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Aspirant's Theater

Pre War for Cybertron; Gladitorial Arena

Pages: 18

Wordcount: 8,436.

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Battle Royal.

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.

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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.

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