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[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW/MO
Megatron, Soundwave
spoilers for Megatron Origin? 
for tf_speedwriting  prompt ‘border crossing’

 

Megatron laughed, the sound matching the dry crackle of flames around him, the orange tongues of fire seeming to genuflect before him as he passed.  Kaon, burning, just as he had promised.  The Senate, in tatters.  Sentinel...turned into a message, a metaphor.  He hadn’t realized he had this rage in him until he saw it out of him, saw metal melting to slag, saw beautiful things crushed, mangled under his hands.  Sentinel Prime, the glory of the Security Forces, crushed under his heel.

On the news vids, a plaintive chorus, unbelieving, stunned, all a chorus, like insects, howling the same thing:

What had he done?

Another dark flame of laughter. What hadn’t he done? Bombs, sabotage, poisonings, all the weapons of the oppressed who could no longer bear their oppression, all the tools of slaves casting off their chains, using those chains as flails to beat their slavemasters, aiming small, because their heads were so used to being held to the ground.

And now…now the chains were cast off, well and truly, and heads could be raised. Now they ceased to hide in the shadows, now they moved to claim what was theirs.  Tearing down the system had been easy—rotted from within, soft in its luxury, it had merely required a few nudges, pushes at weak points. Building it up again, into a world he wanted, a world he created, would be harder.

Eliminate the weak. That was the first step. Wipe the slate clean of all but those who could survive, could prove themselves worthy of life, prove themselves willing and able to fight, who recognized living as a privilege.  And then.  And then we’ll see, he thought, looking out over the blazing city. 

“Are you content with your kingdom?” Soundwave asked, coming up behind him, signaling his approach well before he got into range.  One of those finesses of Soundwave’s—an innate ability to read and manage another mech’s reactions.  Megatron wondered, sometimes, how much he was himself being led by such careful ‘handling’. 

“I am no king,” Megatron said, turning his head, regarding the implacable blue and silver face over a shoulder.  “And I do not wish for mechs who need a king.” He clenched a fist. “I want mechs who value what they have, know the price paid for freedom.” 

Soundwave nodded, stepping next to him.  The flames reflected on his silver mask, over the quiet flat yellow of his optics. “You are discontent.”  A question, an observation. Perhaps offering Megatron to consider the notion himself.

Discontent. It was…not the right word, but Megatron couldn’t think of a better. He gave a half-assenting grunt.

“What next, then?”  Patient, probing. Everything that made Soundwave invaluable. And a threat. 

Megatron stared into the flames, watching a building’s superstructure collapse, diving groundward in some tragic slow motion, beams buckling, walls crumbling, with a strange sort of unholy grace.  For a long moment, nothing but the howling crackling maelstrom of the flames, blasts of heat gusting around them, embers scattering like glitter. The flames spoke to him, whispering the names of the dead, the price of sacrifice, wanting more, demanding more.  It wasn’t over, until there was nothing left to burn, until all the dross of the world had blown to ashes. 

“Iacon,” he said, hearing his voice hollow and yet heavy, echoing the ghosts of countless mechs who had suffered, starved, died, desperate and alone, while Iacon had glittered like a jewel in the velvet of the night.  He turned to face Soundwave.

“We take the war to their doorstep.” He jerked his chin to the east, the direction of Iacon, the hub of Cybertron itself.   

“They’ve declared Kaon fallen,” Soundwave said, blandly. Megatron knew Soundwave’s wisdom, and what the mech would say if he dared—that their resources were too limited for all out war.  That they needed to be cautious, marshal their resources more carefully, move slowly, with circumspection.

A politician’s strategy.  Megatron was no politician, and such careful mincing of opportunity was beneath him.

“Fallen so it can rise again,” Megatron said. An ember blew into one optic. He blinked at the sudden pain, and its strange rightness, as his vision cleared. “We move forward.  We fought before as slaves; we show them now that we are warriors.”

“There will be no going back.”

“No.” Megatron’s optics narrowed.  It was almost heady, to be the vessel of destiny, the one who finally got the wheels to turn, the one whose hands were strong enough to push through the entropy.  There never had been such a thing as ‘going back’, not from that first moment, still blinded in the daylight outside C-12.  His life had been given into his hands for the first time that day, and he had clutched it with all his strength.   “Not for any of us.”

 

 

Comments

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

fire elicits such potent primeval memories. Your genuflecting flames & "howling crackling maelstrom" blanket the scene with smoke, heat & hunger, enveloping me in this seductive glimpse of Megatron's psychology

[toyzintheattik.livejournal.com]

Badass. I love how you described the setting, and characters are, as always, very captivating.

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

I am very intrigued and excited by your take on both Megatron and Soundwave in this. Well done! I love complex bad guys with a purpose. Awesomesauce.

[freevo.livejournal.com]

Like all your MO stuff, this is awesome.