[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Instruments of Destruction

[Megatron]

Episode 3 | Week 4 | Day 7 | Open

OOC Disclaimer: This thread is open to every Decepticon character for one post only. Participation in this thread is not mandatory, however all Decepticon characters who are not indisposed at the time of this thread will be considered in attendance or listening to a broadcast of these events. Should you wish to omit your character completely, you need to DM Ian on Discord or message the Megatron profile here on the forum so arrangements can be made.

Dusk fell over the Steens mountain, casting its blunt and jagged ranges in gentle darkness. It was late into the evening now. Serene, calm—still as a painting. Frozen in time, in that blissful night. Yet below its surface, the wicked and the determined toiled without reprieve. Even they, the Decepticons, would often rest during these few remaining hours, retiring from a day’s worth of work or preparing for a graveyard shift, but their vengeful Lord has seen to it that it would not be so.

Not tonight.

They have been summoned deep underground to Blackridge Hold, commanded to gather in a large hall that had gone unused for so very long. Across every channel and on every device, the order has been given a few hours ago from the highest of stations:

    // Gather in the Assembly Hall.
    // Those who cannot attend must listen to an open-frequency broadcast.
    // Or suffer punishment.
    // Megatron has returned.

The scope of this order was indiscriminate. None shall argue its legitimacy. Anybody who could come? Should come, and those that could not were urged to listen—sternly so. After tonight, what the Decepticon Lord had in store for his troops would become common knowledge. No trooper nor miner, nor, Primus forbid, an officer could feign ignorance. They would all know. They would all know of what was to come, and more importantly, that their leader has returned for good.

To not know would mean to be shunned or killed. The risks of incomprehension were known to every Decepticon, and so they could not avoid these words even should they wish. In preparation, the Assembly Hall has been outfitted with a sizable podium, stretching across the far back of the room from one side to the other. In height, it surpassed the common Vehicon by a few feet but no further. Megatron, the master of all Decepticons, stood proudly at the center, his posture upright and dignified, framed from the back by a tall faction banner. Sharp, silver armor washed his figure in a shimmering reflection of otherwise moody and conservative lighting.

To the left of this titan, this living legend, stood a no lesser or noteworthy individual: Starscream, the Air Commander and Second-in-Command of all Decepticon forces. His role was as well-known as Megatron’s and instrumental in holding together their forces during the numerous crises on Earth.

That they should both be in attendance spoke volumes.

But they were not alone on the stage. Trailing Megatron’s shadow, an ominous phantom stalked the event from further back, nearly fading into the rocky background: Soundwave. No doubt, he was here to observe and record the gathering. Every action would be remembered, every word memorized.

And now, they would all listen. Megatron spoke. A menacing, rough voice carried far and wide into every corner of the Assembly Hall. Chatter died down among the crowd, for if it had not, the repercussions would be swift and unmerciful. To speak here was tantamount to death.

"Fellow Decepticons, hark and heed my words! Your leader, Megatron, speaks."

With the introduction finished, he raised his mighty hands and outstretched them to the sides and ever so slightly above his head. It was as if Megatron embraced the crowd as he once did in those forsaken Pits of Kaon, long ago. For a moment, he was there, at the moment of victory—there was no better feeling.

"I have returned from my interstellar voyage to once again resume command and to lead us against the Autobot menace."

Now it was time to dip back into reality. The Warlord knew that his forces had seen better days, that his rule was stronger before than now. He had to face this fact and admit that there were Decepticons who would ask for better of him. He needed to reassure them, remind them of why they fought and why he was their leader.

He felt a speech coming, voice swelling into a magnanimous crescendo.

"No doubt there will be those among you who question my resolve in light of my recent absences, but be assured, all I did was to secure our stranglehold on this world."


A pause for the ages, a moment for contemplation—but only just. Soon, the voice returned, stronger and more hopeful than before, filled with action and strength. This was the Megatron they knew. The one who spoke as he acted, the one who roused their spirits with word and deed.

His hands fell back to the side of his body, slowly, slowly.

"The time for idleness is passed. Even now, we make ready for conquest, to strike at our enemies with newfound might. The construction of our mighty Hymn continues. With the materials I have retrieved and the recovered components, it will soon be complete.”


Our hymn—their hymn. It no longer belonged to a remote, distant god of death. It belonged to them, the Decepticons, who would come to inherit this universe. His great army, the flood, and catalyst of change. They would own it, they would own the stars, beginning with this one.

And to that end…

“Yet a suitable vessel needs be prepared to house our instrument of deliverance. The Nemesis must rise ere our Autobot foes become wise to our plans.”

This alone was obvious, yet perhaps some did not understand the implications. He had to explain so that they would all know. What will they know? That they will bleed. That their servos will toil until they rust. That many will not survive. That sacrifices will be made by all.

“The cause advances with all haste, and the sacrifices you will be asked to make in the coming days will not come easily.”

Now was the time to remind them of their purpose, of what made them Decepticons. The unity and loyalty he craved and rewarded dearly ever to lead them onwards.

"And so, I urge you, my Decepticons: hold fast onto your conviction. In these pivotal moments, you must remain committed. Those of you who have proven their strength and loyalty shall be called upon to bring my vision to reality.”

Silence fell.

“To those who have not, I bring a message:"

And again. He raised an arm.

"War comes. Only by standing together as one can we hope to succeed. There will be no room for uncertainty when we strike and dire consequences await those who would threaten our unity. Be they Autobot, human—or Decepticon."

He clenched a fist and swung it wide across.

Those who would not comply would die for the sake of their grand empire. Thus he spoke of the traitors, within and without. All who threatened his reign, all who dared question, would answer the sword or the cannon, and be silenced for good. This was not up for debate. This was the reign of Megatron, as cruel as it was effective.

And when the last voice of dissent falls, there will be merciful peace. Fair and eternal.

Peace through tyranny.

[Deleted]

Backbeat quietly listened to the Decepticon leader’s speech; despite partially being lost in his own head. The logistical specialist had already started tallying up resource expenditures and potential profit margins of what was to come. The Nemesis and a secret doomsday device? Expensive was the first word Backbeat could think of. The second was opportunity.


Megatron’s mention of the fallen warship was the biggest bit of excitement. He’d been working at the logistical problem of that fallen symbol of Decepticon supremacy for a while since he’d arrived. He’d doubted that replacement components would be able to be sourced quickly enough to suit what ever “villainous scheme” Megatron had cooked up. At least, from off world.


He’d need to get full approval of course… But despite complications, the pilot program for non-energy-based resource extraction had proven promising. Provided said operations were plotted with efficiency and a certain trailer pulling library geek would keep his long nose out of it. Despite that, he was optimistic about the situation. This could be his ticket to bigger and better things.


Sometimes it pays to go to “staff meetings”.

[Nokta]

After centuries of floating through space aimlessly on a ghost ship that for all intents and purposes should have been his coffin, returning to an army without its leader present had been, to say the least, a surreal experience. But nothing more surreal than when he’d finally received the call: Megatron had returned.

Nokta was not a prideful mech. From the day he had joined the Decepticons, and for countless millennia onward, there had only been one instance in which he had done anything remotely outside of what his station required him to do. Never driven by any abstract quest for power, nor any desire for excess: he simply did what he was told. He stayed content in the shadows, carrying out his duties, furthering the cause in his own way. And because of the role he played and the nature of his abilities, he’d always existed outside of this realm, that of the official and the grandiose. Even as a Lieutenant he’d been a mech at the fringes, gathering information, relaying it to his superiors, staying silent and unseen to both enemy and ally alike. He was a wraith.

But now, despite all of this, despite all barriers; time, the battlefield, his station, the cosmos itself he now found himself in the very same room as the mecha who had started this movement so many millions of years ago.

Somewhere in the shadows at the back of the Assembly Hall two beady crimson optics belonging to a frame so dark it appeared part of the wall itself took in the majesty of a living legend. Optics widened as a mech he’d only ever seen in propaganda material took the stage. Oh, if his beloved could see this… a thought that was mercifully derailed as the tyrant began his address.

Everything about this titanic mech, from his body language to his gaze, to the very poetry in the words he wielded to speak to his troops, commanded respect and admiration. There could be no mistake: this was the leader of the cause he had sacrificed everything for. They fought, and they bled, and they buried pieces of themselves that could never be replaced, but still, their leader would always return to them, just as strong and unwavering in his resolve as the day they’d joined him. The first few moments of this glorious reveal would tell Nokta all he needed to know. If there were ever any biting junctures of hesitation or apprehension leading up to this, they had been crushed under the majesty of his lord’s vision as he proclaimed it now.

They were not forgotten. The cause still lived.

As the tyrant’s address came to its glorious conclusion: a message was delivered so direct it was almost as if the gladiator were speaking to him personally.

“...those who would threaten our unity. Be they Autobot, human– or Decepticon.”

A final sentence that gave him pause. So, there were some among them that did not see eye to eye with their great leader after all? This addendum provoked a slew of questions in the scout’s processor. Concerning, at best. But he would heed the wisdom of his leader, and not succumb to the dangers of uncertainty. If there was disloyalty in the ranks, it would be weeded out and expunged like the malignance that it was. And on the subject of certainty? One thing could be known in all of this– the Autobots would pay for their crimes.

Retribution would be theirs.

[Sparkplug]

Amongst the dark-armoured throng, one mecha stood out like a signal flare; short, bright white, with forest green accents and large, bright green optics. Her left arm was silver, unpainted, far longer than the right, with two sets of elbows. Amongst the crowd of reds, purples and blacks, she looked like a photo negative of a femme that should have been standing there.

Megatron was back again. And this time, he was insistent on gathering everyone to hear what he had to say. Or else. The 'or else' really didn't need to be stated, but he'd gone ahead and stated it anyway. Not that she really felt like she had the right to be surprised. She watched as others filtered into the crammed hall, packing in tightly in preparation for their leader's speech, then looked up at the dais.

There he was, a threshing machine that had torn through their entire planet and many others besides, scattering them to the edges of the galaxy. He looked the part. Bulky, powerful, the surface of his armour subtly pitted with the remnants of shrugged-off weapons fire. Catching his red gaze wasn't a good idea, and she didn't make any effort to. For Commander Soundwave, though, she gave a little wave. Somewhere under that utterly opaque exterior was a sense of humour, she was sure, even if it was a subtle one. He'd been helpful.

Not as helpful, of course, as Air Commander Starscream. She flashed a smile at him, her expressive field signalling her sincere respect and friendliness. He was a scientist, after all, she knew he appreciated her work.

Or at least, she was under the firm impression he did.

Her field shrank to hull-minimum as the Warlord's rumbling snarl of a voice echoed through the chamber. It really wasn't a good idea to let herself show that she simply didn't like him very much, not in a crowd like this. She didn't especially fancy being hauled up and shot on stage.

Autobot menace. Not really menace, per se. But whatever it took to ensure He got his punishment for what He'd done-

She blinked with a snap of spiral shutters, breaking into a delighted grin. Her field surged outwards again, vibrant with excitement. The missing pieces had been recovered! Oh, she was absolutely delirious with anticipation. She itched, absolutely itched, to run straight to the assembly bay and get to work restoring the massive instrument - and it was an instrument - of mass destruction. And they were going to set about recovering the Nemesis!

Sparkplug's radiant excitement became tinged with preoccupied thoughtfulness as she reviewed her salvage plans for the sunken warship. There were some improvements she had in mind to the original scheme, but the basics remained the same. Gigaweapons! Oceanic salvage! Oh, she had so much to do!

The Warlord's speech came to a pause, a sharp, somehow pointed silence. And then he reiterated that anyone in his way would be dealt with. Human, Autobot, Decepticon. There was a threat there that perhaps she could have, should have heeded. After all, she'd been friendly with Autobots in the past, she'd let Neon get away. Not that she'd had much choice, but still. But the very concept of her being an obstacle simply didn't occur.

After all, she knew, deep down, unquestioning, unquestionable, that she was a Decepticon, and all her efforts were to that end. Anything else was unthinkable.

[Deleted]

Front and center, the general stood. Had he been a lesser mech, Blitzwing's excitement would've translated into meek, energetic quivering. He was no Starscream, however. His form was confident, his posture stolid; the only indication that the triple-changer was processing any of his leader's speech was the tremendously vivid smile etched upon his face. Every fiber of his being was in agreement with Megatron's words, as they naturally were. 

It had been eons since he had heard his master speak, both in person and remotely. War was not the same without Megatron, as Blitzwing had discovered after being left behind so unfortunately. Dutifully, he had searched for purpose in absence of the cause, only to find nothing that could similarly fulfill him. And so, for eons more he had walked the stars in search of a war.

By Primus, his spark was singing.

He had finally found his war, again.

Blitzwing reveled in it all as Megatron practically sang a dirge for the Autobots straight to his core....

Sweeping offensives... tearing through any and all resistance... finally eradicating their dogged foes with swift finality...

He would march back into the sea and pull the Nemesis out with his bare hands if Megatron were to command him as such; with a smile, no less. The look of enthusiasm on his face would communicate as much.

Internally, the general wondered as to the nature of Starscream's thoughts in the moment. He had enjoyed almost unchecked executive authority in Megatron's absence, but no longer. Said authority had technically encompassed Blitzwing and his ground forces in particular; an indignity that would mercifully cease, at long last.

At long last...

The Instrument was ready. It merely awaited the Hand.

[Starkrieger]

Near the back of the assembly, optics focused sharply on the warlord. Initially he’d milled in with the general rabble, more concerned with keeping wings clear of excitable Decepticons, than a lawless gathering. Catching sight of that unmistakable form changed his trajectory. Subtle, graceful in the way Seekers could be when they sought to skirt obstacles, he’d slipped around within the crowd to intentionally slow without offering serious hindrance, until they had ‘left him behind’, pouring in around him .

Like others, he had never seen the warlord in person. Had never heard him speak, aside from a single holovid his mentor had allowed. All other times, he was restricted to reading transcripts…

He had once resented that.

The Decepticon leader extended his arms, welcoming in the crowd, his obsessive forces, to both bask in his glory, and offer their loyalty in tribute.

Now he understood.

Primus, his voice.

The tones resonated with his spark. The way his pitch elevated and dipped, rousing excitement without giving way to loss of composure, and then falling into resonating depth somehow untroubled with the inconveniences of the hardships he bore. Megatron spoke as a mech who was, in some way, beyond them.. The air of one forged superior through conviction exuded from him, making their loyalties and worship his due. Primus himself could not hope to extend so grand a sense of purpose, but ultimately it was semblance.

Sacrifice, hard work… suffering, Krieg didn’t need to be talked up to brace himself for it. It was inherent to his intended purpose, and had long been ground into his spark at each post, with every Autobot atrocity... with every mangled, greying frame that was once a comrade.

The Seeker’s derma pressed in a firm line. His skepticism and wariness might have very well been apparent to a perceptive mech, particularly if he had allowed himself to get swept up to the front. In the back, unknown and beneath notice there was cover. Krieg knew well, there was more going on than leadership was willing to reveal.

“I urge you, my Decepticons: hold fast onto your conviction. In these pivotal moments, you must remain committed.”

His optics briefly shifted towards Starscream. He didn't expect anything to be revealed by his Lord's frame language, after all, Starscream was no less a military mech than he, and no less a leader than Megatron.

The silence settled heavy, only to be broken by a warning. Wings previously folded tightly against his backstrut to avoid the crowd, went ridgid. Depending on the warlord's disposition, that threat might apply to him.

Starkrieger did not falter, nor show signs of concern. To forfeit his function had always been his ultimate purpose. He wasn't particularly inspired either. Megatron would never gain anything for Seekers that they hadn’t had before his rebellion. Many had lost everything at Vos, only to have the endless conflict chip away at what remained of their identity. There was nothing to look forward to, other than a chance to rebuild their home, to try to salvage something from the wreckage. Such hope could not reside in some pit spawn showman from Kaon, no matter how stirring his words, or menacing his threats.

However, he was a soldier, one that was loyal to his Lord. So long as Starscream commanded that he should bear the Decepticon sigil, his obedience would be extended to the warlord.

Time would tell if that was still enough for the ruler of the Decepticons.

[Thundercracker]

Well, not everyone could attend...someone still had to fly patrol to make sure everything was kept safe during the great ‘pep talk’. And honestly, Thundercracker preferred it that way, instead of being crowded into the assembly hall with everyone else.

He never wanted this war, nor to be a part of it in any way, shape or form. Yet here he was on this planet with a Decepticon brand, his servos stained with the energon coming from having killed an Autobot flier. So as Megatron began his speech, calling upon all the charisma and energy that had gotten their species to this point, Thundercracker was glad that he wasn’t actually in attendance in that meeting hall, or that anyone could see that he was rolling his optics in disgust.

Here we go again...

Still, things weren’t all bad.

As the land below him turned into the blue of open water, Thundercracker decided he needed a bit of space from all of this...still he would listen but he opened up a private channel with his wingman and trine mate. One of the few things that made his stay on this planet bearable.

::Warp, let’s get some air::

Thundercracker would suddenly pitch upward and ignite his afterburners, the sonic booms shattering the air as he climbed, seeming to try and escape from the planet and the sources of his pain. As he climbed, he listened intently to the Warlord though, so that no one could fault him for anything.

“So the big bad Megatron was back, back to help...hurrah...”

“Yay, the superweapon will be finished soon...trust me this won’t fail like all the other superweapons we’ve come up with over the years...”

“Oh, I want to raise the Nemesis from its watery grave...”

Well, anything was better than dealing with that damn cave.

“Not all of you would survive to see the grand vision...”

The final bit caused Thundercracker to growl slightly in disgust, a growl that was lost in another sonic boom as the throttle in his cockpit was pushed up to the firewall.

“Get in line or else you will be sacrificed for my vision...”

With his growl turning into a howl of rage, Thundercracker slipped through the stratosphere and into orbit, transforming as soon as he was clear and gazing down on the blue orb that he inhabited for now.

Damn you Megatron. Damn you for your folly that has led our species down this path.

Damn me, for going through with it...

[Deleted]

Away from the masses, a pair of young Decepticons watched the scene before them play out.

They were situated within a small concave pit amongst the back wall of rock- a location no doubt selected for the purposes of visibility. Given the sizable number of mecha present that towered over the two of them, their only other option would have been to stand at the very front of the crowd... something which did not appeal to the more reserved flier of the pair. Dagger would never voluntarily chose to be the center of attention. But alas- their position wasn’t really of importance. What was being said, however, was.

It was a surreal experience, truly, to be so close to the entirety of Decepticon high command. But above all, Megatron. Their leader. The embodiment of their movement. Her own opinion on the mech was... complicated. But she respected his cause, and his drive. Perhaps, because his legacy struck a chord within her. She looked at him, and thought of BlindSpot. A bot forsaken by the caste system, who had refused to be held down- and chose to fight back against those who had told them they had no worth. Their mentor had always admired him. Deeply. If only she could have been here beside them as he spoke.

If anyone perceptive enough had been looking at the three wheeler in that moment, they may have noticed her hanging her head and frowning ever so slightly. Though, a moment later, she would compose herself. This was no time to wallow in sadness. She and Dagger would keep fighting for the cause in her honor, and they would win. Failure was not an option.

The sudden pause in Megatron's speech quickly grabbed her attention. She focused in again with intent, awaiting what was about to be said.

Dire consequences for those who threaten our unity. Be they Autobots, fellow Decepticons, or otherwise. Interesting. There had always been shady characters among their ranks. Those who tried to get ahead with back-biting and treachery. It was unfortunate, but that’s just the way it was. It was reassuring, however, to hear that such individuals would be dealt with accordingly.

As the speech concluded, she would straighten her posture. Wanting to talk, though hesitating to do so aloud even now, she activated her private comm link. Her voice was only audible to her counterpart, who sat no more than a few feet away at her side.  ::I don’t know if we’ve got it in us to help Megatron himself pull off a plan::

At this, she stopped to think for a moment. ::But I think if ‘Spot was still here, she would have told us to stop complaining and do it:: A crooked smile crossed her face upon saying such. Part of her found amusement in the statement. Though, a trace of sadness still lingered despite the fact. 


Her sibling answered with a silent smile of his own, before returning his gaze to the crowd.

[Dart]

Off to one side of the cavern, tucked quietly along the curve of the wall were a pair of figures.

Dart honestly didn't like being underground at all and usually attempted to avoid it as much as possible. Over the years, the courier had become quite adept at making herself useful on wide patrols, preferring to be away from her fellow Decepticons and thick of things.

When the summons came, it was was jarring against the serenity and silence of the mountain. Even when it no longer crackled and hissed into her barely working systems, the words lingered in her very soul.

Megatron has returned.

Dart had stood there, turning her nose into the scents of wild space and freedom among the dry-grass valley. There had been the briefest of moments racing through her head. No, I'll... I'll just stay out here. It's okay, I'm on patrol, right, I do my job. I'm- I'm a glorified pager, a stamp on an envelope. Not important.

That thought swiftly bolted out of her head as fast as it had dashed through it. A summons like this was not to be wasn't to be sidestepped, ever. When Pyrotech's terse and quiet voice had followed a few moments later, she was already on her way.

Now she stood quietly off of the architect's left shoulder, the two of them here in the underground hall. The sound of the crowd was as claustrophobic to her as the press of the sandstone walls and nearly as overwhelming. So many mechanical bodies were packed within a fairly small space, and nearly all of them she didn't know; not even by a passing whiff. Ever since the Nemesis had crashed within the ocean due to the plague there was a constant influx of Decepticons.

Almost to the point where they felt as if they were randomly dropping from the sky.

As one of the Vehicons nearby jostled another and there was a low scrape of metal against metal, Drew a quick sniff of the air, seeking some fresh current that had managed to sneak in somehow. Everything felt stale and recycled. The courier sidestepped nervously, lifting her foot to paw at the ground. Her gaze shifted to the exits and found them mostly blocked by all sizes and shapes of frame, including slanted wings and sleek curves. Fliers. Grounders. They were all here.

The tips of her spoiler twitched nervously behind narrow shoulders and then fell back and drifted into a lopsided angle as she watched the mechs around them. Finally she lifted her slanted blue gaze to the podium where the great Decepticon stood tall and proud, shadowed by Starscream and Soundwave.

Lord Megatron's voice roared out, hammering off the tan sandstone walls. The emphasis on every word was as electric as as a thunderstorm in the distance here on Earth. There was no denying he was charismatic. A born leader. Even her small understanding of the history of Cybertron  knew his past and how he'd moved upwards. 

As his speech rolled over the Decepticons, Dart understood why this mech had raised an army behind him, and why so many died in his service. The crowd within the cave surged to every word. Body language changed; hands by sides clenched or rose. Shoulders squared, tipping forward as if to sway with the roar of the huge mech's words. Almost like a rock concert, robots moving and dancing with the emotional resonance of the oration of the Decepticon Lord as he described yet another weapon under construction somewhere. A weapon that would win this war.

Stranglehold on this world. Make ready to strike. Raise the Nemesis.

His words and the crowd's response smashed into her audials like a telephone line hidden among the trees. Where speed was not a lesson not in escape, but in how painfully hard the the ground could be.

Earth.

The humans. 

The knot of apprehension and anxiety in Dart's mid-section became a cold knife of fear.

She was suddenly back in that moment near him in that desert as he lifted his hand and cut it open, and the smell that had curled up from his energon splattering into the hot sand. Purple energon, reeking and foul. Like how animals stunk when rabid, their nervous systems misfiring into rage to strike and bite anything they could possibly catch, including their own.

Was this Megatron now? Yes, her brain told her. It is Lord Megatron. Oh, not good, not good...

A horrified glance towards the podium, and for one split second the courier focused on Starscream's lean grey form in a desperate attempt to pick out his body language, anything, something. Then she immediately realized what she was doing and instantly turned her head. Awkwardly, Pyrotech was apparently looking her way at the same time. His jaw was tight, and the ladder behind his shoulder was as stiff as the line of his shoulders and his crossed arms.

[Pyrotech]

Pyrotech had been in his office, sitting at that slab of stone he'd used as a makeshift desk when the call came. He had listened quietly, and when the announcement was over, a small smile had curled across his lips.

His stylus had tapped gently on the datapad in front of him. In front of him were drawings, sketches, measurements. The outpost needed constant work and it had never been designed for a massive influx of displaced Cybertronians. He'd managed though, he'd shifted and scraped and gathered every resource he could, adjusted and changed it at a moment's notice. Dig deep, even while supporting the weight of Decepticon might with fragile Earth sandstone and metal brace.

That was the way of the Decepticons. Adapt, adjust, and someday return to Cybertron to restore their home.

Now the architect stood in the great hall, under rippling gold ribbons of mica that he'd smoothed with his own hands.

Pyrotech had traveled from planet to planet in space during the war. He'd left his lifetime of gorgeous spires and elegant structures to build what the cause had needed of him. Squat and tough spaces meant to survive head on attacks. The architect had fortified bunker after bunker with his own hands, slabs of drab stone and thick metal. As he moved from one place to another, he learned to use terrain and disgusting alien worlds to make what they wanted of him. When the call had come for him on Earth, he had not hesitated.

It was a chance to wipe out the Autobots once and for all. And then he could go home to Cybertron, go back to restoring what the war had taken from them all.

What it had taken from him.

On arrival, Pyrotech immediately realized this was not what he had ever expected. There were even less resources on this backwater planet, and the might of the Decepticon warship had been reduced to chasing Autobots around a filthy ball of mud. He'd barely arrived and he had been given his instructions. Build an outpost in Alaska and await our orders. He had been shocked and disgusted the land was a muddy, organic slop in the summer, and in the winter it was a hell-hole of ice, the snow, pitch dark. The supplies they had were barely anything, no building materials, energon that had faded to almost nothing, and yet he'd done exactly as they'd asked him, he'd succeeded. He'd built that place, manned it, and had it ready for when it was to be used to house a weapon to get rid of the Autobots once and for all...

That hadn't happened.

Right after that failure had come Australia. Instead of ice and snow it had been sand and biting salt. Again, the assignment was to build a hidden base of operations. Once more those in charge couldn't spare a thing, so they handed him nothing to use for this purpose; no gear, barely any equipment, and the same ragged, useless crew that had barely survived Alaska. With the knowledge of his last job behind him, he had used every resource he could find; scavenged dumps and trainyards, ripped chunks of metal off of the dry-docked ships.

He'd built a launching platform out of sheer will, hoping that his success would bring him back up on the grand halls of the Nemesis, and possibly give him the opportunity to be sent to build things that would be appreciated. Someday he would be praised again for his work, not taken for granted and They'd even gotten the weaponized satellite off the ground, and then again, all his work ruined. By a ragtag bunch of idiotic Autobots and that damned shark of a reporter.

Megatron's speech poured across the waiting Decepticons. The Decepticon leader spoke with the sort of conviction he always had, from the first time Pyrotech had ever heard him. The years and the distance between Cybertron and this filthy little backwater planet had not changed that. It felt- right. It felt like this was where the war would stop and the Autobots would be destroyed finally, in this place where they had dared to even try to make a final stand.

The construction of our mighty Hymn continues. With the materials I have retrieved and the recovered components, it will soon be complete.

It all fell back now, like a chair had been kicked out from under him.

Now he was here in Oregon in some forsaken dry desert. Once again, he had been given nothing and he had made something. He had created a base that had housed the fall of the damned Nemesis itself. He had slogged in the dry dirt and sloppy mud, he had carved out tunnels and rooms, he'd searched through heaps of decaying junk, his hands filthy and scratched by human refuse and had braced and built every beam.

The time for idleness is passed.

Pyrotech's doors lifted ever so slightly.

Well, he had not been idle this whole time. He had worked himself - no, he had lowered himself, he had been faithful to the Decepticon cause from the beginning. He had built these squat, ugly little places for thousands of miserable years because that was what was needed.

Yet a suitable vessel needs be prepared to house our instrument of deliverance. The Nemesis must rise ere our Autobot foes become wise to our plans.

The red mech shifted his weight, and then lifted his arms, crossing them across his chest. One dark finger gave a slight tap against his plating.

This was a pattern, and he was seeing it as sharp as a spire. Had it been oddly obscured to him all these years, starting back on Cybertro? These moments, these master weapons of destruction culminated in him losing everything, on coming to Earth and being constantly set up for failure, to have all of his work be utterly ignored. No matter how without him, where would they be now.

His skills were apparently not worth much in the end, except to be simple stepping stone to one grander plan, one larger weapon.

The corner of Pyrotech's mouth turned slightly into a thin, sharp edge. Everything he'd been given over the years; some materials, some tech, even his mostly useless team, and even one single damned chair. None of those things had been offered to him by...

His gaze rested on the platform, and the other two silent mechs behind the Warlord and then he turned his head.

Dart apparently had done the same thing at the same time. He never usually bothered to meet her optics. However, he hesitated, wondering if she had come to the same conclusions as to what was next to happen.

Pyrotech did not like this in the slightest. Not at all.

[Flatline]

Some seemed to try to get as good a view as possible.

Others seemed to try to stand as far back as they could at the outskirts to observe others...

And a few possibly aimed to detach from the team in a form of rebellion...

Yet, Flatline chose none of the above.

The black and red mech was trying to mesh into the centermost mass off to one side. He aimed to be blotted out within the shadows of others, a mere darkened smear among a sea of muted colors and varied masses and frame types, standing still so that their Lord's gaze could ideally coast past him in favor of more overtly noticeable soldiers. Individuals that were of far more importance than himself and his newfound 'assistant' label, a title that blotted out his past proud stance of scientist and medic with black ink.

While Flatline took a calculative effort to not be noticed, he did take time to try to notice others around him. Red optics would flick and glance between the mech and femmes that chose to attend, trying to judge if it was out of obligation, dedication, or of fear. He also took note of who was missing, Thundercracker absent entirely which didn’t help in his alienated feelings. Of those who did show their faces, he could see who he had conflicts with in the past, as well as those he only saw in passing as they got themselves logged in under the medical records and Knock Out's care.

The taupe and purple of a psychopath that had no control of his mental stability... The black and red of a disgusting Seeker that didn't know his place... Dust coated black and gray of a skittish femme who seemed to avoid getting a weakness amended... A red figure that was the first person seen on this horrible world that helped him even make a start... Muted blue and white encapsulating a monstrous beast that needed to be muzzled... And the grey and taupe of a femme that likely translated this entire event improperly...

Yet, noting others was but a mere side effect of Flatline's real goal.

Which was trying to look for Knock Out.

The mech was not one to fold into the crowd in any way. Even if he was smashed between others, his brilliant red would be visible in some form or another, or a snort of complaint could be heard in the relative silence as he pushed someone aside that may be getting too close to his paint job. With his rank as CMO, there was even a chance he should be up front more. Not on par with Starscream and Soundwave of course, but certainly not folded into the rank and rabble of the mere 'commoners'. Yet... he wasn't present.

Why would he miss something so incredibly vital? The mech made a habit of skimping out on his chores to go drive around and play stupid games with humanity on backstreet races, yet this wasn’t simply slacking off to let Flatline tend to the Medical Bay, this was a very important event. This absence was on a level that didn't irritate him, but more worried him as he wondered if something had gone wrong, or if the mech truly was so delusional he thought himself above consequences.

Should he be coming up with excuses for Knock Out? He could say there was an incident in the mines that had to be tended too lest they lose workers that couldn't be replaced... Maybe he got stranded somewhere and physically was unable to show up because he was in an area that got poor reception and he couldn't call for a Bridge... Would it be worth the risk to lie on the mech's behalf to save him punishment? Would it release them both from repercussions or land them both beneath a silver sword?...

Long fingers curled tightly on the top of a silver pipe cane, the grasp trembling as he held onto it like a lifeline while their Warlord started to speak, his words overtaking the room in power and strength.

As Megatron relayed his intentions and rallied for their upcoming suffering, Flatline did not look up at him, scared to make eye contact which could show any level of confrontation. At most, he would glance up no higher than a collar plate, belittling himself to not even being worthy of seeing the mech's face. He still feared repercussions. Fearing what may come from his actions. Starscream had punished him, yet he didn't feel like that had been enough. A warship for arms that were not required for day to day life was not a fair exchange. Would Megatron seek a more equal transaction?

When the Nemesis was brought up verbally, Flatline's helm would turn down further and cast his gaze aside, his optics pinning closed as if bracing under the thunderous words of the silver icon. The panels on his back were pulled flush smooth, while his narrow legs began to shake faintly. The damaged limb dipped occasionally the longer Megatron spoke, threatening to buckle under his stress and building anxieties. It was only by the grace of his cane that he endured, it the only thing keeping him aloft, as he couldn’t even try to use Knock Out as some sort of mental stability to see if he was scared as well or not.

The war was about to take on a violent surge forward...

Retribution and death may be coming upon him in the coming hours or days...


And the only person on this planet he had as a friend was missing.

[Ren]

One hundred and seventy three.

That’s how many weird bumps and small crevices QLC-972 could count in the area of rock wall that lay opposite a hollowed out ‘cave’. He’d counted it a few times now, during guard duty this past week, and yep - one hundred and seventy three.

That was a good number.

The gentle, buzz-like hum of a field behind him had become nothing more than an ambiance he had grown used to, broken up occasionally by the distant - very distant - sounds of machinery and mining from somewhere within the depths.

Guard duty wasn’t for everyone, and while he had agreed to it (because as if he could say no to Soundwave), he didn’t realize just how quiet and mindless it would be. Even with the occasional shift change so he could recharge, it was almost soul-destroying - and he wasn’t the one locked away.

It wasn’t lonely though, far from! Even if Flatline’s visits had been awkward, with the other mech ignoring his cheery ‘hello!’ every single time and then ordering him around, he’d found conversation with Patch.

Those first few days had been a little quiet, with understandably stifled words and snapped responses that made him regret talking at all, but eventually the conversation had flowed. The subjects hadn’t been about anything important, no request for details such as where the elusive Autobot base was located - instead, things to try and keep Patch’s spirits high. Silly things like talking about TV shows, or what the coolest thing they’d seen so far on Earth was.

It was in the middle of one of these conversations that the order arrived. The signal blocker had been reconfigured to contain only the area that held Patch, yet despite this he still flinched at the sudden and unexpected ping. Shift change wasn’t for a few hours yet, he thought, unless time had gotten away from him.

It was hard to tell down here.

While his posture had been proper and what was expected of him, with no fidgeting or leaning against the wall - assuming that Soundwave was watching - he stood up a little straighter at hearing the words of Megatron, as if standing at attention. That was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long, long time and ah, how he wished he was there to see him in person!

He listened carefully, taking in each word. It was inspiring, and filled him with a strange sense of hope that he hadn’t felt in a while. Though with it came a pang of… guilt, almost. He’d spent days with Patch, getting to know her, talking and even laughing at times - and while they probably weren’t friends as if the circumstances were different they’d be at each other's throats, he liked her. She was nice, and had been the first time they’d ever chatted, too. He hadn’t forgotten that. Even with him hanging up on her, and Soundwave looming over his shoulder to bridge her a little higher than necessary, she’d been nice.

It was hard to remember sometimes that they were at war, though the voice of their Warlord was quick to remind.

While he had been listening in silence, this quiet seemed to weigh heavy and linger once Megatron had finished speaking. A second, then another - he snapped back into the moment, continuing the conversation he’d been having with Patch, excusing his momentary lapse for mulling too hard over the answer to a question.

Megatron was back, and with it came an odd feeling that Q couldn’t quite work out.

[Cintra]

Today was a special day.

Meetings for mission briefings or other such things were simply something that happened in any army or organization out there. Laying out the next battle plans, or trying to rally the troops and send them off to who knows where... However, this gathering was special. It wasn't the normal rabble of chatting amongst themselves offering input and asking questions, or really, being able to offer any words at all. This was a declaration, an overarching command of fact rather than group brainstorming. It was something that unified them all under a singular order. Most of all however...

It was the first time Cintra had seen Megatron in person up close.

She had placed the mech upon a high pedestal in her mind, one that dwarfed the one he stood on now. He wasn’t just a leader figure of the Decepticons, he was THE Decepticons manifested in a physical form that made the movement what it was. Rallies, video declarations and audio commands... they only went as far as they could, the mech always some distance away where she would sit on Flux's shoulders just to even hope to get a glimpse. A flash of silver, booming out words that made so much sense to her, details only seen on screens so she could get an inkling of expression and physical motions.

Cintra idolized him, and in extension she idolized Starscream and Soundwave as well. They were two mech that stood closest to him literally and metaphorically that helped rule their army and acted on his behalf to further his goals. They were always there as far as she knew. Starscream the tactical figurehead that commanded an aerial army of great force and deft skill, while Soundwave's reputation burned strong as a shadowed figure that kept the less... inspired... soldiers in line.

She would need no inspiration, and threats did not concern her for she would have done whatever it was anyway without question. Megatron could have overtly declared he would shoot out the spark of anyone who so much as hesitated a second to think over his command, and she would not be concerned in the slightest. Yet, it seemed others required such motivation to propel their loyalty.

"No doubt there will be those among you who question my resolve in light of my recent absences"

They were fools. Absolute fools if they thought in such a way. If Megatron left an hour after this gathering to vanish once again? It was done for a reason and to question it should result in their heads being cut off and used as a baseball. This irritation briefly flicked across Cintra's frame, the tendril that extruded from the back of her helm and shoulders making an idle sharp flick of a jitter before falling still.

The pink femme arguably got one of the best views of the group despite her shorter stature. She didn't need to try to fight for a position in the front where she'd be hooking her neck up to try to see clearly, nor would she be so far back to see over the others that the immense mech became a smear of grey. No. She was sitting upon Flux's shoulder, lofted high up where her legs tucked up under herself, her left hand planted down upon his plating in a light touch. She was not gripping, trusting the other Cybertronian to be steady and not turn or move abruptly, so that she could finally look the other mech head on with a sort of focus and zeal.

Determination. She need only be pointed where to go and she would do her best to accomplish what was asked of her, guiding Flux along with a soft pull and grin to remind him what direction they were going.

She hungered to show what she could do, not offering anyone else in the room a single glance, for they were not worth her time when their Lord took stage front and center.

[Flux]

Nestled among the group of gathered Decepticons, Flux had made a point of standing somewhere within the middle. He could see perfectly fine, though had opted not to stand at the front of the pack - both because he held no rank and so was not really deserving of such a place, but also because he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself.

Of course, not drawing attention was practically impossible, given who was sat on his shoulder. The tiny, brightly colored femme standing out like a beacon against the more darker and muted tones of the myriad of Decepticons and Flux himself. When the order had come in to gather in the Assembly Hall, Cintra had made certain that the pair would be there. He’d - at first, anyway - wanted to stand slightly further back, but he wasn’t about to say no to Cintra and deny her what was probably a perfect view of their Warlord.

He’d seen Megatron before, though never this close. Back on Cybertron he’d been among the masses that gathered to hear him speak. While these days he could not recall much of his day to day, he could remember the speeches from back then - the almost contagious, collective excitement of the gathered crowds would be something he’d never forget.

This was a little different. The crowd smaller, though even in its intimacy the Triplechanger felt the same emotion he did back then at hearing Megatron - their Lord - speak.

Excitement. Hope. 

Ah. This was different indeed - and the more that Megatron spoke, the more Flux found himself… almost questioning the words spoken. That emotion felt familiar, yet slightly off at the same time. He did not know what the Hymn was, though given its mention he deemed it to be something important.

Hymn.

Cintra would no doubt fill him in on the details later, and as such he was not worried that the word was lost on him. He watched, listening intently to each and every word - servos curling into gentle fists. Not out of anger, but determination. His dedication to the cause was absolute, and the mention of dire consequences for Decepticons who acted against them did little to shake his resolve.

Megatron had returned, and they could only go forward from here.

[Breakdown]

Breakdown didn't attend the meeting- he was busying himself in the medibay and exposing himself to the masses probably wasn't the best of things at the moment. Everyone would be scrambling to get in Megatron's good graces and ensure they knew they were the best choice when it came to any sort of offered ranks should there be a need for a right hand man or the lead on a mission.

The bruiser was happy where he was, thanks. Not that he would get there in time for any real spot to see anything since he'd probably be pushed to the back like usual. At least in this familiar-ish room was he found solace and comfort.

Though as the rest of the little fleet tuned in to listen to the words of their Leader, Breakdown only paid mind with half of an audial. He kept his thoughts to himself as he moved things around, placing other items where they belonged, and otherwise tidied things up. Of course these were the words of their Mighty Lord Megatron, and honestly? It was the same old song and dance that he found less than impressive.

Frankly, he was more concerned about another matter, and his single optic whirred as he narrowed it. The more time that passed, the more uncomfortable he became, until he entirely tuned out what was being said to pay more attention to what he deemed far more important- Megatron be damned. Something else was giving him reason for pause as he looked around while collecting his thoughts on what he had shifted his full gears to.

Where was Knock Out? Surely he wouldn't miss out on one of these boring protocol meetings at risk of getting his varnish scratched...

He turned to leave the little cavern and tuned his comms to a private channel.

:: Knock Out? Hey, where are you? ::