Destiny's Hand
Jan. 2nd, 2011 07:00 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorPG
IDW/ Megatron Origin
Megatron, Soundwave
Spoilers for Megatron Origin Issue 2, canon character death
Another Gen in January entry: Megatron, any continuity: embracing destiny for the first time.
Maybe it was the smoothness of the transition, Megatron thought, that put the idea into his head. He had killed Clench, exposed him as some sort of dilettante who liked to play at fighter, swathed in his riches, as though they brought him some safety. There had been a strange hollowness in his optics, just before Megatron landed the final blow, as if he had realized, acknowledged his mistake. But there was no surprise—as though he had always expected this from Megatron. More than that…accepted it.
And in that one moment, which had seemed to him like a betrayal—Clench had given him a job, given him safety—he had somehow ascended to ruling the Arena. He had not sought it, but suddenly, the others were looking at him, looking to him. Trusting him with their futures, with their own safety.
What choice did he have? He could not turn his back on them any more than he could have turned away from his fellow miners on C-12. Because he thought he was no better than they were, he felt an obligation to look out for them, that mysterious and powerful bond that joins those in dirty, dangerous, and ungrateful professions—soldiers, miners and pit fighters alike. Bound together, destinies entwined.
He knew he could trust them. So long as he did not go the way of Clench himself. So long as he never took his position for granted. And if the time came where one defeated him, as he had defeated Clench, he hoped that he would cede to his better as graciously as Clench had. He hoped he could look at his successor and find him worthy.
But this one. This one he did not entirely trust. “Soundwave.”
The mech inclined his head. “My associate,” he continued, “has an interest in your continued success.”
“And,” Megatron said, “an interest in hiding.” He frowned. Clench, at least, had not hidden.
“Is that such an impediment?”
As much of an impediment, Megatron thought, as a courier who masks his face. He tilted his head, watching as Hook continued his repairs. Hook he could trust. “I have had enough of puppet masters,” he said.
“Are you nothing more than a puppet, then?”
Megatron would almost swear he heard a flicker of amusement in the normally tightly controlled, flat voice. He growled. “Are you not?”
Soundwave gave a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “Even the masters are puppets to some. But the best of us hold some of our own strings.”
Megatron let his lip curl. “Parables. Riddles.”
“A metaphor.”
Megatron clenched the hand Hook had just finished attaching, holding it up between them. His own kind of symbolism. “This is my metaphor.”
“A good warrior has a variety of weapons in his arsenal,” Soundwave countered, ringing with audacity. Hook shot him a pointed look, irritated by Soundwave’s disrespect.
“Verbal games are not weapons.”
Soundwave turned away, peering at Megatron from the corner of his visor. “The Senate would beg to disagree.”
Megatron made a dismissive sound. The Senate. Who had decided to close down his mine, to ruin the livelihoods of countless mechs who had asked for nothing but a chance to work, and earn, and survive, on some…abstruse whim he could not comprehend.
However, maybe Soundwave could comprehend. Maybe that world, where words decided actions, was not beyond him. Maybe those decisions were not always to be in the hands of others. He flexed and flattened his new hand again, testing its limits, but also considering—what could he do with this hand? What were the limits, after all, of one hand? “I care nothing for the Senate,” he blustered. A thin lie, and he knew Soundwave could penetrate the falsity.
“The Senate, however, cares very much about you.” Soundwave’s smoothness was impossible for Megatron to grasp. If the mech had ever had hard edges, or roughness, they had been worn smooth and hard and impenetrable by something entirely foreign to Megatron. “And my patron can offer you some considerable protection.”
“Protection,” Megatron spat.
Soundwave seemed for the briefest of moments uncertain, aware that he had miscalculated. And it struck him: Soundwave was as on guard around him, as fascinated by him, as he was becoming with all that the blue mech, with his polish and sleek flash, represented. “Considerable latitude of movement,” he corrected. “Until you are ready to move on your own.”
Megatron had no answer, and covered his lack of words dismissing Hook. He pushed himself standing, letting Soundwave feel every measure of his greater size, his mass and the effortless grace of his movements. A fighter’s movements.
No, he thought, abruptly. A warrior’s movements. A fighter fought for himself: a warrior for others. “And when I no longer need his…considerable latitude?” He would not let the euphemism pass.
Soundwave gave an eloquent shrug. “There will always be a reckoning.” Neutral, deliberately. “As you have learned, everything has a price. Even from your pain, which you buy and sell in this,” he waved a hand in a gesture that bordered on insolence, “bit of theater.”
Megatron bridled, but fought his face neutral. You will not get at me that easily, he thought. Thin daggers, made only of words, will not cut me. I refuse. “It will not be theater for long.”
Soundwave nodded. “Of course. And how can I assist?” Another short pause, as if recalculating. “It’s hardly fair to ask you to risk so much without some…token of risk on my part.”
Megatron knew there was something beyond those words he couldn’t figure. But he knew as well that the only way he’d ever decode this new language, this weaponry of words, would be to keep Soundwave bound to him. Loyalty would come later. If he earned it.
“Get me jets,” he said, thrusting his chin out. An open challenge, and a high price indeed. “Get me jets and I will consider this…latitude.” He felt a sudden swelling around his spark, bordering on vertigo. It felt like the first time he’d seen daylight after a vorn underground, like the whole world suddenly opening up, blossoming around him, and…just for him. Bright, too bright, intoxicating, and vast.
“Of course,” Soundwave said, quickly—so quickly that Megatron wondered if he had not just played into the other mech’s hands.
No matter, he thought, looking down at his own hands, the old and the new, the miner’s hand and the warrior’s. How far had he come already? How much larger was the world than he had ever imagined back on C-12? He was up for the challenge. He was up for…anything.
IDW/ Megatron Origin
Megatron, Soundwave
Spoilers for Megatron Origin Issue 2, canon character death
Another Gen in January entry: Megatron, any continuity: embracing destiny for the first time.
Maybe it was the smoothness of the transition, Megatron thought, that put the idea into his head. He had killed Clench, exposed him as some sort of dilettante who liked to play at fighter, swathed in his riches, as though they brought him some safety. There had been a strange hollowness in his optics, just before Megatron landed the final blow, as if he had realized, acknowledged his mistake. But there was no surprise—as though he had always expected this from Megatron. More than that…accepted it.
And in that one moment, which had seemed to him like a betrayal—Clench had given him a job, given him safety—he had somehow ascended to ruling the Arena. He had not sought it, but suddenly, the others were looking at him, looking to him. Trusting him with their futures, with their own safety.
What choice did he have? He could not turn his back on them any more than he could have turned away from his fellow miners on C-12. Because he thought he was no better than they were, he felt an obligation to look out for them, that mysterious and powerful bond that joins those in dirty, dangerous, and ungrateful professions—soldiers, miners and pit fighters alike. Bound together, destinies entwined.
He knew he could trust them. So long as he did not go the way of Clench himself. So long as he never took his position for granted. And if the time came where one defeated him, as he had defeated Clench, he hoped that he would cede to his better as graciously as Clench had. He hoped he could look at his successor and find him worthy.
But this one. This one he did not entirely trust. “Soundwave.”
The mech inclined his head. “My associate,” he continued, “has an interest in your continued success.”
“And,” Megatron said, “an interest in hiding.” He frowned. Clench, at least, had not hidden.
“Is that such an impediment?”
As much of an impediment, Megatron thought, as a courier who masks his face. He tilted his head, watching as Hook continued his repairs. Hook he could trust. “I have had enough of puppet masters,” he said.
“Are you nothing more than a puppet, then?”
Megatron would almost swear he heard a flicker of amusement in the normally tightly controlled, flat voice. He growled. “Are you not?”
Soundwave gave a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “Even the masters are puppets to some. But the best of us hold some of our own strings.”
Megatron let his lip curl. “Parables. Riddles.”
“A metaphor.”
Megatron clenched the hand Hook had just finished attaching, holding it up between them. His own kind of symbolism. “This is my metaphor.”
“A good warrior has a variety of weapons in his arsenal,” Soundwave countered, ringing with audacity. Hook shot him a pointed look, irritated by Soundwave’s disrespect.
“Verbal games are not weapons.”
Soundwave turned away, peering at Megatron from the corner of his visor. “The Senate would beg to disagree.”
Megatron made a dismissive sound. The Senate. Who had decided to close down his mine, to ruin the livelihoods of countless mechs who had asked for nothing but a chance to work, and earn, and survive, on some…abstruse whim he could not comprehend.
However, maybe Soundwave could comprehend. Maybe that world, where words decided actions, was not beyond him. Maybe those decisions were not always to be in the hands of others. He flexed and flattened his new hand again, testing its limits, but also considering—what could he do with this hand? What were the limits, after all, of one hand? “I care nothing for the Senate,” he blustered. A thin lie, and he knew Soundwave could penetrate the falsity.
“The Senate, however, cares very much about you.” Soundwave’s smoothness was impossible for Megatron to grasp. If the mech had ever had hard edges, or roughness, they had been worn smooth and hard and impenetrable by something entirely foreign to Megatron. “And my patron can offer you some considerable protection.”
“Protection,” Megatron spat.
Soundwave seemed for the briefest of moments uncertain, aware that he had miscalculated. And it struck him: Soundwave was as on guard around him, as fascinated by him, as he was becoming with all that the blue mech, with his polish and sleek flash, represented. “Considerable latitude of movement,” he corrected. “Until you are ready to move on your own.”
Megatron had no answer, and covered his lack of words dismissing Hook. He pushed himself standing, letting Soundwave feel every measure of his greater size, his mass and the effortless grace of his movements. A fighter’s movements.
No, he thought, abruptly. A warrior’s movements. A fighter fought for himself: a warrior for others. “And when I no longer need his…considerable latitude?” He would not let the euphemism pass.
Soundwave gave an eloquent shrug. “There will always be a reckoning.” Neutral, deliberately. “As you have learned, everything has a price. Even from your pain, which you buy and sell in this,” he waved a hand in a gesture that bordered on insolence, “bit of theater.”
Megatron bridled, but fought his face neutral. You will not get at me that easily, he thought. Thin daggers, made only of words, will not cut me. I refuse. “It will not be theater for long.”
Soundwave nodded. “Of course. And how can I assist?” Another short pause, as if recalculating. “It’s hardly fair to ask you to risk so much without some…token of risk on my part.”
Megatron knew there was something beyond those words he couldn’t figure. But he knew as well that the only way he’d ever decode this new language, this weaponry of words, would be to keep Soundwave bound to him. Loyalty would come later. If he earned it.
“Get me jets,” he said, thrusting his chin out. An open challenge, and a high price indeed. “Get me jets and I will consider this…latitude.” He felt a sudden swelling around his spark, bordering on vertigo. It felt like the first time he’d seen daylight after a vorn underground, like the whole world suddenly opening up, blossoming around him, and…just for him. Bright, too bright, intoxicating, and vast.
“Of course,” Soundwave said, quickly—so quickly that Megatron wondered if he had not just played into the other mech’s hands.
No matter, he thought, looking down at his own hands, the old and the new, the miner’s hand and the warrior’s. How far had he come already? How much larger was the world than he had ever imagined back on C-12? He was up for the challenge. He was up for…anything.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-02 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-02 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:33 am (UTC)Also...
It felt like the first time he’d seen daylight after a vorn underground, like the whole world suddenly opening up, blossoming around him, and…just for him. Bright, too bright, intoxicating, and vast.
this was beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-27 01:33 pm (UTC)