[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]We Who Remain [Blitzwing]

[Megatron]

Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 5 | Closed

In the Steens Mountains, at Blackridge Hold, south of the northern exit, beyond the tunnel feeding into the outside world, there is a cavernous room lined with thin flakes of mica — shaped from igneous and metamorphic minerals through centuries of geothermal activity — and equipped with the late-stage cybernetic technology of a declining alien species older than life on Earth. Across the room, two Vehicon soldiers discuss the stress of everyday life. One shares a small portion of their rations with the other and they soon depart, silver soles tapping against vague metal plates lining the floor. On their way out, they pass the goliathan shape of their leader and are briefly frozen in fear. — Their legs hurry them out quickly the rest of the way.

Megatron entered the control room with a heavy stride, drowning out the fading footfalls of the departing guards. He looked around, mica stars reflecting the light onto his features in just such a way as to accentuate his scars. — He seemed to be putting on a patient face. Safe for the rough texture of his features, he looked no different than he did in war-time propaganda posters or photographed on the back side of his authored texts in a small, luminescent frame with an authentic rub-sign. — No different, indeed, than on the day he had last met all of his surviving generals to issue orders during The Exodus. He was a relic of everything that came before then and everything that would come after.

The same could not be said of the individual for whom he was waiting. That particular Decepticon was present at that half-forgotten war council and the ensuing battle, though they have parted ways after the Nemesis left Cybertron shortly thereafter. — The medical report came to him a few brisk cycles before their fateful separation. An urgent message from one med-bay or another about a general suffering some form of "extensive cranial trauma" which resulted in "permanent processor damage to the emotional regulation center." — A sordid affair of which Megatron himself held only little recollection. The scope of that particular report paled next to the emergency plans he had to enact during the final days of Cybertron.

Put simply, it did not matter.

The fact that this selfsame general was now on Earth, however, -made- it matter. Blitzwing was — despite all odds — one of the last surviving members of Megatron's once-extensive command structure. It made him an irreplaceable asset and the warlord wished to employ it. — Moving over to a command table, the old Decepticon whiled away the last remaining moments of solitude with vague reminiscence and in bitter contemplation of the future.

It is the era of the civil war. Ten Decepticon commanders gather around a rectangular table displaying the strategies for what would later become known as some of the worst atrocities committed in the history of their entire species. — Alongside pipe dream plans for breaking the stalemate at Praxus, offensives at Toraxxis and the Koriolis Desert feature dominantly on the schematics. Scattered datapads and half-full glasses of Energon litter the table. — Megatron is seated in a tall brutalist chair at the far end, Soundwave looms to his right side and Starscream hunches to the left. Blitzwing is present alongside half a dozen other Decepticons of note. — Tomorrow, he will be leaving for Toraxxis with his Aggressor Division.

They will never meet like this again.

It was still early into the morning. Megatron stood at the head of a rectangular table displaying a list of malcontents. His arms remained looped behind his back as he perused the roster. No plans for world domination were to be found among the readouts. A half-empty glass of Energon awaited him back in his personal quarters once the day was over.

He was alone.

[Blitzwing]

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

The weight of glorious purpose sat heavily upon the Triorian's broad, weapon-bearing shoulders. For however long it had been since the final days of Cybertron, the General had been bereft of his true purpose, or any that might come close to being as personally fulfilling. While another might have found something to occupy their time when robbed of their duties, he could not. His energy and industry were devoted to his work with laser-sharp focus, and a conviction that put the very stars to shame. No amount of dysregulation could quiet the question that swam within Blitzwing at all hours of every day, of every week, of every cycle.

"When shall my work resume?"

The volume and cadence with which he frequently questioned himself was quite variegated, just as he himself now was. Three voices, three volumes, but one ultimate will that governed them all. Today however, he prayed, the question within his spark would find its answer.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

In spite of the unique... "difficulties" his current mental predicament afforded him, Blitzwing could only pity the creature he had spawned from. So loud. So unrefined. So afraid of expressing himself. There was no desire to return to what once was. To wish for what was now gone was wholly unrealistic, and ultimately self-defeating. He had chosen long ago to move forward with it, and not to fight against it. It was the only way a mech such as himself could achieve some semblance of peace when abruptly confronted with a new and terrifying mode of existence.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

This was certainly not his old war room, nor was it his old bunker either. It was a hole. A pit. A thing carved out of dirt and rock by desperate and frantic servos. Blitzwing didn't blame the poor thing of dirt and rock, however. That would have been exceptionally rude of him to demean an entity that could not choose its shape or nature. It was the Decepticons who were desperate, having lost so much already, with the loss of the Nemesis and Megatron's absence compounding their issues.

Blitzwing was up to date on the details of the front, by now. Immediately upon entering Blackridge he had devoted himself entirely to poring over every document and article of information he could get his servos on. Troop inspections, supply requests, after action reports, anonymously filed grievance forms that spoke of problems that were damningly unique to Vehicons; the General processed it all. Someone else would have considered the labor the very definition of monotony. Not Blitzwing, despite his aversion to slow, dull rhythm. So long as there was purpose for him, nothing was monotonous.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

At last, he had come upon the doors to the control room.

Thump.

Swish...

With his sheer size and atmosphere of presence, and despite the fact that he was standing still, Blitzwing naturally exploded into the room beyond. There was no finer image of a war-forged mech, largely in part due to the fact that most other war-forged mechs could not turn into a tank and a jet. Visually speaking, the Triorian had not changed in the slightest since the days of the war. He was large, bulky, and mean-looking. Carbon scoring ringed the rims of his weapons' muzzles, testaments to their massive quantities of use in wartime. Hopefully, they would see use again very soon.

But of course, there was Megatron.

A thrum of delight danced through Blitzwing's chest as his optics fell upon his Liege, as if all worries had been emptied out of him through a surgical incision. Apart from that, he had cleared his mind of all errant and distracting thoughts. Blitzwing took a single step out of the door frame, and promptly bent his knee in deference of his Lord. His helm low, one arm folded across his chest, the other behind his back, he knew his questions would soon be answered.

"Lord Megatron."

[Megatron]

Megatron turned his head towards the approaching footsteps, crimson eyes meeting the other's for a brief while as if though they greeted an old friend. — The Warlord rarely seemed this calm and reserved. Even the way his body adjusted for the turn was rather fluid. Those were not the rigid, violent movements of a maniac tyrant, but the competent, firm manner of a leader. For now, he has been given no cause to present as the former and so he would remain the latter.

With the selfsame demeanor, he addressed the Decepticon in his presence: "Blitzwing... Welcome," he spoke plainly and without malice, "There is no need to kneel. Come. Join me at the table. You have earned the right long ago."

He extended a beckoning hand towards Blitzwing like he had done so many times in ages past. Only, things were quite different on this morning. Megatron has heard things, remembered reports and rumors, and he suspected that Blitzwing may have as well, and so it was not exactly the same gesture of invitation as all those years before. The chasm between them had grown many miles wide and many years long. Though there was no trepidation in his voice, there was an aftertaste of urgency, a lick of command to spice up the stillness. — Megatron was not inviting Blitzwing, he was ordering him in gentler terms.

With that, he would turn back towards the table, waiting for Blitzwing to do as he was told.

Ten in the past.

Two in the present.

How many in the future? He wondered.

[Blitzwing]

No need, but yet a desire.

His Lord was too kind.

With a proud thrum in his spark chamber, the battle-tested frame rose to its full height. As he stepped forward at his master's insistence, Blitzwing's optics fed him a detailed analysis of what to expect. Though the level of their personal interaction had never exceeded that of superior and subordinate, he had been able to manage a rough approximation of Megatron's moods, having seen them fluctuate wildly during war meetings.

He was calm, cordial even, but the old general spied the truth from behind the veneer of kindly wartime statesman. This was no social affair, though Blitzwing did not need to think long or hard to surmise that. Still, Megatron was attempting to portray a similar warmth -- his command, disguised. To disarm? Impossible. Blitzwing had too many arms to be dissed.

Several steps forward. No defiance in Blitzwing's optics.

For two special reasons, there was nothing to fear at the moment. One, he was not the air commander. Two, Megatron had a crucial task for him. But also, this was an assessment of his capabilities and capacity; only, this one was far less clinical than the ones he'd grown accustomed to.

"Words cannot describe my jubilation at this moment, Lord Megatron..." Blitzwing's vocoder rang, oddly enough with a distinct lack of joy, spitting out words in his restrained demeanor. Quite formal, in other words. But now, he had taken his place at the table, opposite Megatron. The old soldier stood at rest, arms folded behind his waist. "Had it not been for a swirl of rumors in the galactic community, I daresay my return to service would have been regrettably delayed."

[Megatron]

Blitzwing assessed correctly that this was no social call in spite of Megatron paying appropriate respects to one of his most prized generals. Disregarding the circumstances, he did engage in a bit of banter... or what passed for it among two warriors such as they.

"Then it is fortunate that the rumors turned out to be true," he replied at once, his hands returning to the cold comfort of the mission table upon which he monitored the activities of his vast, albeit significantly reduced, Decepticon host here on Earth. In the same breath as he spoke to Blitzwing, his mind idled on a constant chain of supplies, the immense consumption of Energon, and the status of their troops. He had middleman to do such things, yet he came to distrust them as of late and his control over the Decepticons came to be a rather more... direct... occupation. Had it not been for Soundwave, he would have no one in this world left to trust.

And yet—perhaps Blitzwing was someone he could saddle with such matters. As long as it has been, he was ever a loyal and stalwart member of the armada.

But rumors did not swirl only in the galactic community.

"However, I have heard tell of curious matters as well. Tell me, Blitzwing, is it true that you sustained damage to your processor ere we fled the dying trappings of Cybertron?"

There was concern in his words, feeding clearly through the rough monotone of his voice. Blitzwing could certainly recognize it. It was passionless and strictly professional. The kind of concern Megatron had over the success of his commanders' missions. This was where he stopped playing the social contract on Blitzwing's terms and enforced more thoroughly his role as a leader.

Such a voice came with expectations of truth and honesty.

[Blitzwing]

He remembered.

The complete upending of his psychological world and subsequent override of his entire future had taken less than an instant. Despite the damage inflicted upon his mind and body, Blitzwing recalled the short quantity he was able to in almost perfect clarity, as though it had been burned into the back of his head like an overheated wire filament.

A war room, much like this one. Four of his officers ringed the diamond-shaped holo-display table, producing and analyzing logistics reports, enemy movement patterns, and deployment timetables. Naturally, Blitzwing had arrayed himself at the coveted head of the table, hunched forward as he silently ignored many of the more trivial reports. Instead, he had been thinking about the oxidation of his weapon muzzles. Many of his men had spoken highly of fully limb-integrated weapon systems, ones that he himself did not possess. His cannons were rightly feared, devastatingly powerful, but ultimately old. They were indicative of an older era, as their design had fallen out of favor when faced with the more modern, more modular weapon systems of the day.

Each time he had brushed up against the notion of upgrading them, he thought of their oxidation. The lovely ring of worn steel around each muzzle, separated from his form's paint with a chemical rainbow gradient. It was a sign of trust, of reliability, and of love. Blitzwing would maintain them with that love, though he would not replace them until his limbs oxidized around them.

The room shakes; power flickers. The air raid siren has not yet registered in the minds of any present in the command center. A gap in their air detection system cycle has been exploited, leaving them vulnerable to an unabated onslaught by over sixteen Autobot fliers, a not insignificant component of their total air power so late in the war. Their numbers would further decrease dramatically following this raid.

His initial thoughts are confident as panic begins to set in the rest of the room. The command center was sturdy. It had survived a war's worth of artillery fire, bombings, and raids. Of course, the large fuel silos that had been moved to this position to support the front line had not always been present. A proton bomb strikes one directly, incinerating its contents, before catching to the second, and then third. A cascade of death and fire rocks the forward operating base. Coupled with the havoc of fuel lines erupting, several bombs puncture and demolish the western wall, indicative that a quarter of the base has been all but flattened in no less than eight seconds.

The blast, the blast, rips through the command center as a flame devours paper. All those to Blitzwing's left, two officers and a repair technician, are killed immediately. The technician is least lucky. Her form wracked by the resultant shockwave, shattering every component in her body. If he had to guess, she must have unfortunately been alive for no more than three seconds following the detonation. His two left-most officers are reduced to fine particulate and thus granted a merciful, sudden death.

He does not recall the fate of the people to his right. Blitzwing was denied the opportunity to look and remember them. A small rogue chip of metal, no larger than two inches, shaped like a star, is suddenly upon him. It is not alone, however. Much the wall and left-most personnel are practically breaking orbit as they flee from the blast behind them. His form is peppered with shrapnel. Some of it deflects from the angle of his armored plates, other pieces embed.

One piece enters his left optic, destroying it immediately. It continues through his left hemispherical nexus, exiting as it bounces off of something hard and disagreeable to the back and left of the interior of his head, shattering the rear of his helm in its egress.

Blitzwing is now gone.

Two seconds have passed before he re-centered his optics upon Megatron. One of them glitched, twisting erratically for the briefest of moments. "Indeed." Honesty was always rewarded, at least. "My emotion processer. Many have likened the resulting behavior to split personalities." He detested such a base analysis. Blitzwing was no mere base creature any more, not after an injury like that. He was more, now.

"But I have always objected to that characterization. I prefer to view it as-

SOMEONE♫BROKE♫THE♫VOLUME♫SLIDERRRR!!!!"

Blitzwing's expression went wild with a witless grin. His arms outstretched as if released by a pressure seal, his digits arched into claws. He was not happy, despite his mirth. Ideally, Megatron should have learned about his condition from a different, sterile source. Here, he had an unobstructed observation of it.

[Megatron]

Megatron lifted a brow.

"You are not the first Decepticon I have seen like this. Your condition will be... tolerated... for the time being, but I shall command Shockwave and Placebo to assess it more thoroughly. If no satisfying recourse is found, it is not guaranteed that you will maintain your rank."

Though, back in the day, the usual modus operandi was to terminate such Decepticons by proxy, send them out into the front lines to die a gruesome and bloody death—or, among the less homicidal superiors, to reassign them into inoffensive positions where they could do no harm with their erratic behavior.

Blitzwing had to know this.

He had surely done so in the past with liable assets and he must have known on some level that this method had been first outlined by Megatron. The warlord was unlikely to have changed so much as to forget it. Under more favorable circumstances, perhaps he would have dealt with his mismatched general in just such a manner... And yet—he could not pick and choose like that anymore. There were no generals like him left here on Earth and Blitzwing had considerable expertise in leading troops that rivaled only his own and that of Starscream's. He, though damaged so severely, was a resource he could ill afford to squander.

He would have to work around it for the time being.

"Before we proceed any further, I must ask: Do you believe that you can hold onto your mind when duty commands it?"

When I command it, he thought. Clearly, Megatron's opinion of Blitzwing's "rebirth" was nowhere near as liberated or positive. Unlike the general, he had to consider every practical implication of what he'd become and could not rule out the possibility that Blitzwing may no longer be of sound mind for the kind of assignment he'd wished to impose upon him today.

A grave and grim expression sunk over his features.

This was not who he expected, not the Blitzwing he remembered—would he ever be again?

[Blitzwing]

Such a regrettable display. It would have been preferable to have blurted out in sheer rage, rather than whatever that was. The mech before him was not a pair of confused, mewling medical staff who had been abruptly introduced to his condition by sheer happenstance, however. This was Megatron, Lord of the Decepticons. It was more of an embarrassment here than a tool to off-balance his subordinates, Blitzwing knew. It was unfortunate for the moment. Luckily at least, Megatron seemed to be at best able to tolerate such foolery for the moment.

The order that he would be given regular medical treatment, or at the very least psychological evaluation, was actually quite heartening to Blitzwing. He, more than anyone else, did not wish for his condition to fester unobserved for however long it was until he fell in battle.

He straightened both his demeanor and his back, regaining a great deal of composure with what was practically the flip of a switch.

Cold, stoic, and observant Blitzwing returned, arms folded behind his back.

"I would be more than happy to sit for an assessment. I do not enjoy the volatility of my present condition, in fact." He wondered what Shockwave had gotten up to in his absence. He also wondered if Shockwave was alive. Blitzwing had delivered his response without any passion or innuendo, but there was truthfully a bit of an untruth there. He enjoyed his new resting demeanor far more than his old baseline. If he could keep that while doing away with all the rest, so much the better.

He nodded. "I will submit myself to whatever station you deem appropriate, Lord Megatron." No protest. So long as Blitzwing could crunch some skulls and shoot some gun, he would be happy as the lowliest of conscripts.

Then came a fun question. Blitzwing envisioned the future ahead of him, dipping his head for a moment. "My mind remains my own." A firm answer, yet detached like his baseline. "My manner of expression -- my volume, may change, but I remain what I have always been."

A soldier in your army. A general to your troops.

"I am the weapon, and you are the hand."

[Megatron]

"Then my doubts are fled."

For the moment, at least. Megatron allowed himself, for a grand total of a nano-click, to feel relief. It did not last and he resumed acting in pursuit of the reason he'd called Blitzwing here in the first place. He briefly returned his attention to the command table ahead, opening a case file that would soon grow to display across the entire monitor. Rows and rows of portraits—of commanders, of lieutenants, of specialists, of anyone that had a name. This was the Decepticon host as it once was. He touched roughly the surface of a digital button. The lines began to filter, to fade. Decepticon after Decepticon, line after line, disappearing. Dead, missing, unknown, deserted. The reasons were many, but ultimately, only a few lines were left behind.

A few portraits of those who remained.

It was Megatron's privilege to then see Blitzwing as one of the last entries. These were the ones who had survived the tragedy of their world, the ages of interstellar travel, and found their way here: those of them that were left to shape in the warlord's image. It was time to put his weapon to use, to ensure that the list would not grow any shorter, to secure their future.

"I suspect that it may be a disheartening reality to see the Decepticons so reduced, but if we are to reclaim our great work in these numbers, I would ask a favor of you."

He turned to Blitzwing once more, optics filled with a fiery determination. It did not falter over the centuries of struggle. Nay, it was brighter and wilder than before. Something in their time apart had changed in Megatron. He had felt the touch of a higher power, the strength of a god flowing through his veins, and it gave him what he needed to persevere in these dark times.

With gravitas, he continued: "Take charge of my troops, harden their resolve in my name. From among them, select the strongest, the most intelligent, and assemble a squadron of your own choosing."

As he spoke, Megatron moved closer towards Blitzwing, abandoning his position at the head of the command table, perhaps to make a point of the importance of this new appointment.

"If you succeed, if you prove that your condition will not endanger the cause, you will be there at the moment of victory—at my side—as the final Autobot spark goes out."

[Blitzwing]

Every moment in which Blitzwing could maintain some control over his 'volume slider' was a victory in and of itself, and this had been a tremendous victory. He dared not to muse over what might have happened had he blurted out something more obscene. But, Megatron was satisfied for the moment. If there was nothing else, he would at least take great solace in the fact. His rank had just momentarily been on the chopping block, of course.

The brightly-lit display on the table was a welcome distraction.

Blitzwing pressed a hand against the edge of the table, tracing his digits along the rim has he traversed a quarter-length around the table. His optics flitted from profile to profile. Just as a memory would begin to bubble to the surface, its corresponding holoportrait would flicker out. Again and again, Blitzwing attempted to pin a story or a memory to each face, yet for the most part the result was the same.

Decimation.

There wasn't a sentimental gasket left in his body, but his mind, and its penchant for logistics and statistics, was perfectly intact. He was less than enthused about their numbers. In addition to illustrating their dire predicament, Blitzwing took an additional message from the display.

Every shot from their weapons must hit like a bomb.

Every cut from their blades would need to spill an ocean of life.

Minimal numbers, maximum force.

Blitzwing took a mental snapshot of the table's lineup after the last portrait finally clicked off. The last of their non-Vehicon fighting force. He had already taken the liberty of perusing their active roster before attending his master's summons, but soon he would be visiting many of those names in person. His brain combed over the relevant facts as quick as it could. The only experience the Decepticons had of fighting a guerilla war was before they were a professional fighting force -- as in, when they were still a political one. They would need to adapt to these new harsh realities, but luckily they had a perfect model to emulate already.

Their plucky, daredevil adversaries: the Autobots.

A smile lit up the general's face as Megatron approached, carrying with him a renewed purpose. To be there, at the end? Nothing could possibly revitalize him in quite the same way. But, there were no words he could use to respond with. Not to that, not directly. The order was issued, and it would be followed.

No Starscreaming. He nodded firmly.

"In that case, I believe it may finally be time to resurrect an old unit."

Blitzwing added four names to a mental list.