When We Were Young (and Stupid) [Closed]

[Deleted]

[Takes place at some point shortly before the actual start of the War.]

The meeting was taking place in one of the high-prized, elevated luxury boxes that were reserved exclusively for the top castes seeking to 'rough it' by watching the famous Kaon gladiatorial matches. The arena was dark and silent; even the cleaning drones, their task done, had vanished into the gloom of their meager dwellings, waiting for the next cycle that would bring another bout, another spatter of fluids and scrap, perhaps another spark extinguished for the recreation of the masses. No one made enter the pit, it was said. But sometimes life took you to such a point where the arena was the only freedom you would ever know.

Power was entirely cut off, leaving the luxurious space a literal box almost as much as it was a titular one. The dim glow of the distant furnaces and stacks that ruled Kaon as other places were ruled by day-night cycles gave only just enough light so the two mecha skulking upwards would not trip on something and give themselves away.

They were surprisingly quiet, for the fact that neither of them was small. Their optics were telltale red pinpoints in the dark, but there was no one there to see them. There was no bright color to any part of their frames, and while their built was large and solid, so was that of any miner. They were not moving, however, in a very miner-like lope, and when they reached the box they found the door open, the lock dead; they were, after all, expected.

They were not, however, greeted. A superior caste, after all, owes no such niceties to those below it. "Were you seen?"

"We were careful."

"Hm." The mech occupying the box had a voice as cultured as that of his guests was rough; his optics were blue and full of the serenity that comes with knowing both your place in life and your purpose within the greater skein of things. Neither bothered to hide his distaste for his current situation, or his disdain for the company that situation forced upon him. "That will have to do, I guess. Do you understand the terms of the contract?"

It was the second, larger of the two that answer. The tone had apparently cowed his partner, and he didn't sound none too sure of the company he found himself keeping all at once. "We just want the reward."

"Rewards are placed on criminals. This is merely an offer of payment for services rendered. Provided you can deliver the frame, recognizable if permanently deactivated."

The two red-optic'd mechs crossed a look at that, the first one sounding... sheepish. "We was hoping we wouldn't have to get close-like, sir. He... Well, he is the champion."

A long, profound silence followed, stretching so far as to make them both begin to inch back towards the door. For all their size, for all that their 'second' job had taught them, it was still nigh impossible for them to forget the power, abstract as it was, that the other mech wielded.

"Half. If you can provide proof of his deactivation. An... appropriate body part will do."

The two visitors crossed a look, perking up perceptibly. Now, that was doable. That was a lot more like what they were used to doing, anyways. "We can do that", the second one offered as his partner nodded, eager to please. "Might take us a little while to get him... properly situated."

"Not necessary. Appropriate motivation to isolate him has been provided: even now, news of a trap laid to cull dissidents secretly are moving through the rumor mill. He should hear them, if not by himself from any one of his informants." Dark, sweetly mocking humor colored the educated tones of the mech. "It would ill behoove someone so taken with the idea of protecting the lesser elements to leave a goodly share of his supporters to be herded like so many empty shells and dispatched without so much as a shred of evidence."

"...You can do that?" Both mechs crossed even an even more nervous glance.

Their answer was an exasperated vent-sigh and a set of coordinates, deep within mine tunnels that had long been worked empty, left hollow beneath the arena and its many service tunnels and conduits. "I would get moving if I were you. I imagine you need time to do... whatever it is you do."

They couldn't skitter off into the dark fast enough after that.

|=V=|

The problem with always having an audio to the wire and a feeler on the ether is that often neither gives you a single slagging thing you can use.

Soundwave had found that, regardless his fall from so-called grace, nothing really had changed: mechs still gossiped, they still schemed and lied and did just about everything their high-caste counterparts did. The only difference was that gladiators were a lot more honest when they didn't like you. That honesty tended to get painfully physical... but it was a sort of honesty. And when they liked you, oh... when they liked you there was no end to the things they would do for you.

He did not hear about the culling from the ether; because power had been entirely cut off, no surveillance of any kind had entered the ether from the box. The two thugs were, in all honesty two among a whole bunch of nameless mechs whose fortunes rose and fell in crime too swiftly to follow, or to care. A mech found dead in a bilge canal somewhere in the guts of Kaon was usually registered as dead from natural causes because an energy bolt through the spark would quite naturally kill you. Life in Kaon was cheap; it was death that was expensive, and that only if it happened in the arena.

No, he heard it, as any other mech would, from a running rumor: two cleaning mechs speaking in hushed tones as they walked past the dark little hole in the wall he called home those days. They had heard it from other gladiators, who had heard it from an arena medic, who had heard it from a pair of bookies, who had been discussing whether they should... disturb the only mech likely to pay (or at least appreciate) the information.

Soundwave didn't bother contacting Megatronus; a quick check on the ragged sensor network confirmed that the bookies, smart as all their breed were (unless it came to numbers), had been discussing whether to tell the Arena Champion or not... in front of his door. Because why not; surely his audios would cease to function until such a time as the bookies decided to knock.

He did wonder, momentarily, if he should get involved at all. Megatronus' campaign was... worthy, no one could deny that. But it was also nascent, fragile and exceedingly dangerous to all involved.

He touched lightly his faceplate, as someone might tap their chin when deep in thought; he was tracing the motion detectors far below them, and finding that indeed a whole lot of motion was being detected. If the Champion had caught wind of this (and if the bookies didn't suffice, likely someone else would be just delighted to fill his audio with the tale), Soundwave... didn't want to take the chance that he might get killed down there. If anyone was going to kill him, it'd be Soundwave; and since he didn't plan to kill him at all, he was not allowed to die. Period.

He couldn't sigh in exasperation anywhere but within his mind, but the emotion was there as Soundwave strode out of his room and moved towards an intercept point on the most likely route Megatronus was likely to take; if he didn't show up, he'd send Laserbeak to find him as a last resort.

He hadn't been doing anything interesting anyways.

[Deleted]

Megatronus' public title of 'Champion of Kaon' was coming to take on a new meaning. Some uttered it meaning gladiator, champion in the Arena and the sure bet in any match. Others, and a growing number of them, shouted it at rallies, meaning champion of the people; of those their oppressors called the cogs and the drop-castes. The one whom their oppressors were actually frightened of enough to listen.

He had a match tonight. A shuttleformer from Kalis, heavily modded and anonymously sponsored; a public assassination attempt by the Senate, he'd deduced. The revolutionary was taking it as a good sign.

Before any match, Megatronus underwent the same routine in the relative security of his quarters. Sharpening blades if the match permitted them; oiling joints and priming hydraulics; topping up whatever fluids he could; checking for lags and bad code, and contacting Soundwave or Cleaver if required. He preferred to take the time before bodily and bloodily tearing a mech infront of a braying audience in solitude.

He'd heard every damn thing through the door, and knew that he was meant to hear it. Megatronus had stood with his repurposed miner's helmet in his hands, filing down the damage his last opponent's axe had done to the manual latches. Shattershock would certainly try to tear the helmet away whilst they were grappling, and the damaged latch caused an unacceptable risk of him being successful. The act also created just enough noise to sound like he was occupied without distorting the mech's voices.

When they were finished and had moved off, he flattened the sensor-rich panels back tight to his helm. They were a liability, but one that he hadn't yet gotten around to excising from his frame. For now, Megatronus pulled his helmet back on, gave an experimental tug to make sure the locking latches were secure, and palmed the door open.

'Excising dissidents from the general populous' - that was how the Senate prettied up mind-wiping and executing those who were speaking out against them. Putting on Megatronus' symbol. Primus forbid, publicly criticizing the curfews and forced reformats and blatant corruption that was so ingrained into the upper echelons of their society that the Towerlings could be fearlessly brazen about it. The enforcers had been putting in a stronger presence in Kaon, and it had only been a matter of time before they attempted an excision in their own territory.

Attempted. Like Pit was Megatronus going to stand for that to happen on his doorstep.

He made for the upper level, still eight below surface but notably lighter and cooler. He was already, after all, ready for a fight.

[Deleted]

Soundwave had come to the conclusion that the Senate was made up of morons.

There was no other explanation he could muster. These were not uneducated mechs; he could read their histories with barely a need to hack past six security protocols and they were all exceptionally well learned mechs. How, then, did they come to think that more violence on those they wanted to oppress would stop them from retaliating in kind? You don't poke the technowolf with a stick and expect that it won't turn around and try for the hand holding it.

It boiled down, he knew, to thinking you were faster than the wolf. And... for the most part they were right, and they were making sure they stayed right. The problem was, for every hundred slow, methodical, obedient, stunted workers, there was one Megatronus, and one was all it took.

Three different sensors and a glimpse through a dust-covered security camera told him that selfsame champion of the masses was on the move. Soundwave's own path was much longer and less reliable, since he had to either avoid those sensors, or wait for groups of mech to come by so he could be lost in their ranks. Even as he walked, Soundwave threw his remote attention towards the scattered garrisons dotting the immediate area; if some sort of official deployment took place, he wanted enough advance warning to melt away as if he'd never been there.

There was nothing. The most activity the official service was engaged in was a drunken brawl in one of the, ah, 'better' blocks and one scrap truck crash on a high overpass. And a remote game of cards. They had not even noticed the gathering of folks... or they did not care. Irritated, he left them to their cheating and switched his attention again to trying for some information on whoever was causing the motion sensors to go off. Who, what, where, why. These were important questions that simple motion sensors could not give him the answers to. All the while he walked on, avoiding the same sensors almost automatically at that point.

It did not occur to him to check and see if he was the only one watching Megatronus. Soundwave was, honestly, so focused on trying to figure out those four questions, that he didn't even realize he'd joined a group of mechs that were barely taller than him, and hardly massed together what Megatronus weighted alone.

And the techies merrily carried him along their path, towards a dead mine and the empty chamber where its primary furnaces had once stood.

[Deleted]

It was not hard to figure out that the miner had infiltrated the security systems somehow. He was, at times, too deceptively well informed of the coming and going of the local authorities; his rallies were hardly ever intercepted anymore. His rhetoric flowed unfiltered, emboldened. His triumphs in the Arena gave him confidence. Arrogance.

Arrogance was not his right.

The Senate, Censored had decided, was full of morons, spineless idiots that did not see the momentum the miner was picking, the danger of allowing him to continue talking, acting, doing, living. Even martyrs die eventually, if you give their followers something else to fuss about. Increase the quotas, decrease the feedings, and this 'champion' thing would die a swift death amidst memories of 'better' times preceding him. When fuel was, you know, a thing you actually got at the end of a work shift.

Swift, decisive action was called for, and the Senate seemed incapable of that as well. It was all well and good to take your time when the problem was just a miner talking to the masses. But when he started getting official information? No, there was no time to vote and make committees. He had gotten support from someone capable of giving it; the line had to be drawn at once.

There were not that many mecha to be found in Kaon who had the training for such a thing; they were easily rounded up, the few science-savvy ones; well Censored knew, from experience, that when you give someone with a knack for science a taste of it, that mech will follow you to the ends of the universe if you only promise him another taste. They were even more easily disposed of, rarely sharing the average Kaonite's sturdiness. Or common sense to detect such traps in advance.

Ah, geeks.

The miner did not like when his people were harmed. He would hear about it; if there was anything scientists did better than science, it was gossip. He would come, to either lecture or berate, and to tell them that perhaps when a promise is too good to be true, it may be a trap. Oh, it would have been lovely to see their expressions, all of them. To see whether they believed him, this uneducated miner whose ideas sounded so verbose when he wasn't tearing someone's limb off and beating them with it.

Ironically, the miner might know where they'd been led to before any of the culls did. He was what he was, what he'd rejected, after all, and chemical disposal pits were rarely ever filled, even after a mine went out of production. Censored knew it would have been so easy to rig the floor of the chamber to blow and drop everyone in the pits below. End of story. End of problem.

Except no one would believe the miner was dead unless they saw the carcass itself.

This is why one ended up wasting money on dubious assassin proxies. Ah, well. Until news came by one way or another, Censored hovered sedately over the sea of lights that was Kaon, and idly pondered if he had time for a drink.