Cold Cell for the Cold Spark
Vox Brawn had a brig, and that surprised Megatron more than the news that Knock Out had taken up residence in one of the cells in a juvenile display of defiance. The Vehicons worried it might upset the titan, and confuse the others. Rumor might take hold, one had admitted through cautious wringing of its digits, that Lord Megatron was every bit the overbearing tyrant many still believed him to be, and it was not without good reason.
Something had to be done about the former CMO's behavior. Starscream suggested an apology, practically insisted upon making amends. Megatron did not necessarily disagree with the assessment, but neither did he rush to Knock Out's side and beg forgiveness. Such was not his style.
He took his time. Days passed before he could humble himself enough to make the journey. Asking for directions to the brig, from a Vehicon who never knew Vox Brawn even possessed a brig, made him feel like the villain.
But nothing compared to the chill in the air as he entered the block in which Knock Out had sequestered himself, just like a spoiled mechling. A slow stride took him to the cell, where a pair of bright red ringlets glared up at him.
“I'm told you refuse to move to one of the many furbished hab-suites Vox Brawn has offered us use of,” he said, folding his arms behind his back. “Why the brig, Knock Out; what is it you're trying to prove?”