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Rhythm took the next hallway between the archive and the court at a sprint. Spats between Optimus and Megatron were becoming increasingly violent, and the only hope he has of breaking one up is catching it before it comes to blows. He cuts tight around the corner, skidding past Dino as he discretely backs away from the impending fight. Optimus and Megatron are practically chestplate to chestplate and, had it not been for the strange artifact in the transport bay muting EM fields for anyone in range, the field backlash should have been overwhelming.
“Hey! Come on. What’s the problem? You two’re supposed to be dealin’ with the company that’s been holdin’ up fuel distribution, not fightin’ in the hall.” Rhythm can’t easily reach higher than mid thigh on either mech- not while being able to apply any force while pushing them- but he tries to separate them anyways. Optimus eases back a couple steps, but Megatron merely sneers.
“Well, if it isn’t the pet.” By this point in his life, Rhythm is used to being hauled up by his pauldron in a denting grip and barely hisses even as claws start to dig into his upper back. “Still trying to play the good little Runt? Are you enjoying begging and performing tricks to continue your pitiful little existence?”
Once, Megatron’s optics had been a warm amber. Back when he went by a different name. After they’d pulled him from Luna-2, they were a furious red. They’d stayed that way since: angry and hateful no matter who or what he was looking at. Now though, they were cool. Vague disinterest. Disgust. The same expression he’d seen a dozen times on enforcers and Elites looking to put down what they considered a glitched drone. Nothing left of the mech he’d once considered a friend.
“Megatron!” Optimus’s snapped reprimand only earned a huff, and Rhythm was tossed aside. He bounced off the wall before landing on his peds, stumbling with the momentum. Megatron shoved past Optimus, stalking towards the exit.
“We can talk when you give up on these useless weaklings, Prime.”
“Rhythm, are you alright?”Optimus hurried over to check him over, still helm and pauldrons taller than him despite kneeling. He treats you like you’re weak. Helpless. Something to be pitied.
“I’m fine!” Rhythm huffed out a vent, knowing he sounds snappish as he tries to reign in his sudden indignation. Like everyone else these days, he’s losing his temper about things he shouldn’t. He pats Optimus’s servo, aiming for a soothing action to convey what no one’s field can currently express. “They’re just dents, Op. If it makes you feel better, I’ll check in with Ratch while you go deal with the discriminatory glitches that are trying to reinstill starvation policies.”
Optimus doesn’t respond for a second. Posture tight. Fists clenched. Engine throttled back to cut off a growl. His expression is a war of honest concern and the ugly, dangerous emotions that had crept into everyone’s helms in the last few orns. It almost looks like Optimus is fighting his own bag of angry intrusive thoughts. He doesn’t respect you. No one does. They think you should be put in your place. Maybe you should put them in theirs. It’s a fight to keep his posture relaxed, calm, and unchallenging. Telegraphing through movement and expression that he’s being sincere rather than sarcastic, and he isn’t looking for a fight. Finally, Optimus stands and stalks off, probably redirecting his anger towards someone who’s earned it.
“Make sure you do.” Burn him! Burn all of them! Raze this place to the substructure and make them all bow to you! Take what you deserve-- It’s like intrusive thoughts trying to cause havoc. Frag it all! Rhythm turns towards the transport bay at a trot. He knew he’d read about something like it.
::Ironhide. The artefact from Luna-2. Get rid of it. Take a small shuttle and a couple mechs who still have their processors on straight, find the deepest trench between here and the Praxus border, and dump it in.::
::What?! Why should I?:: Ironhide sounds incredulous, which is understandable and a much better sign than an angry or possessive response. Still it takes effort to not growl at the gaurdsmech.
::It’s called a corrupter. It’s a device that manipulates impulses and inner processors to cause chaos. The Senate used them on military groups to raise energon lust. They must have been using them in the gladiator pits for the same thing.::
::What the pit… Is that why everyone turned insane levels of angry while I was gone?... Yeah, I’ll take care of it.::
Rhythm can feel the blind rage trying to set in, trying to force him to yield to the chaotic impulses. It doesn’t take much effort to direct his fist at the wall. The bright, sharp crack of three of his digits breaking cuts through the fog. Ratchet will yell at him. A lot of mechs are going to be inclined to yell for a bit, but maybe it would be temporary. Maybe mechs would start acting like themselves again. Maybe he can hope that he hadn’t lost M3 to that cold disgust permanently.