[IDW] Break the Chain 04/10
Oct. 29th, 2018 06:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Break the Chain
Universe: Mostly IDW with bits of others
Characters: Prowl, Original Character(s), Megatron, Starscream, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Barricade, Soundwave, Sunstreaker/Sideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: Political Shenanigans, Brief Moment of Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Machinations, Twincest, Extremely Minor Character Death
Description: Desperate to bring some much needed tactical assistance to the Decepticon uprising, Megatron attempts to recruit Prowl, an outcast Enforcer with a frame exemption. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, political machinations are at work to stem the Decepticon tide and turn Cybertron back to the preferred status quo.
Commission for an anonymous person.
Chapter Four
Prowl’s not one for playing games.
Some of the younger Enforcers do, he knows. Those who like to gather together in groups and chat and laugh. The ones who still flock to the clubs or the race tracks. The ones sparked into their roles and are content in it.
He’s passed the arcades. He’s seen them packed, older mechs gravitating toward the hologames where they can escape from reality until their credchips run dry. Newer sparked mechs lingering around the games for dexterity, skill, quick thinking. Racers practice on these systems, too.
It doesn’t help to tilt one’s body with the controller, but these players try. They lean forward and back. They press harder on the buttons, pulse harder across the cables. They shout at the screen as though it’ll effect the outcome.
It’s irrational and unhelpful and foolish.
Right now, Prowl can sympathize with them.
He cringes with every blow. He tilts and leans and clamps his hands on his knees to resist the urge to echo the swing of the axe, the lift of the shield, the spins and dodges, the crash and clatter of weapon against armor.
Megatron’s opponent is large. Trained. There’s something familiar in his style. Something institutional. Prowl doesn’t recognize the other gladiator, not his face nor his designation, but he’s still somehow familiar.
Megatron is smaller. He was once a miner. He doesn’t have the sparked instincts of a warrior. But he’s holding his own. He uses his size to his advantage. His speed. Crucible makes large, heavy blows. Megatron has marked him multiple times already, in multiple key points.
Hydraulic fluid dribbles from nicked lines. Energon streaks over dusky red armor. Crucible’s optics are dark with rage, lips peeled back over his denta. The ground itself is pockmarked with strikes which missed Megatron.
Prowl watches, enraptured, ventilations caught. He understands the thrill of it now. Why mechs throw their creds at such a thing. It’s barbaric, but it’s fascinating.
Megatron is not untouched. He’d had to yank one of Crucible’s throwing daggers out of his lower back earlier, and energon dribbles in a steady stream from the wound. His armor is dented, and he favors his left leg. But he holds strong.
He’s going to win. Prowl is sure of it.
Crucible bellows in rage. He rushes at Megatron, yanking one of his rotors free to use as a weapon, throwing himself with all the recklessness he can spare.
Megatron holds his ground. He looks up at the mech nearly twice his size, and he spits a glob of bloody lubricant to the ground.
They clash, a flurry of dust rising around them. Something shrieks. Energon spatters across the floor. Crucible’s rotor spins away, impacting one of the surrounding walls, sheared in half. A strut-rattling boom finds Crucible slamming into the arena floor.
He spins, hands scrabbling, manages to get to hands and knees. One cracked optic flickers intermittently. He freezes, energon dripping from multiple wounds, favoring an arm.
Megatron holds the tip of his blade to Crucible’s intake, a symbolic gesture as a neck wound is hardly the worst. He stands over Crucible, taller and stronger in this moment.
“Yield,” he demands, and Prowl doesn’t know if he’s micced or if Megatron’s voice simply carries that well, but Prowl can hear him clearly, even up in the balcony.
Crucible sneers. “To the likes of you?” There must be mikes, because Crucible’s labored vents, the gravel in his vocals, carry through the auditoritium.
The vidscreens zoom in on their confrontation, and their voices become even clearer. The sneer on Crucible’s lips. The patient pity on Megatron’s. The heaving of their vents. The drip-drip of energon on the dusty, stained floor.
“The likes of me,” Megatron repeats, and there’s nothing but curiosity in his tone. He tilts his head. The tip of his blade taps the underside of Crucible’s chin. “You hate me not because I’ve wronged you, but because you were told I am wrong.”
Fury dances in Crucible’s functional optic.
Megatron tilts his gaze down. “I fight for you,” he says. “Can you not see the truth of it? The Senate sent you here to be slaughtered. They gave you a false hope. Even if you’d struck the final blow, do you believe they’d have given you what they promised?”
Crucible falters. The loathing burns brighter, but it’s not all aimed at Megatron. Prowl leans forward, captivated by the interplay, and it isn’t until the warning dances at the back of his processor that he realizes he’s held his vents.
“Are you trying to recruit me now?” Crucible laughs. His hands fold in and out of fists.
No. Only one of them does. The other is reaching back slowly, slowly, for the rotors that Prowl knows carry throwing daggers.
“I’m giving you a chance,” Megatron says. “An opportunity. To cast aside the fetters they’ve placed on you and fight for yourself.”
Prowl’s spark leaps into his intake. His fingers curl into claws around the arm of his chair.
Crucible barks a laugh. “That’s cute,” he says. His optics flash.
Crucible snatches the dagger and lunges at Megatron, but the former miner sidesteps the lunge, smacks the dagger from Crucible’s hands, and slams the hilt of his blade into the back of Crucible’s head. He hits a sensor nexus or something similar, because there’s a sickening crunch before Crucible drops with a low thud and a puff of dust. His biolights flicker, but don’t fade.
He’s still alive.
Megatron rests the tip of his sword on Crucible’s back, and it’s no coincidence that it hovers over Crucible’s spark. Curls of paint rise in the wake of the slow spin of the blade.
Megatron looks up, into the cameras, and they broadcast the feed to every vidscreen, until it feels like Megatron is catching the optic of every spectator. The cheering is muted, if present at all. Instead, there’s an expectant silence.
An awe, if Prowl has to put a word to it.
“Welcome to the Cage,” Megatron says, and it’s clear he’s addressing the crowd. “We all know why we’re here. You know. I know. He knows.” At this, the blade digs a bit deeper, though Crucible doesn’t stir. “And still, we are all being deceived.”
Megatron’s infamous phrase. Here, it seems to fill the arena with charge. With expectation. Prowl leans forward as though he needs to hear better, nearly toppling from his seat. He looks down into the crowd and sees enraptured faces, canting toward the arena floor, leaning into Megatron’s words like a Praxian crystal tilts toward the light of Luna-1.
“Crucible was sent to do what the Senate is too afraid to try on their own,” Megatron continues. “He was sent to kill me. To silence me. Our oppressors fear our strength. They fear change that doesn’t benefit them. They fear us.”
A ripple of agreement races through the crowd. Energy fields add to the din. Prowl watches this, something unsettling curling in his belly. The power Megatron has over these mechs is terrifying.
Inspiring.
“We outnumber our oppressors. We have voices and we deserve to be heard. They hold power over us not because they’ve earned it, but because they’ve stolen it. They use us, they abandon us, they… discard us.” In the pause between the last two words, Megatron taps the flat of his blade against Crucible’s back.
“They would have me slaughter, to prove I am nothing but a murderer, that my cause is only that of criminals, of thieves, of killers all trying to justify the laws they break.”
Megatron pauses, and he tilts his head, and his expression is grave, serious. It doesn’t patronize, it promises.
“We are more powerful than we can possibly imagine. If we unite, we can seize our freedom, we can become more than they allow us.”
Megatron lifts his blade and sheathes it, a quiet whisper of metal on metal that is frighteningly audible.
“We were not sparked to serve the interests of our captors.” Megatron steps back, removes his foot from Crucible’s back. “We were sparked to live, to love, to build our own futures. We do have a choice. And it’s time we reclaimed it.”
He pauses, theatrically if one asks Prowl, to look back at Crucible. There’s something unreadable in his expression before he turns away and strides toward what Prowl assumes to be the exit.
Silence reigns for the space of a single sparkbeat before the arena erupts into cheers and shouts, feet stamping, hands clapping, whistles screeching through the air. Prowl rises, stares down at the arena floor as mechs rush in to tend to Crucible and a chant starts up in the crowd. It’s a confusing melange of noise, but out of it all, he can pick up Megatron’s designation clearly.
Perhaps the Senate is right to be afraid.
Prowl turns away from the arena and finds Soundwave staring at him, his expression inscrutable. The avian cassette is gone from his shoulder, perhaps docked.
“Take me to him,” Prowl says.
Soundwave nods.
~
“I know you know better than this, kid,” Wrench says as he slaps static mesh over Megatron’s wound with a complete lack of delicacy. “Stop letting them get cheap shots in.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Megatron retorts.
Wrench snorts and mechhandles Megatron into a better position to reach the dagger wound in his back. He’d yanked it out, but the tip lingered, and Megatron can feel the sharp metal biting into a hydraulic line.
“Like the Pit it wasn’t. I know my fights. You hold back because you don’t want them to know how strong you are.” Wrench shoves in a thin-tipped forcep and yanks out the dagger tip.
Megatron hisses air through clenched denta. His fingers dig into the edge of the berth currently serving as the only thing keeping him on his feet.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Not at the expense of this.” Wrench thrusts the energon and hydraulic-fluid stained piece of shrapnel into view. “Inches from your iliac, this was. You’d’ve bled out in seconds.”
Megatron plucks the shrapnel and tosses it to the floor. “But I didn’t.”
“You got lucky.”
“It was a calculated risk.”
The freezing spray of sealant makes Megatron grit his denta as ice-cold lances through his torso. “Stupid,” Wrench mutters.
Megatron’s door pings before he can form a retort. At the same time, his comm chimes with reassurance.
He straightens and waves Wrench off. “Enough. I have business.”
“I’ll say when it’s enough,” Wrench snaps and mechhandles him back into place. “Any business you let into your personal suite is business that can handle seeing you get patched up.” There’s warning in his tone, and Megatron ventilates rather than argue.
He sends Soundwave a confirming ping and half-turns, watching as the door opens, his third striding inside first, but Prowl at his heelstruts. Or at least, Megatron assumes it to be Prowl. The gait is the same, and the way he carries himself, but he’s had a change in paint since the last picture Megatron had seen.
It’s not unpleasant, but it doesn’t suit him.
“Prowl,” Megatron greets. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Prowl replies. He barely moves, but his optics search the room, no doubt taking note of every detail. He hasn’t decided if Megatron is a threat yet.
There’s still room to change his mind.
Wrench slaps a bandage over the gash in Megatron’s back, and the noise of it slices through the rising tension.
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Megatron says. He glances at Soundwave, standing behind Prowl and guarding the door, but Soundwave shakes his head.
No observations then.
“Were you entertained?” Megatron asks.
Prowl lifts an orbital ridge. “I am still trying to decide if what I saw was real or a very clever show for the masses you’re trying to recruit.”
Hm. Not one to pull his punches, is he? He’s not unlike Starscream in that regard. Which is good. Very good. Megatron needs more intelligence and confidence on his side. He has enough brute force. He needs finesse.
Wrench finishes and pats Megatron on the back, a non-verbal cue. He gives Megatron room to turn completely, but says nothing. He’s watching Prowl though.
Good. Megatron wants to hear his opinion later. Wrench is one of the most respected mechs in the gladiator circuit. Earning his trust has gained Megatron far more allies than he could have gathered on his own.
“It’s both,” Megatron says as he accepts the damp meshcloth Wrench hands him and starts wiping at his frame, perhaps in vain given that what he needs is an hour-long wash in the racks.
Prowl snorts and folds his arms under his bumper. “It can’t be both.”
“Can’t it?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge and focuses on the splatter of energon across his chestplate. “Crucible was sent here to put me in my place. His defeat was very real. But the fact that I fight, that is a show. It is advertisement.”
“For…?”
Megatron tosses the soiled cloth into the wastebin and spreads his hands. “I’m recruiting, obviously.” He rummages through a cabinet for energon, which brings him closer to Prowl, close enough to smell the clean on him. “Mechs are frightened, they are without hope. They need to see that I can protect them, that I am willing to fight for them, and that I am capable of it as well.”
He pulls out a cube of midgrade for himself, and something for Prowl. It still has the factory seal, unlike his own, and he watches Prowl inspect it thoroughly before nodding his gratitude.
“You didn’t kill Crucible,” Prowl comments as he pops open the cube and swirls the contents around.
Megatron tips his head. “Mercy can be an effective teacher. I don’t have to kill, contrary to what the Senate, the Council, and all of our owners claim. I only do that which is necessary.” He sips at his energon, swallowing the grimace of distaste.
The energon is not pleasant, it’s necessary. Closer to medgrade, only not because medgrade isn’t as easily available as the average mech thinks. Only the truly elite have access to pure, flavored energon. Megatron has spent many a night not recharging, fantasizing what flavor truly means.
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise. He sips politely at his energon, his optics performing another cursory glance around the suite. “You sound as though you believe your own publicity.”
“It’s not mere publicity,” Megatron says.
Behind him, Wrench snorts and noisily rifles through his medkit. His work here is done, but Wrench has always been nosy. And perhaps a bit more involved with the Decepticons than he’s ready to admit.
Wrench is another Megatron has been determined to recruit to his cause. Befriending the medic is only the first step in ensuring Wrench’s loyalty.
“Isn’t it?” Prowl’s sensory panels flick, a barely there motion, perhaps in response to the cacophony of movement and noise beyond their little bubble of calm. “You fight in a gladiator’s arena, and something tells me, you don’t pay the bills here.”
A surge of anger bubbles up in Megatron before he can swallow it. Prowl has no awareness of the politics here, no idea the compromises Megatron has had to make. He’s always been a free mech, frame restrictions aside. He doesn’t know what it is to claw out of the dark, the death, the hole.
The anger bursts, and Megatron loosens his grip around his cube. He cycles a ventilation because that is the crux of the matter.
Prowl doesn’t know so he can’t possibly understand. He needs to be shown.
“You think I am a hypocrite,” Megatron observes. He forces his fingers to loosen around the cube. “And maybe you’re not wrong. This particular arena is owned by Senator Ratbat, and yes, he sponsors the fights. Of course it nets him a tidy profit, but let’s not split cables.”
Prowl stares at him and slowly sets down the cube. “You work for Senator Ratbat?”
“There are timess when choices must be made, and sometimes, they aren’t much of a choice at all.” Megatron tilts his head toward Soundwave behind Prowl. “While Ratbat is my patron, he also owns Soundwave’s contract. He is tied to our lives in ways that aren’t easily undone.”
Prowl’s optics narrow. He half-turns to look at Soundwave. “Why?”
Soundwave stirs, his engine rumbling a dark noise of discontent. “Leverage,” he says and a single hand touches his dock, behind which his cassettes rest.
“Life,” Megatron says, “Is not as black and white as that academy would lead you to believe. We do what we can, what we must, and make the best choices with the options given. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still fighting.”
He gestures to the arena as a whole and drains the last of his energon. “I can use him just as well as he uses me, and when we’re through, the senator will get what he deserves.”
Wrench snorts and claps Megatron on the shoulder. “Kid, slag like that is what gets others to start thinking you’re a crazy killer. You can’t just threaten a senator in front of an enforcer. They don’t take too kindly to it.”
“I didn’t threaten,” Megatron corrects. “I merely hinted to the possibility of consequences.” He shifts his gaze, meeting Prowl’s. “One doesn’t spend his fortune enslaving mechs and walk away from it unscathed.”
“Fair enough,” Wrench says, and he must be watching Prowl, too. His tone is far too flippant for the subject matter. He pats Megatron on the shoulder again and hefts his portable medkit. “Well, I’d best be going. You aren’t the only idiot gladiator I gotta patch tonight.”
“Just your favorite,” Megatron says.
Wrench barks a laugh and excuses himself, the door clicking shut, locked behind him. In his absence, the tension in the room seems to ratchet up another notch.
“Speaking of grey areas,” Megatron says, addressing Prowl again. “Your friends are not unfamiliar to me. I’ve seen them here, fighting in the undercards. By your black and white view, should they not both be behind bars?”
Prowl’s jaw sets. His sensory panels flick before stiffening as though carved from stone. “It is not so simple,” he says, and there’s a tightness to his tone. Protective of the twins, perhaps? Are they more than mere informants?
A question for Soundwave to answer later.
“It never is.” Megatron manages a smile, thin though it is. He’s under no illusions that he can convince Prowl here in this moment.
All he can do is set out the clues, leave a trail for the brilliant detective to follow, let Prowl find his own conclusions. The truth is there, the answer plain in front of him. Prowl need only be determined enough to find it.
He moves closer to Prowl, holding out a hand as a peace offering. “I appreciate you accepting my invitation,” he says. Relief floods through him as Prowl accepts his hand, and the shake is both firm and companionable. “I hope we can speak again. I feel there is much we can learn from one another.”
Prowl tilts his head, the blue of his optics stormy and incisive. “And here I was expecting an ultimatum. Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?” His field nudges at Megatron, not stealthily, but not offensively either. It is a tentative probe, like creeping through a field of land mines.
“Do you want me to?” Megatron grins. His thumb sweeps briefly over the back of Prowl’s hand before he releases the Enforcer.
He waits for Prowl to comment, but Prowl says nothing. Neither does his expression change. Either he hadn’t noticed the light touch, or it had meant little to him.
Pity.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Prowl says.
“No, it doesn’t.” Megatron moves toward the door, Soundwave opening it ahead of him and stepping outside, no doubt clearing the hall for Prowl’s safety. “I want you to be a Decepticon willingly, Prowl. I want you to see why we fight and join us because you believe in the cause. Anything less is unacceptable.”
Prowl slips ahead of Megatron and loiters in the doorway. His gaze cuts Megatron to the protoform, and it’s as cold as his files claim him to be. No wonder he’s earned the nickname ‘coldspark’.
“Then I can walk out of here safely, because surely you know I have no intention of joining your cause in this moment,” Prowl says, head tilted up with challenge, not an ounce of fear in his frame. “And you trust that I won’t betray you.”
“Yes, that’s precisely it.”
Prowl cycles his optics. His fingers rap a quiet rhythm against his thigh, like a nervous tic he’s unaware he has. “Why?”
Why indeed. Megatron offers this flexibility to few others he’s attempted to recruit. And of them, Prowl is the riskiest. He’s the one who could bring the might of the law onto their heads, making their continued existence quite difficult. He could be the one to drive a hard knife through the core of the Decepticons.
And he could also be the one to provide some much needed stability and tactical thinking to a leadership team in desperate need of it. Starscream and Soundwave are both brilliant in their own rights. But there’s an uneven balance Megatron knows Prowl is suited to equalize.
“Because you are a mech of honor,” Megatron says. Honesty, he decides, is the best policy when it comes to Prowl. “I am certain that when the time comes to make a choice, you will lean toward the one which protects the people rather than harms them. Whichever that might mean.”
Prowl cocks his head, like one might when examining a particularly convoluted math problem. “You are not what I thought you were.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
A small huff of laughter escapes from Prowl’s lips. It is more charming than it has any right to be. It seems Prowl is not as cold-sparked as his reputation claims.
“You should,” he says, a touch of amusement in the liminal space where their fields collide.
An odd, warm flush steals into Megatron’s spark. He ignores it, for it doesn’t have a place here. It’s not something he cares to examine.
“Soundwave will ensure you reach your friends safely,” he says. “You and I will speak again.” There’s a confidence in his tone, one he hopes Prowl respects.
Prowl’s lips curve into a smirk. “One way or another.” He steps out of the room fully, his back to Megatron, sensory panels lax against his back. It’s a gesture of ease.
He has no fear here. Good.
The door shuts behind him. Only then does Megatron allow himself to slump into a chair, ex-venting a sound that mixes relief with delight. True, Prowl had not committed himself here and now, but there had been interest in his optics.
It’s the best Megatron could have hoped for.
~
Universe: Mostly IDW with bits of others
Characters: Prowl, Original Character(s), Megatron, Starscream, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Barricade, Soundwave, Sunstreaker/Sideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: Political Shenanigans, Brief Moment of Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Machinations, Twincest, Extremely Minor Character Death
Description: Desperate to bring some much needed tactical assistance to the Decepticon uprising, Megatron attempts to recruit Prowl, an outcast Enforcer with a frame exemption. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, political machinations are at work to stem the Decepticon tide and turn Cybertron back to the preferred status quo.
Commission for an anonymous person.
Prowl’s not one for playing games.
Some of the younger Enforcers do, he knows. Those who like to gather together in groups and chat and laugh. The ones who still flock to the clubs or the race tracks. The ones sparked into their roles and are content in it.
He’s passed the arcades. He’s seen them packed, older mechs gravitating toward the hologames where they can escape from reality until their credchips run dry. Newer sparked mechs lingering around the games for dexterity, skill, quick thinking. Racers practice on these systems, too.
It doesn’t help to tilt one’s body with the controller, but these players try. They lean forward and back. They press harder on the buttons, pulse harder across the cables. They shout at the screen as though it’ll effect the outcome.
It’s irrational and unhelpful and foolish.
Right now, Prowl can sympathize with them.
He cringes with every blow. He tilts and leans and clamps his hands on his knees to resist the urge to echo the swing of the axe, the lift of the shield, the spins and dodges, the crash and clatter of weapon against armor.
Megatron’s opponent is large. Trained. There’s something familiar in his style. Something institutional. Prowl doesn’t recognize the other gladiator, not his face nor his designation, but he’s still somehow familiar.
Megatron is smaller. He was once a miner. He doesn’t have the sparked instincts of a warrior. But he’s holding his own. He uses his size to his advantage. His speed. Crucible makes large, heavy blows. Megatron has marked him multiple times already, in multiple key points.
Hydraulic fluid dribbles from nicked lines. Energon streaks over dusky red armor. Crucible’s optics are dark with rage, lips peeled back over his denta. The ground itself is pockmarked with strikes which missed Megatron.
Prowl watches, enraptured, ventilations caught. He understands the thrill of it now. Why mechs throw their creds at such a thing. It’s barbaric, but it’s fascinating.
Megatron is not untouched. He’d had to yank one of Crucible’s throwing daggers out of his lower back earlier, and energon dribbles in a steady stream from the wound. His armor is dented, and he favors his left leg. But he holds strong.
He’s going to win. Prowl is sure of it.
Crucible bellows in rage. He rushes at Megatron, yanking one of his rotors free to use as a weapon, throwing himself with all the recklessness he can spare.
Megatron holds his ground. He looks up at the mech nearly twice his size, and he spits a glob of bloody lubricant to the ground.
They clash, a flurry of dust rising around them. Something shrieks. Energon spatters across the floor. Crucible’s rotor spins away, impacting one of the surrounding walls, sheared in half. A strut-rattling boom finds Crucible slamming into the arena floor.
He spins, hands scrabbling, manages to get to hands and knees. One cracked optic flickers intermittently. He freezes, energon dripping from multiple wounds, favoring an arm.
Megatron holds the tip of his blade to Crucible’s intake, a symbolic gesture as a neck wound is hardly the worst. He stands over Crucible, taller and stronger in this moment.
“Yield,” he demands, and Prowl doesn’t know if he’s micced or if Megatron’s voice simply carries that well, but Prowl can hear him clearly, even up in the balcony.
Crucible sneers. “To the likes of you?” There must be mikes, because Crucible’s labored vents, the gravel in his vocals, carry through the auditoritium.
The vidscreens zoom in on their confrontation, and their voices become even clearer. The sneer on Crucible’s lips. The patient pity on Megatron’s. The heaving of their vents. The drip-drip of energon on the dusty, stained floor.
“The likes of me,” Megatron repeats, and there’s nothing but curiosity in his tone. He tilts his head. The tip of his blade taps the underside of Crucible’s chin. “You hate me not because I’ve wronged you, but because you were told I am wrong.”
Fury dances in Crucible’s functional optic.
Megatron tilts his gaze down. “I fight for you,” he says. “Can you not see the truth of it? The Senate sent you here to be slaughtered. They gave you a false hope. Even if you’d struck the final blow, do you believe they’d have given you what they promised?”
Crucible falters. The loathing burns brighter, but it’s not all aimed at Megatron. Prowl leans forward, captivated by the interplay, and it isn’t until the warning dances at the back of his processor that he realizes he’s held his vents.
“Are you trying to recruit me now?” Crucible laughs. His hands fold in and out of fists.
No. Only one of them does. The other is reaching back slowly, slowly, for the rotors that Prowl knows carry throwing daggers.
“I’m giving you a chance,” Megatron says. “An opportunity. To cast aside the fetters they’ve placed on you and fight for yourself.”
Prowl’s spark leaps into his intake. His fingers curl into claws around the arm of his chair.
Crucible barks a laugh. “That’s cute,” he says. His optics flash.
Crucible snatches the dagger and lunges at Megatron, but the former miner sidesteps the lunge, smacks the dagger from Crucible’s hands, and slams the hilt of his blade into the back of Crucible’s head. He hits a sensor nexus or something similar, because there’s a sickening crunch before Crucible drops with a low thud and a puff of dust. His biolights flicker, but don’t fade.
He’s still alive.
Megatron rests the tip of his sword on Crucible’s back, and it’s no coincidence that it hovers over Crucible’s spark. Curls of paint rise in the wake of the slow spin of the blade.
Megatron looks up, into the cameras, and they broadcast the feed to every vidscreen, until it feels like Megatron is catching the optic of every spectator. The cheering is muted, if present at all. Instead, there’s an expectant silence.
An awe, if Prowl has to put a word to it.
“Welcome to the Cage,” Megatron says, and it’s clear he’s addressing the crowd. “We all know why we’re here. You know. I know. He knows.” At this, the blade digs a bit deeper, though Crucible doesn’t stir. “And still, we are all being deceived.”
Megatron’s infamous phrase. Here, it seems to fill the arena with charge. With expectation. Prowl leans forward as though he needs to hear better, nearly toppling from his seat. He looks down into the crowd and sees enraptured faces, canting toward the arena floor, leaning into Megatron’s words like a Praxian crystal tilts toward the light of Luna-1.
“Crucible was sent to do what the Senate is too afraid to try on their own,” Megatron continues. “He was sent to kill me. To silence me. Our oppressors fear our strength. They fear change that doesn’t benefit them. They fear us.”
A ripple of agreement races through the crowd. Energy fields add to the din. Prowl watches this, something unsettling curling in his belly. The power Megatron has over these mechs is terrifying.
Inspiring.
“We outnumber our oppressors. We have voices and we deserve to be heard. They hold power over us not because they’ve earned it, but because they’ve stolen it. They use us, they abandon us, they… discard us.” In the pause between the last two words, Megatron taps the flat of his blade against Crucible’s back.
“They would have me slaughter, to prove I am nothing but a murderer, that my cause is only that of criminals, of thieves, of killers all trying to justify the laws they break.”
Megatron pauses, and he tilts his head, and his expression is grave, serious. It doesn’t patronize, it promises.
“We are more powerful than we can possibly imagine. If we unite, we can seize our freedom, we can become more than they allow us.”
Megatron lifts his blade and sheathes it, a quiet whisper of metal on metal that is frighteningly audible.
“We were not sparked to serve the interests of our captors.” Megatron steps back, removes his foot from Crucible’s back. “We were sparked to live, to love, to build our own futures. We do have a choice. And it’s time we reclaimed it.”
He pauses, theatrically if one asks Prowl, to look back at Crucible. There’s something unreadable in his expression before he turns away and strides toward what Prowl assumes to be the exit.
Silence reigns for the space of a single sparkbeat before the arena erupts into cheers and shouts, feet stamping, hands clapping, whistles screeching through the air. Prowl rises, stares down at the arena floor as mechs rush in to tend to Crucible and a chant starts up in the crowd. It’s a confusing melange of noise, but out of it all, he can pick up Megatron’s designation clearly.
Perhaps the Senate is right to be afraid.
Prowl turns away from the arena and finds Soundwave staring at him, his expression inscrutable. The avian cassette is gone from his shoulder, perhaps docked.
“Take me to him,” Prowl says.
Soundwave nods.
~
“I know you know better than this, kid,” Wrench says as he slaps static mesh over Megatron’s wound with a complete lack of delicacy. “Stop letting them get cheap shots in.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Megatron retorts.
Wrench snorts and mechhandles Megatron into a better position to reach the dagger wound in his back. He’d yanked it out, but the tip lingered, and Megatron can feel the sharp metal biting into a hydraulic line.
“Like the Pit it wasn’t. I know my fights. You hold back because you don’t want them to know how strong you are.” Wrench shoves in a thin-tipped forcep and yanks out the dagger tip.
Megatron hisses air through clenched denta. His fingers dig into the edge of the berth currently serving as the only thing keeping him on his feet.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Not at the expense of this.” Wrench thrusts the energon and hydraulic-fluid stained piece of shrapnel into view. “Inches from your iliac, this was. You’d’ve bled out in seconds.”
Megatron plucks the shrapnel and tosses it to the floor. “But I didn’t.”
“You got lucky.”
“It was a calculated risk.”
The freezing spray of sealant makes Megatron grit his denta as ice-cold lances through his torso. “Stupid,” Wrench mutters.
Megatron’s door pings before he can form a retort. At the same time, his comm chimes with reassurance.
He straightens and waves Wrench off. “Enough. I have business.”
“I’ll say when it’s enough,” Wrench snaps and mechhandles him back into place. “Any business you let into your personal suite is business that can handle seeing you get patched up.” There’s warning in his tone, and Megatron ventilates rather than argue.
He sends Soundwave a confirming ping and half-turns, watching as the door opens, his third striding inside first, but Prowl at his heelstruts. Or at least, Megatron assumes it to be Prowl. The gait is the same, and the way he carries himself, but he’s had a change in paint since the last picture Megatron had seen.
It’s not unpleasant, but it doesn’t suit him.
“Prowl,” Megatron greets. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Prowl replies. He barely moves, but his optics search the room, no doubt taking note of every detail. He hasn’t decided if Megatron is a threat yet.
There’s still room to change his mind.
Wrench slaps a bandage over the gash in Megatron’s back, and the noise of it slices through the rising tension.
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Megatron says. He glances at Soundwave, standing behind Prowl and guarding the door, but Soundwave shakes his head.
No observations then.
“Were you entertained?” Megatron asks.
Prowl lifts an orbital ridge. “I am still trying to decide if what I saw was real or a very clever show for the masses you’re trying to recruit.”
Hm. Not one to pull his punches, is he? He’s not unlike Starscream in that regard. Which is good. Very good. Megatron needs more intelligence and confidence on his side. He has enough brute force. He needs finesse.
Wrench finishes and pats Megatron on the back, a non-verbal cue. He gives Megatron room to turn completely, but says nothing. He’s watching Prowl though.
Good. Megatron wants to hear his opinion later. Wrench is one of the most respected mechs in the gladiator circuit. Earning his trust has gained Megatron far more allies than he could have gathered on his own.
“It’s both,” Megatron says as he accepts the damp meshcloth Wrench hands him and starts wiping at his frame, perhaps in vain given that what he needs is an hour-long wash in the racks.
Prowl snorts and folds his arms under his bumper. “It can’t be both.”
“Can’t it?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge and focuses on the splatter of energon across his chestplate. “Crucible was sent here to put me in my place. His defeat was very real. But the fact that I fight, that is a show. It is advertisement.”
“For…?”
Megatron tosses the soiled cloth into the wastebin and spreads his hands. “I’m recruiting, obviously.” He rummages through a cabinet for energon, which brings him closer to Prowl, close enough to smell the clean on him. “Mechs are frightened, they are without hope. They need to see that I can protect them, that I am willing to fight for them, and that I am capable of it as well.”
He pulls out a cube of midgrade for himself, and something for Prowl. It still has the factory seal, unlike his own, and he watches Prowl inspect it thoroughly before nodding his gratitude.
“You didn’t kill Crucible,” Prowl comments as he pops open the cube and swirls the contents around.
Megatron tips his head. “Mercy can be an effective teacher. I don’t have to kill, contrary to what the Senate, the Council, and all of our owners claim. I only do that which is necessary.” He sips at his energon, swallowing the grimace of distaste.
The energon is not pleasant, it’s necessary. Closer to medgrade, only not because medgrade isn’t as easily available as the average mech thinks. Only the truly elite have access to pure, flavored energon. Megatron has spent many a night not recharging, fantasizing what flavor truly means.
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise. He sips politely at his energon, his optics performing another cursory glance around the suite. “You sound as though you believe your own publicity.”
“It’s not mere publicity,” Megatron says.
Behind him, Wrench snorts and noisily rifles through his medkit. His work here is done, but Wrench has always been nosy. And perhaps a bit more involved with the Decepticons than he’s ready to admit.
Wrench is another Megatron has been determined to recruit to his cause. Befriending the medic is only the first step in ensuring Wrench’s loyalty.
“Isn’t it?” Prowl’s sensory panels flick, a barely there motion, perhaps in response to the cacophony of movement and noise beyond their little bubble of calm. “You fight in a gladiator’s arena, and something tells me, you don’t pay the bills here.”
A surge of anger bubbles up in Megatron before he can swallow it. Prowl has no awareness of the politics here, no idea the compromises Megatron has had to make. He’s always been a free mech, frame restrictions aside. He doesn’t know what it is to claw out of the dark, the death, the hole.
The anger bursts, and Megatron loosens his grip around his cube. He cycles a ventilation because that is the crux of the matter.
Prowl doesn’t know so he can’t possibly understand. He needs to be shown.
“You think I am a hypocrite,” Megatron observes. He forces his fingers to loosen around the cube. “And maybe you’re not wrong. This particular arena is owned by Senator Ratbat, and yes, he sponsors the fights. Of course it nets him a tidy profit, but let’s not split cables.”
Prowl stares at him and slowly sets down the cube. “You work for Senator Ratbat?”
“There are timess when choices must be made, and sometimes, they aren’t much of a choice at all.” Megatron tilts his head toward Soundwave behind Prowl. “While Ratbat is my patron, he also owns Soundwave’s contract. He is tied to our lives in ways that aren’t easily undone.”
Prowl’s optics narrow. He half-turns to look at Soundwave. “Why?”
Soundwave stirs, his engine rumbling a dark noise of discontent. “Leverage,” he says and a single hand touches his dock, behind which his cassettes rest.
“Life,” Megatron says, “Is not as black and white as that academy would lead you to believe. We do what we can, what we must, and make the best choices with the options given. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still fighting.”
He gestures to the arena as a whole and drains the last of his energon. “I can use him just as well as he uses me, and when we’re through, the senator will get what he deserves.”
Wrench snorts and claps Megatron on the shoulder. “Kid, slag like that is what gets others to start thinking you’re a crazy killer. You can’t just threaten a senator in front of an enforcer. They don’t take too kindly to it.”
“I didn’t threaten,” Megatron corrects. “I merely hinted to the possibility of consequences.” He shifts his gaze, meeting Prowl’s. “One doesn’t spend his fortune enslaving mechs and walk away from it unscathed.”
“Fair enough,” Wrench says, and he must be watching Prowl, too. His tone is far too flippant for the subject matter. He pats Megatron on the shoulder again and hefts his portable medkit. “Well, I’d best be going. You aren’t the only idiot gladiator I gotta patch tonight.”
“Just your favorite,” Megatron says.
Wrench barks a laugh and excuses himself, the door clicking shut, locked behind him. In his absence, the tension in the room seems to ratchet up another notch.
“Speaking of grey areas,” Megatron says, addressing Prowl again. “Your friends are not unfamiliar to me. I’ve seen them here, fighting in the undercards. By your black and white view, should they not both be behind bars?”
Prowl’s jaw sets. His sensory panels flick before stiffening as though carved from stone. “It is not so simple,” he says, and there’s a tightness to his tone. Protective of the twins, perhaps? Are they more than mere informants?
A question for Soundwave to answer later.
“It never is.” Megatron manages a smile, thin though it is. He’s under no illusions that he can convince Prowl here in this moment.
All he can do is set out the clues, leave a trail for the brilliant detective to follow, let Prowl find his own conclusions. The truth is there, the answer plain in front of him. Prowl need only be determined enough to find it.
He moves closer to Prowl, holding out a hand as a peace offering. “I appreciate you accepting my invitation,” he says. Relief floods through him as Prowl accepts his hand, and the shake is both firm and companionable. “I hope we can speak again. I feel there is much we can learn from one another.”
Prowl tilts his head, the blue of his optics stormy and incisive. “And here I was expecting an ultimatum. Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?” His field nudges at Megatron, not stealthily, but not offensively either. It is a tentative probe, like creeping through a field of land mines.
“Do you want me to?” Megatron grins. His thumb sweeps briefly over the back of Prowl’s hand before he releases the Enforcer.
He waits for Prowl to comment, but Prowl says nothing. Neither does his expression change. Either he hadn’t noticed the light touch, or it had meant little to him.
Pity.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Prowl says.
“No, it doesn’t.” Megatron moves toward the door, Soundwave opening it ahead of him and stepping outside, no doubt clearing the hall for Prowl’s safety. “I want you to be a Decepticon willingly, Prowl. I want you to see why we fight and join us because you believe in the cause. Anything less is unacceptable.”
Prowl slips ahead of Megatron and loiters in the doorway. His gaze cuts Megatron to the protoform, and it’s as cold as his files claim him to be. No wonder he’s earned the nickname ‘coldspark’.
“Then I can walk out of here safely, because surely you know I have no intention of joining your cause in this moment,” Prowl says, head tilted up with challenge, not an ounce of fear in his frame. “And you trust that I won’t betray you.”
“Yes, that’s precisely it.”
Prowl cycles his optics. His fingers rap a quiet rhythm against his thigh, like a nervous tic he’s unaware he has. “Why?”
Why indeed. Megatron offers this flexibility to few others he’s attempted to recruit. And of them, Prowl is the riskiest. He’s the one who could bring the might of the law onto their heads, making their continued existence quite difficult. He could be the one to drive a hard knife through the core of the Decepticons.
And he could also be the one to provide some much needed stability and tactical thinking to a leadership team in desperate need of it. Starscream and Soundwave are both brilliant in their own rights. But there’s an uneven balance Megatron knows Prowl is suited to equalize.
“Because you are a mech of honor,” Megatron says. Honesty, he decides, is the best policy when it comes to Prowl. “I am certain that when the time comes to make a choice, you will lean toward the one which protects the people rather than harms them. Whichever that might mean.”
Prowl cocks his head, like one might when examining a particularly convoluted math problem. “You are not what I thought you were.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
A small huff of laughter escapes from Prowl’s lips. It is more charming than it has any right to be. It seems Prowl is not as cold-sparked as his reputation claims.
“You should,” he says, a touch of amusement in the liminal space where their fields collide.
An odd, warm flush steals into Megatron’s spark. He ignores it, for it doesn’t have a place here. It’s not something he cares to examine.
“Soundwave will ensure you reach your friends safely,” he says. “You and I will speak again.” There’s a confidence in his tone, one he hopes Prowl respects.
Prowl’s lips curve into a smirk. “One way or another.” He steps out of the room fully, his back to Megatron, sensory panels lax against his back. It’s a gesture of ease.
He has no fear here. Good.
The door shuts behind him. Only then does Megatron allow himself to slump into a chair, ex-venting a sound that mixes relief with delight. True, Prowl had not committed himself here and now, but there had been interest in his optics.
It’s the best Megatron could have hoped for.
~
