[IDW] Walking the Wire 08/12
Sep. 3rd, 2018 06:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Walking the Wire 8/12
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
Chapter Eight
The world spun madly on.
Megatron recharged. He went on shift. He did his paperwork. He walked his routes. He hid in the library, researching things that would now see no use. He visited the medbay for his daily dose of poison, only to be served either by drone or First Aid.
Ratchet avoided him as though he carried rustmites.
Couldn’t even be civil. But of course not. Because Megatron was evil incarnate, and Ratchet had to bow and scrape before Primus in order to earn forgiveness for so much as touching Primus’ Bane.
Soundwave would have told him he was being melodramatic. Worse, that he was starting to imitate Starscream.
Neither of them were here right now. Neither of them had the right to an opinion.
The Lost Light continued speeding toward their destination without a care in the world, heedless to the turmoil twisting and churning inside Megatron. Turmoil that only grew in strength as he strode toward the meeting room where he and a group of the brightest minds on board the ship – plus Rodimus – intended to discuss the corpses in the morgue and the risk they might present.
That group would include Ratchet. As chief medical officer on board – though was up for debate as to whether or not the title was his – it was a given he’d make an appearance. They needed a medic’s opinion on the deaths.
Megatron didn’t know if he could sit across the table from Ratchet and act like everything was fine.
(It wasn’t.)
The door slid open as he approached, greeting him with the low murmur of conversation. It did not immediately cease upon sight of him, an improvement from previous meetings. Megatron headed to the first empty chair, between another empty and a surprisingly small Minimus Ambus.
He swept a gaze around the room, and the surge of relief he felt at not immediately spying Ratchet was ridiculous.
Megatron lowered himself into the seat, which gave an ominous creak beneath him. “I’m not late, am I?”
Perceptor, Brainstorm and Minimus were present. Ratchet and Rodimus were not.
“You are, as usual, quite on time,” Minimus said as he bent over a datapad, the screen covered for privacy, but his stylus moving smoothly across it. “In fact, we are only waiting for one more participant--”
The door opened again. “The fun has arrived!” Rodimus declared as he threw out his arms and strutted inside, face beaming with a bright smile. “You may now rejoice.”
Minimus sighed.
“Take a seat, Fun,” Perceptor drolled. “I have other things to do so we need to make this quick.”
Rodimus’ lower lip jutted out in a pout, his spoiler halves sinking, as though it was a true disappointment no one had applauded his entrance. “Is everyone here?”
“Yes,” Minimus answered. He flicked his fingers across his datapad and powered it down. “Perceptor, I believe you have a report for us?”
Rodimus flopped down into an empty seat at the head of the table, leaving only the seat beside Megatron as empty. Perhaps it was the chair where Ratchet was meant to sit, if he was going to attend. Though Minimus’ statement seemed to suggest otherwise.
“We have a report that is going to blow your processors,” Brainstorm said as he eagerly leaned forward against the edge of the table. He gestured broadly. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Perceptor visibly twitched. He set down a holographic projector, bringing to life a three-dimensional image of the corpses. A tap of the finger and the projector started cycling through pictures, one of which was of a mark Megatron had not seen before: five holes arranged within a circle.
“We believe these marks to be the overall cause of death,” Perceptor began, with very bo preamble whatsoever. “After extensive measuring, theorizing, and investigation, I have determined they are indicative of a predatory species--”
“Vampires,” Brainstorm inserted with a sage nod and a gleam of glee in his optics.
Perceptor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not calling them that.”
“At least he’s admitting there’s a ‘we’ now.” Brainstorm nudged Perceptor with his elbow, a rather brave act in Megatron’s opinion. Said scientist had gone from meek physicist to pinpoint accurate sniper over the course of the war.
Mech who could make a change like that was not a mech one wanted to bother.
“Vampires,” Rodimus repeated, and he was perhaps the only one in the room who could echo Brainstorm’s glee with the same enthusiasm. “Like pale, organic, dressed in black, with fangs and wanting to suck your blood?” At fangs, he literally formed fangs with his fingers and held them up to his lips.
Megatron sighed. “I doubt that is what Perceptor meant.”
“Unfortunately, excluding the organic details, yes, that is what I meant.” Perceptor peered at his datapad as though it would provide some sort of lifeline. “This species indeed has fangs – the five prong marks we detected, and their saliva is detectable by blacklight. They suck blood – in our case, energon. It is why the ship’s tanks were also dry.”
“So it consumes energon in all forms,” Megatron said.
“We’ve yet to decide if they are energon-specific, or if they are energy vampires in general,” Brainstorm pointed out as he plucked a datapad out of subspace and tried to shove it into Perceptor’s view. “They could be responsible for the spark burnout. Or that’s a consequent of the rapid energon-loss.”
“I have asked Ratchet to give us his professional opinion. I’m waiting on his report,” Perceptor said with another sweep of his stylus over his datapad. He ignored Brainstorm’s datapad with practiced disinterest.
Oh, to be a cassetticon on the wall of their laboratory. It had to be entertaining.
Rodimus squinted and looked around the table as though he’d suddenly realized they didn’t have a medic present. “Wait. Where is Ratchet? I thought he was coming to this.”
“Would you like his words or something more polite?” Perceptor’s ocular patch flashed at them. “Or I can paraphrase: he’s busy.”
Busy. Right. Megatron didn’t believe that for a moment. Ratchet was avoiding him, the coward. Like it was Megatron’s idea to end this thing between them.
“Busy,” Rodimus echoed. He plopped an elbow on the edge of the table and rubbed at his forehead. “Let me get this straight. We’re potentially lightspeeding toward danger, and he’s too busy to let us know how much danger we’re in?”
Perceptor stared. Coming from him, it was a lot more eerie than it used to be. “I am assuming that question is rhetorical, since I have no control over Ratchet and apparently, neither do our captains.”
Ouch.
Megatron flinched. Rodimus gaped.
Ultra Magnus – or Minimus for the meeting today, perhaps the armor was getting sanitized – coughed a ventilation. “How have we never encountered them before?”
“We have,” Perceptor said. “There are recorded instances of spacefaring Cybertronians encountering creatures such as these, but no deaths. In most instances, they were able to escape with minimal ill-effects.”
“What was so different this time?” Megatron asked.
Brainstorm spread his hands. “You see, the knights are old, right? So old they are even built differently from us. So old they probably met up with these creatures when they were still primitive, didn’t even know what we were really, except we smelled and tasted good. Plus, you know, the crash.”
“Smelled?” Rodimus shivered theatrically, his spoiler flattening against his back.
“In a manner of speaking. They are probably able to detect particles of energy left behind by creatures capable of mechanically creating it, much like we can track a ship’s vapor trail,” Perceptor said blandly. He was the only one in the room who didn’t look horrified. Excluding Brainstorm, who appeared excited, and probably wanted them to catch a specimen as soon as possible.
Megatron shifted his weight and his chair creaked noisily beneath him, effectively gathering everyone’s attention without his intent. “How much of a threat do they pose to us?”
“Minimal, in my professional opinion, especially if we approach them already aware of the danger.” Perceptor set his datapad on the table and laced his fingers together over it. “We are larger, better armored, and better armed. And though it pains me to admit, we are also more than accustomed to war and defending ourselves.”
“We owe it to science to investigate these things and learn more about them. Who knows! Their ability to sniff out energy could theoretically mean we could use them to find energon deposits or other important things!” Brainstorm threw his hands into the air and fell back dramatically into his chair. “Imagine it!”
“Right now, I’d settle for surviving an encounter with them,” Rodimus said, some of the pep gone from his voice. He might, also, have edged a bit further from the over-excitable scientist. “How big would you say they are?”
Perceptor shook his head. “I can’t be certain. These could be bites, or they could be teethed cables. Therefore the creature could range from the size of a scraplet to a size equivalent to Thunderclash.”
Silence swept through the meeting room. Megatron cringed, and even Brainstorm visibly deflated in the wake of that revelation.
“On the bright side,” Brainstorm managed weakly. “Scientific advancement.” He wriggled his fingers in front of his face and spread his hands. “It’s worth it.”
Rodimus leaned back in his chair, propping one foot on the edge of the table. “We’re going regardless. This is the first clearer than mumbo-jumbo lead we’ve gotten on the knights. It just means we’re going in locked and loaded.”
A sentiment Megatron could appreciate, and he had to admit, it was refreshing to see this amount of forward thinking from Rodimus. Though it was only a reminder that he would not be armed. He doubted anyone trusted him with a weapon.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d defended himself with only his fists and his charm.
“If it is at all possible, I would like to examine at least one of the creatures,” Perceptor said.
“Dissect!” Brainstorm chimed in.
“Examine,” Perceptor corrected, giving Brainstorm the iciest look he had in his arsenal no doubt. “But don’t put yourself in danger on my account.”
“Hey, you want a specimen, I’ll get you a specimen.” Rodimus’ shoulders danced in an elaborate shrug, accompanied by a wink.
Minimus audibly sighed. “We shall do our best to safely acquire a creature for further study. Of course, you could always accompany us when we investigate the coordinates.”
“I don’t know about this one here,” Brainstorm said, gesturing to Perceptor with a thumb. “But definitely count me in.”
They hashed out a few more details, nothing concrete, just suggestions for what type of weaponry might be effective against a being which consumed energy or energy-specific fluids. Megatron stared at the holographic image of the bites or whatever they were, a sense of foreboding churning in his tanks.
Then again, that churning had been present since he stepped foot on this ship. Somehow, Rodimus tended to attract the most unusual and dangerous of circumstances. This entire ship was madness, and Megatron felt swept along in it.
Perhaps that explained his desire to form a relationship with the only person aboard who could have been a worst idea than Rodimus himself.
“Okay!” Rodimus clapped his hands together. “Sounds like we got a good plan. Unless someone has any objections?” He looked around the room, waited for all of a split-second, and grinned. “That’s what I thought. Onward to adventure then!”
He pointed toward the door with a wriggle of his spoiler.
Megatron supposed that was meant to be a dismissal of some kind. As did everyone else, as they stood and gathered their things, Brainstorm sticking to Perceptor like an electro-burr, chattering madly at the back of his head. Whether or not Perceptor listened was a matter of debate. Megatron took his time, more than aware he was as much apart from the rest as he was a part of them.
The meeting room emptied, but Minimus lingered, intercepting Megatron before he could escape like the others. Minimus’ mustache quivered. His hands were tucked behind his back. He looked, of all things, nervous.
“Sir, might have a moment of your time?”
Megatron had the strangest feeling he would not like this conversation. But as captain of the ship, he had to engage.
“Yes, Minimus. How can I help you?”
Minimus glanced at the door, where the tail end of Brainstorm could be seen skipping after Perceptor until the door shut behind him. “It’s about Ratchet.”
Yes, definitely a conversation he should have avoided.
“Is it now?” Megatron kept his tone as mild as he could.
“Yes.” Minimus paused, his face creasing with indecision before he boldly continued forward, “Sir, I must admit I am not very skilled at social interaction, but I have noticed the two of you have been… strained as of late. And while there is little I can do to help, might I suggest you speak with Rung for answers as to how to proceed?”
Megatron stared at him. “Proceed?”
“Yes, sir.” Minimus shifted his weight. “While I appreciate your recent dedication to your work, which supersedes even your usual dedication, including going so far as to fix that crooked rivet which was vexing me for so long, I’ve been told that such diligent behavior is usually indicative of personal turmoil.”
Megatron nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Minimus barged along as though he had to get the words out lest he forget or lose his nerve. Megatron’s mouth snapped back shut.
“The fact that Ratchet is completing his work early is also of concern, especially considering he doesn’t file his reports until prompted. So while I am afraid I cannot be much assistance when it comes to offering advice or comfort, there is a resource available on the ship, should you be willing to take advantage of it.” Minimus paused to vent and Megatron was quite sure that was the most he’d ever heard out of Minimus or Magnus that did not pertain to a seemingly minor issue. “Sir.” He peered up at Megatron, his mustache bobbing above his lip.
Megatron wheezed. He searched for words and couldn’t find them. He cycled a vent, strangled though it was, and found composure buried beneath the echoes of Minimus’ words.
“I thank you for your concern, Minimus,” he said, leaning heavily on manners because the rest of his processor had short-circuited. “But I assure you, there is nothing between Ratchet and I that could explain either of our behavior. I cannot speak for Ratchet, but I find that I rest easier knowing my work is complete.”
Relief flooded Minimus’ field. He visibly sagged from his pose, which was best described as ‘at attention’. “I am glad to hear it, sir.” Minimus smiled.
At least he wasn’t pushing for more.
“Was that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thank Primus. Or maybe thank Unicron, because there’s no way this conversation hadn’t been driven by that Pitpawned beast.
Minimus departed, and Megatron vented. That was one conversation he hadn’t expected to have. He still wasn’t sure if Minimus had divined the relationship between Megatron and Ratchet, or if he correlated their behavior and assumed there was some kind of connection, even if he didn’t know what it might be.
He paused and leaned against the inside wall, rubbing his forehead. There was an ache in his processor he couldn’t quite define. He felt unexpectedly agitated, and he couldn’t pin a finger on why. Given their current course straight toward danger both known and unknown might have had something to do with it, but only if Megatron wanted to lie to himself.
He knew good and well the restless stirring in his spark was about Ratchet. He hadn’t expected to get attached. For it to mean anything more than several good overloads. He certainly hadn’t expected to start trusting Ratchet. Part of him always knew it was ephemeral. That it wouldn’t last. Yet, he’d still been surprised when the end came.
He was not so naïve to call it unfair, but the spark was not a rational thing. It railed at the unfairness of the universe.
Megatron gathered up his datapad and the holoprojector Percepter left behind. He might as well research on his own. Avenues of exploration with Ratchet were now closed to him, but he still had the stirrings of something in the back of his processor.
He opened the door and stepped out, focused on his datapad and paying attention to little else. Which was why he’d missed the fact someone was lying in wait for him outside the door. Said someone slid into his path, and Megatron’s peripheral sensors pinged, prompting him to halt. He looked up and blinked. He didn’t immediately recognize the Autobot.
Grey and red, chevroned like Prime’s infernal tactician, but not the one named Smokescreen. He was blue, Megatron was sure of this. He searched his databanks, cycling through face after face, before a name popped up: Bluestreak. A sniper, not a tactician, from Praxus like so many with that frame type. Largely undecorated throughout the war, though he had led a unit once.
“Bluestreak,” Megatron greeted smoothly. He tipped his head. “Can I help you?”
“That depends,” Bluestreak replied, with more attitude than Megatron would have expected given Megatron’s reputation. He folded his arms.
“On?”
“Whether or not you’re going to tell me about Ratchet.”
Megatron frowned. “I’m not sure to what you are referring. If you have any questions about your chief medic, you should direct them to him.”
Bluestreak snorted. “I’ve got his side. More or less. I want yours.” He tilted his head, optics narrowing. “And you’re lucky I’m even bothering to get your side. If I didn’t trust Ratchet so much, this conversation would have started a lot differently.”
“And how would that be?”
“I’d have arrived with security.”
Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose. He stepped back and gestured toward the door. “Do you want to sit inside and talk or--”
“Here’s fine.” Bluestreak pointedly looked to the left and right. “In public. In view of the cameras. There’s no audio, otherwise Ratchet might never forgive me, but I’m pretty sure I can hold my own until security can pry you off me, if you decide to attack.”
Megatron worked his jaw. “I’ve been aboard the ship for months and have yet to hurt anyone. What makes you think I intend to start now?”
“Because mechs don’t change. At least, not that quickly.” Bluestreak looked up at Megatron, not an ounce of fear in his optics despite the fact Megatron towered over him. He gave the sniper much credit for his bravery. “Look, I don’t want lurid details. I don’t want to know what your relationship entails or what it means--”
“Nothing,” Megatron corrected. “As there is no relationship, past and present, save that between a commander and his subordinate.”
Bluestreak snorted. “You and I both know that’s a lie. My point is, I don’t care about any of that. I just want to know your answer.”
Amused despite himself, Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “To what?”
“Whether or not you’re sincere.”
“This again?” Megatron’s head ached. He resisted the urge to rub it, both because he couldn’t, and because it would be a sign of weakness.
“I don’t mean about Ratchet. I already know the answer to that. I meant about your defection.”
Megatron started at him. “I thought that one was obvious.”
Bluestreak leaned forward and rolled his optics. “Oh, it’s obvious you’re just waiting for the first chance to screw us over. What I’m waiting for is whether or not you’re going to prove me wrong.”
“What makes you think you’re even owed this?” Megatron demanded. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“Because I don’t like you.” Bluestreak’s shoulders twitched, like he was trying to move kibble no longer present. Megatron had seen Starscream make a similar motion before. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be on this ship. You’d be dead, like you deserve, and the rest of the Decepticons with you. Sometimes, people deserve second chances. Well, you’ve had more than you deserve, and I’m just waiting for the moment you reveal your true colors, so I can take your head off with one shot.”
Megatron stared at him. Bluestreak admitted it all in a flat tone, his optics dead, his posture remaining without threat in it. Like he’d become a completely different mech.
Bluestreak grinned, showing denta. “Lucky for you, it’s not up to me. You’re getting the opportunity you don’t deserve, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you take Ratchet down with you. I won’t.” He straightened, shoulders going back. “So are you going to answer my question, Captain Megatron, or am I going to have to take my concerns to Ultra Magnus and Rodimus and the head of the security force?”
Chills crept down Megatron’s spinal strut. Looking into Bluestreak’s optics was like looking into the abyss, a great big void of nothing. Megatron didn’t want to know what had caused such a fracture inside Bluestreak. But it terrified him in ways few things did.
“I am as sincere as I can be.” Megatron kept his tone and guarded. “And I have no intentions of hurting Ratchet. Besides, I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but the one who ended that particular not-relationship was him.”
“I wasn’t. But I am now.” Bluestreak’s grin lengthened, and he bobbed on the balls of his feet. “Doesn’t change my question. Or, I suspect, the answer you just gave me.”
Megatron rubbed at his forehead. Bluestreak exhausted him in a different way than Rodimus. He felt as though he’d been walking on the edge of a precipice, and spent the entire time wondering if Bluestreak would push him over, or pull him to safety.
“Was that all?”
Blue optics looked him up and down, like searching for a weak spot. “For now,” Bluestreak said. “Have a good evening, sir. And might I suggest some rest? You look pretty tired.” Bluestreak smiled.
There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in it.
“Your concern is noted,” Megatron replied, his tone a touch frosty perhaps, but he didn’t believe for a moment that Bluestreak’s concern was sincere.
Bluestreak tipped his head in a parody of respect and backed away from Megatron. “Thank you for the talk, sir,” he said. He spun on a heelstrut and strode down the corridor without a backward glance.
Megatron ground his jaw so hard he tasted sparks. He hadn’t registered Bluestreak as anything more than an annoyance, but now he bumped the sniper to menace. For that had clearly been a threat.
He turned the opposite direction. While returning to his hab was a given, Megatron had no interest in hiding in that small, empty room.
He headed for the library instead. There was always research to be done. Not that he believed it had a point, but at least it kept him from going mad. Trapped on this ship as he was, with no contact to anyone who was remotely on his side. Ravage didn’t necessarily count. Ravage was on no side but Ravage’s.
He’d always been like that.
Megatron’s favorite console, tucked away in the corner with only one way to approach, was not being used at the moment. It served as a perfect hiding spot. Very few ventured in here anyway.
Megatron sat and powered up the computer, fingers rapping over the desktop. There were numerous avenues of exploration laid before him, but his hands took him familiar routes, to familiar pages, to a world he’d only just begun to investigate.
Trust, said every message board and guide and manual. Trust was the single most important requirement for this indulgence. Trust between the dom and the sub was paramount. It had to be absolute.
Megatron slumped in his chair.
Trust was such a difficult concept. It was not something he’d ever held in spades. Not even with Soundwave, who was perhaps the only one he even remotely trusted on any level.
He briefly entertained thoughts of the way things could have been. Megatron, speaking to Soundwave in private, without barriers, without the walls of leadership and subordinate to bind them. Asking for something he dared not ask another, putting his safety into Soundwave’s hands, and believing he’d be taken care of.
It wasn’t completely implausible. Once upon a time, it might have even been possible.
Too quickly, the thoughts morphed into what Megatron already knew to be achievable. They morphed into himself, on his knees, chained, and Ratchet behind him, hands firm and knowledged. His voice, a low, commanding tone. The strike of the flog, again and again, pain and pleasure spiking in response.
And trust.
He will stop if I say so.
And believing it would happen.
Megatron’s hand curled into a fist under his cheek.
Trust, he reasoned, was a many-layered thing.
He flicked his finger across the screen, changing the guide to the next page. Something dark flickered into view. Megatron narrowed his optics, focusing on it.
In the reflection of his monitor, Megatron caught sight of Ravage perched on another console behind him. Which meant Ravage had wanted to be noticed.
Megatron returned to his research. “You’re relieved, aren’t you?”
“I am comfortable, yes.”
Megatron pressed his lips in a brief, thin line. Ravage was always like this, forcing him to clarify when he knew damn well what Megatron meant. “That Ratchet and I are no longer an item,” he said, pushing irritation into his voice.
“Oh, yes. That.” Ravage shifted with a susurrus of sound. “Well, he’s an Autobot.”
“As am I.”
“I don’t think there’s a single crewmember on this ship who honestly believes that. And I include you in that statement.”
Megatron set his jaw. He stared harder at the computer screen, though he didn’t absorb a single word. If he looked hard enough, he could see his own reflection, almost superimposed over Ravage beyond his shoulder.
“You may wear the badge, but that is where the identity ends,” Ravage continued as he rose from his recline, arching his back. “They saw how quickly you abandoned the Decepticons. They don’t believe for a moment you won’t turn around and do the same to them.”
Megatron’s spark curled into a tighter knot. Was this also what Ratchet meant about being unable to trust Megatron? Not just that he’d been Decepticon commander, but also that he’d turned his back on his faction? It would take more than a speech or two to explain himself. Megatron wasn’t entirely sure he could put it into words, unless he simplified it.
He was tired.
“So to answer your question, I’m neither relieved nor sympathetic.” Ravage hopped down from the console, padding silently around Megatron’s seat. “He’s an Autobot medic, and anyway, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was entertainment at best, am I right? It – and by extension, he – doesn’t matter.”
Megatron sat back from the computer, his focus distant. “You’re wrong.”
“Curious. Which of those statements are inaccurate?”
Sadly, not all of them. Not enough to soothe Megatron’s spark.
He rapped his fingers on the desktop, the sharp staccato making Ravage flinch, a petty revenge. “It was not mere fun. Not even at first.”
“It was indulgence.”
“It was necessary.”
Ravage stared at him, his optics as cutting as Soundwave’s visored stare had always been. “Because he was part of the plan?”
“What plan?” Megatron shoved back from the computer, the stool rattling away behind him. “I had no plan. I have contingencies. I have wisps. I have stratagems, but I have no plan, I have nothing. There is no course of action where I emerge victorious in any shape or form.”
He paced around the desk, feeling trapped, though there were any number of directions he could go. Except off the ship, off the Lost Light, away from judgmental Autobots, and medics who couldn’t bring themselves to trust him.
“I lost the war.” Megatron’s hands fisted at his sides, and he stared at nothing. Saw nothing. “In the end, it gained me nothing. What good would it do to start another? What could it accomplish but failure and death and further destruction to the planet and its people?”
“What good?” Ravage hopped on the desk, standing over the keyboard where Megatron had been typing. “You could have tried, Megatron. Rather than abandon us to Autobot mercy, rather than disdain and disown us like our rebellion was nothing to you. You say Soundwave is the traitor, but I look at you, and I can’t see anything but a shadow of the mech who used to be great.”
Megatron’s engine roared. “Death is not greatness. War is not power. We accomplished nothing!” His hand swept through the air, inches from Ravage, not meant to be an attack.
Ravage did not flinch. His hackles rose, armor fluffing out in defensive response.
“You should have led us!” Ravage hissed, claws extending, screeching against the desktop. “If you wanted to try another way, you should have led us to it! Instead you whimper and cower behind an Autobot badge because you think it will protect you, while you wallow in your own guilt.” Ravage’s tail lashed through the air, his armor vibrating with outrage. “We needed you! We have always needed you! You could have led us toward peace and instead we are stuck clinging to the first mech strong enough to assume control.”
Megatron’s ventilations churned. Nausea curdled his tanks. His spark pounded; his processor spun. The empty spaces inside of him ached.
“I can’t do it,” Megatron snarled with far less strength than it should have had. “I can’t be what you or Soundwave or anyone else needs me to be. I am tired, Ravage. I am tired of it all. I can’t save the Decepticons. I can’t save myself. You demand something I can’t give any longer. I am neither leader nor savior. I am failure with blood on my hands and death on my spark!”
Ravage’s audials flattened. His mouth clamped shut, optics burning like embers of accusation.
Guilt surged inside. Megatron forced his tone to calm. He wasn’t angry with Ravage. It would be as if he were angry at the truth.
“I am not worth your loyalty,” Megatron admitted, his vocalizer crackling around the concession, because Ravage was right. He knew this. He’d always known this. “I was a nothing, raging against my fate, and I took you all with me. I promised you all a better life, and all I’ve brought you is madness.”
Ravage leapt from the desk, skulking toward the door. Only he paused, tail hanging low. “Did we die for nothing? Did we sacrifice everything… for nothing?”
“No,” Megatron said. “It was still worth it. To fight.” He worked his intake, over a lump. “But I should have found a better way.”
Ravage’s biolights flickered before going fully dark. “The medic is right,” he said, his voice echoing in the dark. “It’s too much of a risk to trust you.”
He vanished into the shadows, leaving Megatron alone. Ravage’s words bounced back and forth inside Megatron’s head.
He wondered if this was it, if this was the moment he lost Ravage forever. Would the cassette ever return to his side? Did he still consider Megatron someone worth trying for? Or was Megatron alone? For the first time, in a long time, was he finally alone?
Megatron slumped back into his chair and buried his face behind his hands. The computer monitor reflected back at him, aglow with information he’d never use. It didn’t matter if it involved his personal relationship with Ratchet, or escape from a certain doom, none of it was any use.
He was trapped.
* * *
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
The world spun madly on.
Megatron recharged. He went on shift. He did his paperwork. He walked his routes. He hid in the library, researching things that would now see no use. He visited the medbay for his daily dose of poison, only to be served either by drone or First Aid.
Ratchet avoided him as though he carried rustmites.
Couldn’t even be civil. But of course not. Because Megatron was evil incarnate, and Ratchet had to bow and scrape before Primus in order to earn forgiveness for so much as touching Primus’ Bane.
Soundwave would have told him he was being melodramatic. Worse, that he was starting to imitate Starscream.
Neither of them were here right now. Neither of them had the right to an opinion.
The Lost Light continued speeding toward their destination without a care in the world, heedless to the turmoil twisting and churning inside Megatron. Turmoil that only grew in strength as he strode toward the meeting room where he and a group of the brightest minds on board the ship – plus Rodimus – intended to discuss the corpses in the morgue and the risk they might present.
That group would include Ratchet. As chief medical officer on board – though was up for debate as to whether or not the title was his – it was a given he’d make an appearance. They needed a medic’s opinion on the deaths.
Megatron didn’t know if he could sit across the table from Ratchet and act like everything was fine.
(It wasn’t.)
The door slid open as he approached, greeting him with the low murmur of conversation. It did not immediately cease upon sight of him, an improvement from previous meetings. Megatron headed to the first empty chair, between another empty and a surprisingly small Minimus Ambus.
He swept a gaze around the room, and the surge of relief he felt at not immediately spying Ratchet was ridiculous.
Megatron lowered himself into the seat, which gave an ominous creak beneath him. “I’m not late, am I?”
Perceptor, Brainstorm and Minimus were present. Ratchet and Rodimus were not.
“You are, as usual, quite on time,” Minimus said as he bent over a datapad, the screen covered for privacy, but his stylus moving smoothly across it. “In fact, we are only waiting for one more participant--”
The door opened again. “The fun has arrived!” Rodimus declared as he threw out his arms and strutted inside, face beaming with a bright smile. “You may now rejoice.”
Minimus sighed.
“Take a seat, Fun,” Perceptor drolled. “I have other things to do so we need to make this quick.”
Rodimus’ lower lip jutted out in a pout, his spoiler halves sinking, as though it was a true disappointment no one had applauded his entrance. “Is everyone here?”
“Yes,” Minimus answered. He flicked his fingers across his datapad and powered it down. “Perceptor, I believe you have a report for us?”
Rodimus flopped down into an empty seat at the head of the table, leaving only the seat beside Megatron as empty. Perhaps it was the chair where Ratchet was meant to sit, if he was going to attend. Though Minimus’ statement seemed to suggest otherwise.
“We have a report that is going to blow your processors,” Brainstorm said as he eagerly leaned forward against the edge of the table. He gestured broadly. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Perceptor visibly twitched. He set down a holographic projector, bringing to life a three-dimensional image of the corpses. A tap of the finger and the projector started cycling through pictures, one of which was of a mark Megatron had not seen before: five holes arranged within a circle.
“We believe these marks to be the overall cause of death,” Perceptor began, with very bo preamble whatsoever. “After extensive measuring, theorizing, and investigation, I have determined they are indicative of a predatory species--”
“Vampires,” Brainstorm inserted with a sage nod and a gleam of glee in his optics.
Perceptor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not calling them that.”
“At least he’s admitting there’s a ‘we’ now.” Brainstorm nudged Perceptor with his elbow, a rather brave act in Megatron’s opinion. Said scientist had gone from meek physicist to pinpoint accurate sniper over the course of the war.
Mech who could make a change like that was not a mech one wanted to bother.
“Vampires,” Rodimus repeated, and he was perhaps the only one in the room who could echo Brainstorm’s glee with the same enthusiasm. “Like pale, organic, dressed in black, with fangs and wanting to suck your blood?” At fangs, he literally formed fangs with his fingers and held them up to his lips.
Megatron sighed. “I doubt that is what Perceptor meant.”
“Unfortunately, excluding the organic details, yes, that is what I meant.” Perceptor peered at his datapad as though it would provide some sort of lifeline. “This species indeed has fangs – the five prong marks we detected, and their saliva is detectable by blacklight. They suck blood – in our case, energon. It is why the ship’s tanks were also dry.”
“So it consumes energon in all forms,” Megatron said.
“We’ve yet to decide if they are energon-specific, or if they are energy vampires in general,” Brainstorm pointed out as he plucked a datapad out of subspace and tried to shove it into Perceptor’s view. “They could be responsible for the spark burnout. Or that’s a consequent of the rapid energon-loss.”
“I have asked Ratchet to give us his professional opinion. I’m waiting on his report,” Perceptor said with another sweep of his stylus over his datapad. He ignored Brainstorm’s datapad with practiced disinterest.
Oh, to be a cassetticon on the wall of their laboratory. It had to be entertaining.
Rodimus squinted and looked around the table as though he’d suddenly realized they didn’t have a medic present. “Wait. Where is Ratchet? I thought he was coming to this.”
“Would you like his words or something more polite?” Perceptor’s ocular patch flashed at them. “Or I can paraphrase: he’s busy.”
Busy. Right. Megatron didn’t believe that for a moment. Ratchet was avoiding him, the coward. Like it was Megatron’s idea to end this thing between them.
“Busy,” Rodimus echoed. He plopped an elbow on the edge of the table and rubbed at his forehead. “Let me get this straight. We’re potentially lightspeeding toward danger, and he’s too busy to let us know how much danger we’re in?”
Perceptor stared. Coming from him, it was a lot more eerie than it used to be. “I am assuming that question is rhetorical, since I have no control over Ratchet and apparently, neither do our captains.”
Ouch.
Megatron flinched. Rodimus gaped.
Ultra Magnus – or Minimus for the meeting today, perhaps the armor was getting sanitized – coughed a ventilation. “How have we never encountered them before?”
“We have,” Perceptor said. “There are recorded instances of spacefaring Cybertronians encountering creatures such as these, but no deaths. In most instances, they were able to escape with minimal ill-effects.”
“What was so different this time?” Megatron asked.
Brainstorm spread his hands. “You see, the knights are old, right? So old they are even built differently from us. So old they probably met up with these creatures when they were still primitive, didn’t even know what we were really, except we smelled and tasted good. Plus, you know, the crash.”
“Smelled?” Rodimus shivered theatrically, his spoiler flattening against his back.
“In a manner of speaking. They are probably able to detect particles of energy left behind by creatures capable of mechanically creating it, much like we can track a ship’s vapor trail,” Perceptor said blandly. He was the only one in the room who didn’t look horrified. Excluding Brainstorm, who appeared excited, and probably wanted them to catch a specimen as soon as possible.
Megatron shifted his weight and his chair creaked noisily beneath him, effectively gathering everyone’s attention without his intent. “How much of a threat do they pose to us?”
“Minimal, in my professional opinion, especially if we approach them already aware of the danger.” Perceptor set his datapad on the table and laced his fingers together over it. “We are larger, better armored, and better armed. And though it pains me to admit, we are also more than accustomed to war and defending ourselves.”
“We owe it to science to investigate these things and learn more about them. Who knows! Their ability to sniff out energy could theoretically mean we could use them to find energon deposits or other important things!” Brainstorm threw his hands into the air and fell back dramatically into his chair. “Imagine it!”
“Right now, I’d settle for surviving an encounter with them,” Rodimus said, some of the pep gone from his voice. He might, also, have edged a bit further from the over-excitable scientist. “How big would you say they are?”
Perceptor shook his head. “I can’t be certain. These could be bites, or they could be teethed cables. Therefore the creature could range from the size of a scraplet to a size equivalent to Thunderclash.”
Silence swept through the meeting room. Megatron cringed, and even Brainstorm visibly deflated in the wake of that revelation.
“On the bright side,” Brainstorm managed weakly. “Scientific advancement.” He wriggled his fingers in front of his face and spread his hands. “It’s worth it.”
Rodimus leaned back in his chair, propping one foot on the edge of the table. “We’re going regardless. This is the first clearer than mumbo-jumbo lead we’ve gotten on the knights. It just means we’re going in locked and loaded.”
A sentiment Megatron could appreciate, and he had to admit, it was refreshing to see this amount of forward thinking from Rodimus. Though it was only a reminder that he would not be armed. He doubted anyone trusted him with a weapon.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d defended himself with only his fists and his charm.
“If it is at all possible, I would like to examine at least one of the creatures,” Perceptor said.
“Dissect!” Brainstorm chimed in.
“Examine,” Perceptor corrected, giving Brainstorm the iciest look he had in his arsenal no doubt. “But don’t put yourself in danger on my account.”
“Hey, you want a specimen, I’ll get you a specimen.” Rodimus’ shoulders danced in an elaborate shrug, accompanied by a wink.
Minimus audibly sighed. “We shall do our best to safely acquire a creature for further study. Of course, you could always accompany us when we investigate the coordinates.”
“I don’t know about this one here,” Brainstorm said, gesturing to Perceptor with a thumb. “But definitely count me in.”
They hashed out a few more details, nothing concrete, just suggestions for what type of weaponry might be effective against a being which consumed energy or energy-specific fluids. Megatron stared at the holographic image of the bites or whatever they were, a sense of foreboding churning in his tanks.
Then again, that churning had been present since he stepped foot on this ship. Somehow, Rodimus tended to attract the most unusual and dangerous of circumstances. This entire ship was madness, and Megatron felt swept along in it.
Perhaps that explained his desire to form a relationship with the only person aboard who could have been a worst idea than Rodimus himself.
“Okay!” Rodimus clapped his hands together. “Sounds like we got a good plan. Unless someone has any objections?” He looked around the room, waited for all of a split-second, and grinned. “That’s what I thought. Onward to adventure then!”
He pointed toward the door with a wriggle of his spoiler.
Megatron supposed that was meant to be a dismissal of some kind. As did everyone else, as they stood and gathered their things, Brainstorm sticking to Perceptor like an electro-burr, chattering madly at the back of his head. Whether or not Perceptor listened was a matter of debate. Megatron took his time, more than aware he was as much apart from the rest as he was a part of them.
The meeting room emptied, but Minimus lingered, intercepting Megatron before he could escape like the others. Minimus’ mustache quivered. His hands were tucked behind his back. He looked, of all things, nervous.
“Sir, might have a moment of your time?”
Megatron had the strangest feeling he would not like this conversation. But as captain of the ship, he had to engage.
“Yes, Minimus. How can I help you?”
Minimus glanced at the door, where the tail end of Brainstorm could be seen skipping after Perceptor until the door shut behind him. “It’s about Ratchet.”
Yes, definitely a conversation he should have avoided.
“Is it now?” Megatron kept his tone as mild as he could.
“Yes.” Minimus paused, his face creasing with indecision before he boldly continued forward, “Sir, I must admit I am not very skilled at social interaction, but I have noticed the two of you have been… strained as of late. And while there is little I can do to help, might I suggest you speak with Rung for answers as to how to proceed?”
Megatron stared at him. “Proceed?”
“Yes, sir.” Minimus shifted his weight. “While I appreciate your recent dedication to your work, which supersedes even your usual dedication, including going so far as to fix that crooked rivet which was vexing me for so long, I’ve been told that such diligent behavior is usually indicative of personal turmoil.”
Megatron nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Minimus barged along as though he had to get the words out lest he forget or lose his nerve. Megatron’s mouth snapped back shut.
“The fact that Ratchet is completing his work early is also of concern, especially considering he doesn’t file his reports until prompted. So while I am afraid I cannot be much assistance when it comes to offering advice or comfort, there is a resource available on the ship, should you be willing to take advantage of it.” Minimus paused to vent and Megatron was quite sure that was the most he’d ever heard out of Minimus or Magnus that did not pertain to a seemingly minor issue. “Sir.” He peered up at Megatron, his mustache bobbing above his lip.
Megatron wheezed. He searched for words and couldn’t find them. He cycled a vent, strangled though it was, and found composure buried beneath the echoes of Minimus’ words.
“I thank you for your concern, Minimus,” he said, leaning heavily on manners because the rest of his processor had short-circuited. “But I assure you, there is nothing between Ratchet and I that could explain either of our behavior. I cannot speak for Ratchet, but I find that I rest easier knowing my work is complete.”
Relief flooded Minimus’ field. He visibly sagged from his pose, which was best described as ‘at attention’. “I am glad to hear it, sir.” Minimus smiled.
At least he wasn’t pushing for more.
“Was that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thank Primus. Or maybe thank Unicron, because there’s no way this conversation hadn’t been driven by that Pitpawned beast.
Minimus departed, and Megatron vented. That was one conversation he hadn’t expected to have. He still wasn’t sure if Minimus had divined the relationship between Megatron and Ratchet, or if he correlated their behavior and assumed there was some kind of connection, even if he didn’t know what it might be.
He paused and leaned against the inside wall, rubbing his forehead. There was an ache in his processor he couldn’t quite define. He felt unexpectedly agitated, and he couldn’t pin a finger on why. Given their current course straight toward danger both known and unknown might have had something to do with it, but only if Megatron wanted to lie to himself.
He knew good and well the restless stirring in his spark was about Ratchet. He hadn’t expected to get attached. For it to mean anything more than several good overloads. He certainly hadn’t expected to start trusting Ratchet. Part of him always knew it was ephemeral. That it wouldn’t last. Yet, he’d still been surprised when the end came.
He was not so naïve to call it unfair, but the spark was not a rational thing. It railed at the unfairness of the universe.
Megatron gathered up his datapad and the holoprojector Percepter left behind. He might as well research on his own. Avenues of exploration with Ratchet were now closed to him, but he still had the stirrings of something in the back of his processor.
He opened the door and stepped out, focused on his datapad and paying attention to little else. Which was why he’d missed the fact someone was lying in wait for him outside the door. Said someone slid into his path, and Megatron’s peripheral sensors pinged, prompting him to halt. He looked up and blinked. He didn’t immediately recognize the Autobot.
Grey and red, chevroned like Prime’s infernal tactician, but not the one named Smokescreen. He was blue, Megatron was sure of this. He searched his databanks, cycling through face after face, before a name popped up: Bluestreak. A sniper, not a tactician, from Praxus like so many with that frame type. Largely undecorated throughout the war, though he had led a unit once.
“Bluestreak,” Megatron greeted smoothly. He tipped his head. “Can I help you?”
“That depends,” Bluestreak replied, with more attitude than Megatron would have expected given Megatron’s reputation. He folded his arms.
“On?”
“Whether or not you’re going to tell me about Ratchet.”
Megatron frowned. “I’m not sure to what you are referring. If you have any questions about your chief medic, you should direct them to him.”
Bluestreak snorted. “I’ve got his side. More or less. I want yours.” He tilted his head, optics narrowing. “And you’re lucky I’m even bothering to get your side. If I didn’t trust Ratchet so much, this conversation would have started a lot differently.”
“And how would that be?”
“I’d have arrived with security.”
Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose. He stepped back and gestured toward the door. “Do you want to sit inside and talk or--”
“Here’s fine.” Bluestreak pointedly looked to the left and right. “In public. In view of the cameras. There’s no audio, otherwise Ratchet might never forgive me, but I’m pretty sure I can hold my own until security can pry you off me, if you decide to attack.”
Megatron worked his jaw. “I’ve been aboard the ship for months and have yet to hurt anyone. What makes you think I intend to start now?”
“Because mechs don’t change. At least, not that quickly.” Bluestreak looked up at Megatron, not an ounce of fear in his optics despite the fact Megatron towered over him. He gave the sniper much credit for his bravery. “Look, I don’t want lurid details. I don’t want to know what your relationship entails or what it means--”
“Nothing,” Megatron corrected. “As there is no relationship, past and present, save that between a commander and his subordinate.”
Bluestreak snorted. “You and I both know that’s a lie. My point is, I don’t care about any of that. I just want to know your answer.”
Amused despite himself, Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “To what?”
“Whether or not you’re sincere.”
“This again?” Megatron’s head ached. He resisted the urge to rub it, both because he couldn’t, and because it would be a sign of weakness.
“I don’t mean about Ratchet. I already know the answer to that. I meant about your defection.”
Megatron started at him. “I thought that one was obvious.”
Bluestreak leaned forward and rolled his optics. “Oh, it’s obvious you’re just waiting for the first chance to screw us over. What I’m waiting for is whether or not you’re going to prove me wrong.”
“What makes you think you’re even owed this?” Megatron demanded. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“Because I don’t like you.” Bluestreak’s shoulders twitched, like he was trying to move kibble no longer present. Megatron had seen Starscream make a similar motion before. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be on this ship. You’d be dead, like you deserve, and the rest of the Decepticons with you. Sometimes, people deserve second chances. Well, you’ve had more than you deserve, and I’m just waiting for the moment you reveal your true colors, so I can take your head off with one shot.”
Megatron stared at him. Bluestreak admitted it all in a flat tone, his optics dead, his posture remaining without threat in it. Like he’d become a completely different mech.
Bluestreak grinned, showing denta. “Lucky for you, it’s not up to me. You’re getting the opportunity you don’t deserve, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you take Ratchet down with you. I won’t.” He straightened, shoulders going back. “So are you going to answer my question, Captain Megatron, or am I going to have to take my concerns to Ultra Magnus and Rodimus and the head of the security force?”
Chills crept down Megatron’s spinal strut. Looking into Bluestreak’s optics was like looking into the abyss, a great big void of nothing. Megatron didn’t want to know what had caused such a fracture inside Bluestreak. But it terrified him in ways few things did.
“I am as sincere as I can be.” Megatron kept his tone and guarded. “And I have no intentions of hurting Ratchet. Besides, I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but the one who ended that particular not-relationship was him.”
“I wasn’t. But I am now.” Bluestreak’s grin lengthened, and he bobbed on the balls of his feet. “Doesn’t change my question. Or, I suspect, the answer you just gave me.”
Megatron rubbed at his forehead. Bluestreak exhausted him in a different way than Rodimus. He felt as though he’d been walking on the edge of a precipice, and spent the entire time wondering if Bluestreak would push him over, or pull him to safety.
“Was that all?”
Blue optics looked him up and down, like searching for a weak spot. “For now,” Bluestreak said. “Have a good evening, sir. And might I suggest some rest? You look pretty tired.” Bluestreak smiled.
There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in it.
“Your concern is noted,” Megatron replied, his tone a touch frosty perhaps, but he didn’t believe for a moment that Bluestreak’s concern was sincere.
Bluestreak tipped his head in a parody of respect and backed away from Megatron. “Thank you for the talk, sir,” he said. He spun on a heelstrut and strode down the corridor without a backward glance.
Megatron ground his jaw so hard he tasted sparks. He hadn’t registered Bluestreak as anything more than an annoyance, but now he bumped the sniper to menace. For that had clearly been a threat.
He turned the opposite direction. While returning to his hab was a given, Megatron had no interest in hiding in that small, empty room.
He headed for the library instead. There was always research to be done. Not that he believed it had a point, but at least it kept him from going mad. Trapped on this ship as he was, with no contact to anyone who was remotely on his side. Ravage didn’t necessarily count. Ravage was on no side but Ravage’s.
He’d always been like that.
Megatron’s favorite console, tucked away in the corner with only one way to approach, was not being used at the moment. It served as a perfect hiding spot. Very few ventured in here anyway.
Megatron sat and powered up the computer, fingers rapping over the desktop. There were numerous avenues of exploration laid before him, but his hands took him familiar routes, to familiar pages, to a world he’d only just begun to investigate.
Trust, said every message board and guide and manual. Trust was the single most important requirement for this indulgence. Trust between the dom and the sub was paramount. It had to be absolute.
Megatron slumped in his chair.
Trust was such a difficult concept. It was not something he’d ever held in spades. Not even with Soundwave, who was perhaps the only one he even remotely trusted on any level.
He briefly entertained thoughts of the way things could have been. Megatron, speaking to Soundwave in private, without barriers, without the walls of leadership and subordinate to bind them. Asking for something he dared not ask another, putting his safety into Soundwave’s hands, and believing he’d be taken care of.
It wasn’t completely implausible. Once upon a time, it might have even been possible.
Too quickly, the thoughts morphed into what Megatron already knew to be achievable. They morphed into himself, on his knees, chained, and Ratchet behind him, hands firm and knowledged. His voice, a low, commanding tone. The strike of the flog, again and again, pain and pleasure spiking in response.
And trust.
He will stop if I say so.
And believing it would happen.
Megatron’s hand curled into a fist under his cheek.
Trust, he reasoned, was a many-layered thing.
He flicked his finger across the screen, changing the guide to the next page. Something dark flickered into view. Megatron narrowed his optics, focusing on it.
In the reflection of his monitor, Megatron caught sight of Ravage perched on another console behind him. Which meant Ravage had wanted to be noticed.
Megatron returned to his research. “You’re relieved, aren’t you?”
“I am comfortable, yes.”
Megatron pressed his lips in a brief, thin line. Ravage was always like this, forcing him to clarify when he knew damn well what Megatron meant. “That Ratchet and I are no longer an item,” he said, pushing irritation into his voice.
“Oh, yes. That.” Ravage shifted with a susurrus of sound. “Well, he’s an Autobot.”
“As am I.”
“I don’t think there’s a single crewmember on this ship who honestly believes that. And I include you in that statement.”
Megatron set his jaw. He stared harder at the computer screen, though he didn’t absorb a single word. If he looked hard enough, he could see his own reflection, almost superimposed over Ravage beyond his shoulder.
“You may wear the badge, but that is where the identity ends,” Ravage continued as he rose from his recline, arching his back. “They saw how quickly you abandoned the Decepticons. They don’t believe for a moment you won’t turn around and do the same to them.”
Megatron’s spark curled into a tighter knot. Was this also what Ratchet meant about being unable to trust Megatron? Not just that he’d been Decepticon commander, but also that he’d turned his back on his faction? It would take more than a speech or two to explain himself. Megatron wasn’t entirely sure he could put it into words, unless he simplified it.
He was tired.
“So to answer your question, I’m neither relieved nor sympathetic.” Ravage hopped down from the console, padding silently around Megatron’s seat. “He’s an Autobot medic, and anyway, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was entertainment at best, am I right? It – and by extension, he – doesn’t matter.”
Megatron sat back from the computer, his focus distant. “You’re wrong.”
“Curious. Which of those statements are inaccurate?”
Sadly, not all of them. Not enough to soothe Megatron’s spark.
He rapped his fingers on the desktop, the sharp staccato making Ravage flinch, a petty revenge. “It was not mere fun. Not even at first.”
“It was indulgence.”
“It was necessary.”
Ravage stared at him, his optics as cutting as Soundwave’s visored stare had always been. “Because he was part of the plan?”
“What plan?” Megatron shoved back from the computer, the stool rattling away behind him. “I had no plan. I have contingencies. I have wisps. I have stratagems, but I have no plan, I have nothing. There is no course of action where I emerge victorious in any shape or form.”
He paced around the desk, feeling trapped, though there were any number of directions he could go. Except off the ship, off the Lost Light, away from judgmental Autobots, and medics who couldn’t bring themselves to trust him.
“I lost the war.” Megatron’s hands fisted at his sides, and he stared at nothing. Saw nothing. “In the end, it gained me nothing. What good would it do to start another? What could it accomplish but failure and death and further destruction to the planet and its people?”
“What good?” Ravage hopped on the desk, standing over the keyboard where Megatron had been typing. “You could have tried, Megatron. Rather than abandon us to Autobot mercy, rather than disdain and disown us like our rebellion was nothing to you. You say Soundwave is the traitor, but I look at you, and I can’t see anything but a shadow of the mech who used to be great.”
Megatron’s engine roared. “Death is not greatness. War is not power. We accomplished nothing!” His hand swept through the air, inches from Ravage, not meant to be an attack.
Ravage did not flinch. His hackles rose, armor fluffing out in defensive response.
“You should have led us!” Ravage hissed, claws extending, screeching against the desktop. “If you wanted to try another way, you should have led us to it! Instead you whimper and cower behind an Autobot badge because you think it will protect you, while you wallow in your own guilt.” Ravage’s tail lashed through the air, his armor vibrating with outrage. “We needed you! We have always needed you! You could have led us toward peace and instead we are stuck clinging to the first mech strong enough to assume control.”
Megatron’s ventilations churned. Nausea curdled his tanks. His spark pounded; his processor spun. The empty spaces inside of him ached.
“I can’t do it,” Megatron snarled with far less strength than it should have had. “I can’t be what you or Soundwave or anyone else needs me to be. I am tired, Ravage. I am tired of it all. I can’t save the Decepticons. I can’t save myself. You demand something I can’t give any longer. I am neither leader nor savior. I am failure with blood on my hands and death on my spark!”
Ravage’s audials flattened. His mouth clamped shut, optics burning like embers of accusation.
Guilt surged inside. Megatron forced his tone to calm. He wasn’t angry with Ravage. It would be as if he were angry at the truth.
“I am not worth your loyalty,” Megatron admitted, his vocalizer crackling around the concession, because Ravage was right. He knew this. He’d always known this. “I was a nothing, raging against my fate, and I took you all with me. I promised you all a better life, and all I’ve brought you is madness.”
Ravage leapt from the desk, skulking toward the door. Only he paused, tail hanging low. “Did we die for nothing? Did we sacrifice everything… for nothing?”
“No,” Megatron said. “It was still worth it. To fight.” He worked his intake, over a lump. “But I should have found a better way.”
Ravage’s biolights flickered before going fully dark. “The medic is right,” he said, his voice echoing in the dark. “It’s too much of a risk to trust you.”
He vanished into the shadows, leaving Megatron alone. Ravage’s words bounced back and forth inside Megatron’s head.
He wondered if this was it, if this was the moment he lost Ravage forever. Would the cassette ever return to his side? Did he still consider Megatron someone worth trying for? Or was Megatron alone? For the first time, in a long time, was he finally alone?
Megatron slumped back into his chair and buried his face behind his hands. The computer monitor reflected back at him, aglow with information he’d never use. It didn’t matter if it involved his personal relationship with Ratchet, or escape from a certain doom, none of it was any use.
He was trapped.
