This took forever.
The God in the Machine
“My lord, the ship is locked onto the Ark’s signal and preparing for launch. Estimated departure time, point five orns. Loading bays request ration codes.”
“No need to stock the Nemesis with more than minimal energon rations. We won’t be gone long. Authorization MS-1613370.”
“Codes transmitted, my lord.”
“Good. Now leave me and inform Soundwave to ready the crew.”
Megatron waited for a moment, listening to the lieutenant’s footsteps fading away before reaching for the control panel. With a few deft motions, the entrance to his office was sealed and a hidden trapdoor slid silently open.
Descending slowly down the ancient, crumbling stairway, Megatron wondered when his control of the magnificent revolution had slipped away. Certainly, nearly all of Cybertron now trembled at his name; yet if his cringing, cowardly subjects learned that Megatron himself trembled before the displeasure of another…
Nothing could have been done to prevent it. He’d planned for every eventuality, even figuring in the potential rise of an enemy to match him in skill. Optimus Prime had been observed, analyzed, targeted, and swiftly captured. No fuss, no dramatic and tension-filled final confrontation. Megatron had never even met the Prime until that proud, injured mech with haunting blue optics was dragged before the throne and haughtily condemned to the holding cells. How strange, that the Prime’s trite first words to him had settled in his processor with such ominous weight.
“I may be imprisoned here, Megatron, but my cause remains free. My mechs will not falter at my loss, but will continue to fight in my memory. You’ve only given them more reasons to resist you and your tyranny. My death is but a small price to pay for an end to your despotic regime: no sacrifice, no victory. And someday even you shall have to answer to a higher power.”
So will you, Prime, the warlord mused darkly as he approached the cells. Sooner than you expect. Against his will, the battle-scarred leader shuddered.
Reaching for the keypad next to the door, Megatron glanced inside the cell and was startled to see the Prime trying to soothe another mech huddled next to him.
“What is this? Who are you?” he demanded imperiously, striding closer to the glowing bars and glaring at the small heap of dented red metal.
Two heads jerked, and the second mech (one of the rare microscope-formers - thus probably quite intelligent and resourceful, Megatron noted grimly) struggled to rise, but could not speak. His wounds were severe, and it was clear that he had suffered much damage from hidden traps while trying to reach the Prime. Undoubtedly, the impudent would-be rescuer had been surprised by the final fail-safe measure on Megatron’s personal maximum-security cells: no one was prevented from entering, only from leaving.
It didn’t matter. Two would serve the purpose as well as one.
Megatron ignored the Prime’s meaningless pleas for the release of his companion and snatched a second pair of cuffs. With a flick of his wrist, he deactivated the bars and roughly tugged first one mech, than the other, from the dim confines of the cell. Neither resisted; the Prime had been brutally flogged until he barely had the strength to stand (even if he could have run, he would never abandon his comrade), and the unknown Autobot swayed on his feet and left drops of energon wherever he stumbled. Using two long energy-chains, Megatron attached a crude wrist-leash to each prisoner and shoved them both forward.
The passages wound ever downward in a confusing tangle. As they slowly proceeded, heavy automatic doors slamming shut behind them, the Prime would occasionally murmur something softly to his companion and receive a brief, pained reply. These conversations Megatron ignored: he cared not whether the two could scrounge a few last scraps of comfort from each other. He had to focus on composing himself for the upcoming encounter.
At last, the final door loomed before them. It hissed open of its own accord, and the dull-black mech behind it stared out at them with empty optics before stepping aside and curtly gesturing for them to enter.
Megatron could feel the surprise and curiosity emanating from his prisoners as the three followed the black mech. Fools. You’ll know soon enough. And then you’ll wish you didn’t.
Though he couldn’t see their faces, he knew that the Prime and the other Autobot must be gaping in awe at the splendor around them. In these areas close to Cybertron’s core, beneath the moral filth of the Towers and below the physical grime of the slums, every surface glowed with soft, clean light. Remembering his own reaction when he had first been drawn to this place, Megatron was thankful that the Autobots were so overwhelmed. Absorbed by their surroundings, they would not see that his cold, distant sneer had been replaced by an expression of barely-restrained terror.
At last, the small procession passed through the open door of a huge hall. Visible at the far end was a long, plain platform, with an elaborate throne resting atop it like an afterthought. Although there was no other furniture, spectacular carvings adorned the floor and ceiling; a slight unfocusing of the optics would produce the illusion that the strange markings were swirling about them in a dizzying dance. Even Megatron, who had seen this room twice before, became so lost in the shifting patterns that it took him a moment to realize that the black mech had vanished.
The two prisoners were glancing around, becoming slightly uneasy at the impenetrable silence which now filled the room. Megatron took a subtle step backward and waited tensely for the inevitable.
A harsh wind sliced suddenly through the hall, assaulting their sensors with an eerie howl. A golden mech shimmered into existence before them, seated on the throne. With a warm and kind smile, the slightly-transparent figure stretched out his hand and beckoned.
Megatron remained where he was - he retained that much self-control, at least - while the two Autobots stumbled forward helplessly. Though he could not see their faces, Megatron knew that their optics were fixed raptly upon those of the holoform.
Though the figure did not seem to speak, a faint echo of his voice reached Megatron’s audial sensors. He strained to discern the figure’s words and the Autobots’ responses, but the whispers were low and he dared not approach the platform.
Finally, after the Prime and the unknown microscope-former had settled tamely down to sit or lie at the base of the throne, the holoform raised its head and looked directly at Megatron. The warlord knew that the mysterious presence was now entirely focused upon him, and when he finally detected a voice murmuring softly inside his head, the Autobots at the holoform’s feet did not seem to hear.
So, you have brought him. And another. A slight nod: acknowledgement, recognition - not gratitude, or relief. Why stand you so far from me, young-spark?
“You know my… fear,” Megatron replied, clenching his fists in mute, angry resentment, “and I would not presume to tarnish your divine presence with my own… Mighty One.”
Ah, young-spark, your impudence pleases me. My divine presence, as you say, is never far from you and is immune to any such taint.
The warlord tore his gaze from the throne’s occupant to study the Autobots. Their gazes remained locked on the holoform, Megatron observed with disdain and something like pity. They were too entranced to realize that the mech (now absently petting their helms) was only a shadowy concentration of a greater and more terrible force than they could ever imagine.
Little one, you know full well that these two you have brought here will not suit my purposes.
Instantly, Megatron’s attention snapped back to the holoform. His cannon-arm twitched reflexively. Forcing it to remain still at his side, he looked warily at the golden mech - who smiled in gentle mockery, noting his apprehension.
Only one is required. Although I have observed your zeal, and will know to expect a similar effort for further tasks…
Megatron ignored this insinuation, although inwardly he shuddered at the thought of whatever future ‘tasks’ might be required of him. “I care nothing for either of the wretches, O Mighty One. Do what you will with the spare. My Decepticons will note my absence soon, so,” cringing at the servility in his tone, “may I now take my leave, and seek to carry out your commands in the world above?”
Oh, little one, what think you of me? How lonely it is, down here with no company but shades like the one which guided you here. The false substance which comprises them is incapable of decent conversation. But if you must, then you may take the spare and dispose of him. His death will further my plans nicely, though the other will serve the primary purpose.
With a gasp, the warlord felt a great weight crash cruelly down upon him. Forced to his knees, his chin snapped against his chest with a muted clang and clicks of protest from the servos in his neck. Posed thusly in a parody of subservience, Megatron sensed rather than saw the holoform approach him.
A hand hovered beside his helm, a contemplative and ironic voice:
Humblest servant, your will is mine.
The hand pressed against his cheek, the unseen claws scraping lightly against his throat as a wave of icy cold rushed through him and the pain…
His optics flicking offline for a moment, Megatron threw himself backwards and sprawled gracelessly across the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself suddenly outside the closed door which led to the entrance hall. The warlord backed away - the golden figure’s presence seemed to reach out hungrily for him. Its voice whispered once more inside his head: take the spare and dispose of him…
Megatron turned to the mech slumped against the wall next to the door - and stopped in shock. Struggling to throw off the spell that had kept him subdued, Optimus Prime raised dazed optics to stare at him in confusion.
Tricked! His terror of the golden mech quickly dissolving, Megatron slammed his fist against the door and bellowed. “NO! You traitorous slagger, we had an agreement!”
Laughter.
“You were supposed to kill Prime! That was the whole point of this foul arrangement - you vowed that the first to offer you a life would defeat the hopes of his enemy forever - and I told you that the Autobots’ foolish, stubborn dreams would only die with their leader! The words of your wretched messenger…”
A faint whisper: soft, unheard, mocking:
Willing gift of unwilling life,
fitting tribute sprung from fear,
the end of killing and of strife
shall only come at price most dear.
As Megatron continued to rage, Optimus staggered up and put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He could detect the volume of the Decepticon leader’s yells, but not the individual words; he had yet to purge the enticing whispers which had overcome him in the throne room and still flooded his processor. Seeing Megatron still consumed by fury, he started to make his way into the tunnel - then stopped.
The Matrix flared in his chest: danger! Optimus turned warily, facing the warlord -
- streaks of light, his mind far away, wondering if they’d ever return home -
- the alarm’s shrill call; dodging through space; preparing to defend the Ark -
- that distant, hysterical cackle, a moment of fear as the ground approaches, too fast, too fast -
And something twisted.
- a cool, crumbling dark substance against his hands, a gloating screech -
- the Seeker and his entourage wavered through the sky, faint screeches falling to where they stood like drops of acid rain -
- never felt this helpless, never faced an enemy chasing not to win, but solely to destroy -
- “Starscream, no!” -
- “Then let Cybertron burn!” -
- “No!” -
Audials ringing, Optimus staggered forward and seized Megatron’s arm. The Decepticon leader whirled to glare at him, then paused as the metal beneath them began to shudder. Their optics locked, each reading the other’s confusion.
A piercing shriek darted from behind the door and rattled in their audials. Without a word, the two most powerful mechs on Cybertron turned and fled.
The tunnel collapsed behind them with a triumphant roar.
It was orns later when Optimus realized that the shriek was not an echo of the Matrix’s visions, but Perceptor’s final desperate cry for help.
*******************************
Deep beneath the surface, the half-transparent golden mech leaned upon his silvery throne. He tilted his head slightly, as if he could hear the sounds of the Ark’s fading engines and the Nemesis preparing for pursuit.
Primus’ holoform flickered, the mouth forming into a malicious smile.
No sacrifice, no victory.
Inspired by water_smurf 's bunny here (#28).
“My lord, the ship is locked onto the Ark’s signal and preparing for launch. Estimated departure time, point five orns. Loading bays request ration codes.”
“No need to stock the Nemesis with more than minimal energon rations. We won’t be gone long. Authorization MS-1613370.”
“Codes transmitted, my lord.”
“Good. Now leave me and inform Soundwave to ready the crew.”
Megatron waited for a moment, listening to the lieutenant’s footsteps fading away before reaching for the control panel. With a few deft motions, the entrance to his office was sealed and a hidden trapdoor slid silently open.
Descending slowly down the ancient, crumbling stairway, Megatron wondered when his control of the magnificent revolution had slipped away. Certainly, nearly all of Cybertron now trembled at his name; yet if his cringing, cowardly subjects learned that Megatron himself trembled before the displeasure of another…
Nothing could have been done to prevent it. He’d planned for every eventuality, even figuring in the potential rise of an enemy to match him in skill. Optimus Prime had been observed, analyzed, targeted, and swiftly captured. No fuss, no dramatic and tension-filled final confrontation. Megatron had never even met the Prime until that proud, injured mech with haunting blue optics was dragged before the throne and haughtily condemned to the holding cells. How strange, that the Prime’s trite first words to him had settled in his processor with such ominous weight.
“I may be imprisoned here, Megatron, but my cause remains free. My mechs will not falter at my loss, but will continue to fight in my memory. You’ve only given them more reasons to resist you and your tyranny. My death is but a small price to pay for an end to your despotic regime: no sacrifice, no victory. And someday even you shall have to answer to a higher power.”
So will you, Prime, the warlord mused darkly as he approached the cells. Sooner than you expect. Against his will, the battle-scarred leader shuddered.
Reaching for the keypad next to the door, Megatron glanced inside the cell and was startled to see the Prime trying to soothe another mech huddled next to him.
“What is this? Who are you?” he demanded imperiously, striding closer to the glowing bars and glaring at the small heap of dented red metal.
Two heads jerked, and the second mech (one of the rare microscope-formers - thus probably quite intelligent and resourceful, Megatron noted grimly) struggled to rise, but could not speak. His wounds were severe, and it was clear that he had suffered much damage from hidden traps while trying to reach the Prime. Undoubtedly, the impudent would-be rescuer had been surprised by the final fail-safe measure on Megatron’s personal maximum-security cells: no one was prevented from entering, only from leaving.
It didn’t matter. Two would serve the purpose as well as one.
Megatron ignored the Prime’s meaningless pleas for the release of his companion and snatched a second pair of cuffs. With a flick of his wrist, he deactivated the bars and roughly tugged first one mech, than the other, from the dim confines of the cell. Neither resisted; the Prime had been brutally flogged until he barely had the strength to stand (even if he could have run, he would never abandon his comrade), and the unknown Autobot swayed on his feet and left drops of energon wherever he stumbled. Using two long energy-chains, Megatron attached a crude wrist-leash to each prisoner and shoved them both forward.
The passages wound ever downward in a confusing tangle. As they slowly proceeded, heavy automatic doors slamming shut behind them, the Prime would occasionally murmur something softly to his companion and receive a brief, pained reply. These conversations Megatron ignored: he cared not whether the two could scrounge a few last scraps of comfort from each other. He had to focus on composing himself for the upcoming encounter.
At last, the final door loomed before them. It hissed open of its own accord, and the dull-black mech behind it stared out at them with empty optics before stepping aside and curtly gesturing for them to enter.
Megatron could feel the surprise and curiosity emanating from his prisoners as the three followed the black mech. Fools. You’ll know soon enough. And then you’ll wish you didn’t.
Though he couldn’t see their faces, he knew that the Prime and the other Autobot must be gaping in awe at the splendor around them. In these areas close to Cybertron’s core, beneath the moral filth of the Towers and below the physical grime of the slums, every surface glowed with soft, clean light. Remembering his own reaction when he had first been drawn to this place, Megatron was thankful that the Autobots were so overwhelmed. Absorbed by their surroundings, they would not see that his cold, distant sneer had been replaced by an expression of barely-restrained terror.
At last, the small procession passed through the open door of a huge hall. Visible at the far end was a long, plain platform, with an elaborate throne resting atop it like an afterthought. Although there was no other furniture, spectacular carvings adorned the floor and ceiling; a slight unfocusing of the optics would produce the illusion that the strange markings were swirling about them in a dizzying dance. Even Megatron, who had seen this room twice before, became so lost in the shifting patterns that it took him a moment to realize that the black mech had vanished.
The two prisoners were glancing around, becoming slightly uneasy at the impenetrable silence which now filled the room. Megatron took a subtle step backward and waited tensely for the inevitable.
A harsh wind sliced suddenly through the hall, assaulting their sensors with an eerie howl. A golden mech shimmered into existence before them, seated on the throne. With a warm and kind smile, the slightly-transparent figure stretched out his hand and beckoned.
Megatron remained where he was - he retained that much self-control, at least - while the two Autobots stumbled forward helplessly. Though he could not see their faces, Megatron knew that their optics were fixed raptly upon those of the holoform.
Though the figure did not seem to speak, a faint echo of his voice reached Megatron’s audial sensors. He strained to discern the figure’s words and the Autobots’ responses, but the whispers were low and he dared not approach the platform.
Finally, after the Prime and the unknown microscope-former had settled tamely down to sit or lie at the base of the throne, the holoform raised its head and looked directly at Megatron. The warlord knew that the mysterious presence was now entirely focused upon him, and when he finally detected a voice murmuring softly inside his head, the Autobots at the holoform’s feet did not seem to hear.
So, you have brought him. And another. A slight nod: acknowledgement, recognition - not gratitude, or relief. Why stand you so far from me, young-spark?
“You know my… fear,” Megatron replied, clenching his fists in mute, angry resentment, “and I would not presume to tarnish your divine presence with my own… Mighty One.”
Ah, young-spark, your impudence pleases me. My divine presence, as you say, is never far from you and is immune to any such taint.
The warlord tore his gaze from the throne’s occupant to study the Autobots. Their gazes remained locked on the holoform, Megatron observed with disdain and something like pity. They were too entranced to realize that the mech (now absently petting their helms) was only a shadowy concentration of a greater and more terrible force than they could ever imagine.
Little one, you know full well that these two you have brought here will not suit my purposes.
Instantly, Megatron’s attention snapped back to the holoform. His cannon-arm twitched reflexively. Forcing it to remain still at his side, he looked warily at the golden mech - who smiled in gentle mockery, noting his apprehension.
Only one is required. Although I have observed your zeal, and will know to expect a similar effort for further tasks…
Megatron ignored this insinuation, although inwardly he shuddered at the thought of whatever future ‘tasks’ might be required of him. “I care nothing for either of the wretches, O Mighty One. Do what you will with the spare. My Decepticons will note my absence soon, so,” cringing at the servility in his tone, “may I now take my leave, and seek to carry out your commands in the world above?”
Oh, little one, what think you of me? How lonely it is, down here with no company but shades like the one which guided you here. The false substance which comprises them is incapable of decent conversation. But if you must, then you may take the spare and dispose of him. His death will further my plans nicely, though the other will serve the primary purpose.
With a gasp, the warlord felt a great weight crash cruelly down upon him. Forced to his knees, his chin snapped against his chest with a muted clang and clicks of protest from the servos in his neck. Posed thusly in a parody of subservience, Megatron sensed rather than saw the holoform approach him.
A hand hovered beside his helm, a contemplative and ironic voice:
Humblest servant, your will is mine.
The hand pressed against his cheek, the unseen claws scraping lightly against his throat as a wave of icy cold rushed through him and the pain…
His optics flicking offline for a moment, Megatron threw himself backwards and sprawled gracelessly across the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself suddenly outside the closed door which led to the entrance hall. The warlord backed away - the golden figure’s presence seemed to reach out hungrily for him. Its voice whispered once more inside his head: take the spare and dispose of him…
Megatron turned to the mech slumped against the wall next to the door - and stopped in shock. Struggling to throw off the spell that had kept him subdued, Optimus Prime raised dazed optics to stare at him in confusion.
Tricked! His terror of the golden mech quickly dissolving, Megatron slammed his fist against the door and bellowed. “NO! You traitorous slagger, we had an agreement!”
Laughter.
“You were supposed to kill Prime! That was the whole point of this foul arrangement - you vowed that the first to offer you a life would defeat the hopes of his enemy forever - and I told you that the Autobots’ foolish, stubborn dreams would only die with their leader! The words of your wretched messenger…”
A faint whisper: soft, unheard, mocking:
Willing gift of unwilling life,
fitting tribute sprung from fear,
the end of killing and of strife
shall only come at price most dear.
As Megatron continued to rage, Optimus staggered up and put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He could detect the volume of the Decepticon leader’s yells, but not the individual words; he had yet to purge the enticing whispers which had overcome him in the throne room and still flooded his processor. Seeing Megatron still consumed by fury, he started to make his way into the tunnel - then stopped.
The Matrix flared in his chest: danger! Optimus turned warily, facing the warlord -
- streaks of light, his mind far away, wondering if they’d ever return home -
- the alarm’s shrill call; dodging through space; preparing to defend the Ark -
- that distant, hysterical cackle, a moment of fear as the ground approaches, too fast, too fast -
And something twisted.
- a cool, crumbling dark substance against his hands, a gloating screech -
- the Seeker and his entourage wavered through the sky, faint screeches falling to where they stood like drops of acid rain -
- never felt this helpless, never faced an enemy chasing not to win, but solely to destroy -
- “Starscream, no!” -
- “Then let Cybertron burn!” -
- “No!” -
Audials ringing, Optimus staggered forward and seized Megatron’s arm. The Decepticon leader whirled to glare at him, then paused as the metal beneath them began to shudder. Their optics locked, each reading the other’s confusion.
A piercing shriek darted from behind the door and rattled in their audials. Without a word, the two most powerful mechs on Cybertron turned and fled.
The tunnel collapsed behind them with a triumphant roar.
It was orns later when Optimus realized that the shriek was not an echo of the Matrix’s visions, but Perceptor’s final desperate cry for help.
*******************************
Deep beneath the surface, the half-transparent golden mech leaned upon his silvery throne. He tilted his head slightly, as if he could hear the sounds of the Ark’s fading engines and the Nemesis preparing for pursuit.
Primus’ holoform flickered, the mouth forming into a malicious smile.
No sacrifice, no victory.
Inspired by water_smurf 's bunny here (#28).