written a serious reply intoxicated?
how much do you proof-read as you are writing vs. proof-read at the end?
when you are writing a reply, how much ahead in the thread do you plan?
is there ever been a time when you’ve had to drop a roleplaying partner because you’ve found their writing style exhausting?
does writing roleplay things in public spaces make you uncomfortable?
what do you do after you see a person has replied? do you read it immediately, or do you wait for it to show up on the dash? do you like it, draft it immediately, etc?
how often do you need to change the icon in your reply while or after writing the reply?
do you first get in the “zone” when writing, or do you start writing and “enter” it that way?
what is your biggest obstacle to writing every day, if time doesn’t count?
what’s your inbox count currently? what did you do to get it so high/low?
how many drafts is a paralysing amount?
if you are writing a wrong reply that’s not working out, do you save what you have to be continued at another date, or do you scrap it and rewrite?
does making icons give or take away energy to write? what about other graphics?
longest reply you’ve ever writen on mobile?
does the total amount of threads you have going on matter to you, or just how many you owe?
what’s your thought process when you format? any unspoken rules you follow?
Gray faced organics. I require some... assistance. Some practice is needed. Understand, as some items are not required by Cybertronians matters may be up for interpretation.
