Tag: fanfic

Rise | Kemmasandi

book0fhours:

At the end of the Golden Age, the data archivist Orion Pax is not alone in harbouring doubt in Cybertron’s future. Inspired by the revolutionary fervour of the gladiator, Megatronus, Orion seeks him out; and thus begins a relationship that will eventually bring Cybertron to its knees.

In which Orion continues his self-discovery and Soundwave’s skeletons start falling out of the cupboard. Also, Jazz.

Enceladion next chapter, I promise.

Rise | Kemmasandi

Suddenly a drabble

darklordofcutlets:

English is not my first language, blah-blah-blah.

* * *

Optimus stops Ratchet with a frown when the medic offers to cut Soundwave open; they are Autobots, and although they are desperate, Optimus doesn’t want to condone this, an action fitting a Decepticon. 

“Soundwave”, he speaks quiety, “I do not wish to apply such drastic measures, but you’re leaving us no choice. Are you really that loyal to your cause?“ 

There is tired annoyance in his voice; he has never understood how could anyone be loyal to such a devastating and ruinous cause, and he has never understood Soundwave, who was most unnerving in his silent stubborness. 

Soundwave lifts his head a little, so that his blank visor faces Optimus, and there is a voice – the Autobot’s own voice, but higher and younger, filled with hope and joy Optimus has long forgotten, a little cracking because the recording is old, so old…

"Unlike you”, Orion Pax says. 

And Optimus strikes.

Lost Light Fest Day 12:  Past of Megatron

darklordofcutlets:

decepticonsensual:

“Our team’s up after the next bout.  Ya ready?”

“I hardly think -” Megatron began.

Rumble shook his head.  “Not sure that’s your problem, Boss, if
you don’t mind me sayin’.  Your problem is, you think too much.
It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”  And he strolled off to find his
brother, leaving Megatron sitting on a makeshift bench below an
illegal fighting pit, staring at his hands and wondering whether he
could really do this.  True, when he’d smashed his fist into that
Senate enforcer and felt plating buckle beneath his fingers, felt the
warmth of living fuel spatter over his face, it seemed to awaken
something in him; but to take on a lackey of the Senate in the heat
of the moment was one thing.  To walk calmly into a gladiatorial
arena and hurt a complete stranger, possibly kill him – that was
something else.

In the tense quiet, Megatron could hear someone humming.  Then
singing, very softly:

Rain fall sharp, and the mist rise cold,

And the foreman come down for his purple gold,

He’ll take it from your cart, or he’ll take it from your
lines,

Or he’ll take it from your spark, ’cause you’re married to
the mines.

Megatron rose without really meaning to, and followed the sound until
he stood over a spindly bot with a drill arm that reminded him, for a
painful moment, of Impactor.  “Where were you a miner?” Megatron
murmured.

The bot started.  “Uh – Luna-2.  Before the energon started
drying up.  You?”

“Messatine.  Much the same.”  He sat down a little ways down the
bench, giving the stranger some space.  “We had the same song.
Only… some of us came up with a variation, on the chorus.”

“Yeah?”  The bot seemed grateful for the distraction, and turned
towards Megatron.  “You remember it?”

“Oh yes.”  Megatron hummed deep in his throat, finding his pitch.
Then, in a voice a little rusted with disuse, he began to sing.

Rain fall sharp, and the moon rise blue,

No purple gold without me and you,

Take your axe, take your hammer, meet the foreman at the door,

Tell him we ain’t married to the mines no more!

The song began in silence, but by the time Megatron was halfway
through, there were a few mutters, here and there; whispers of,
“Mmm-hmm,” or, “Right on,” though their owners kept their
faces turned away.  By the third line, a few smiles were breaking
out, and when Megatron finished, he lifted his head to find half the
room looking at him, grins on their faces.

“Sing it again, miner,” someone called.

Megatron obliged, and this time, a few other voices joined in.  The
third time, most of the bots in the room were singing, and the rest
were stamping along with the beat; and when Megatron roared out,
“Take your axe, take your hammer, meet the SENATE at the door!”
cheers broke out.

The whole crowd chorused back, “Tell
’em we ain’t married to the mines no more!”

“Boss?”

Megatron turned.  Rumble was grinning in the doorway, but all he said
was, “We’re up.”

“Hey, miner!” a voice shouted after him as Megatron turned to
leave.  “What’s your name?”

“Megatron.”  And with that, Megatron of Tarn entered the arena
for his very first gladiatorial match.

He didn’t say, “With an R.”  He didn’t say, “As in
neutron.”  But for once, he didn’t have to, because no one got it
wrong.  When he won, the waiting fighters started chanting, and the
audience took it up in turn:  “Meg-a-tron!  Meg-a-tron!”

And Megatron – always thinking – began to see the shape of
something forming, in the faces and the voices and the fuel-slick
sands beneath his feet.

I love this. And the songs are beautiful!

Megatron/Ratchet IDW? :D

decepticonsensual:

(Thanks for playing! 🙂  NB – this anon also contacted me again and requested that I add the prompt “medical care”.  Hope you like the result!  Warning for mild gore in a clinical context.  Pre-war, set around the same time as Megatron Origins.)

The blindfold was whipped off, and Ratchet blinked, trying to get his optics to adjust to the darkness.  He could make out hulking shapes clustered around him, and here and there, dimly glowing slivers of red, blue, and yellow indicated mecha watching him from the shadows.

“Found ya a medic, just like ya asked for, Boss,” said a voice from somewhere behind him.  Close to floor level, it sounded like.

A shadow shifted in front of him, and resolved into a massive silver bot peering down into Ratchet’s face.  ”You are a doctor?” he rumbled.  Ratchet nodded curtly, biting down on his fear.  He’d been in a few nasty situations in the Dead End, mostly trying to get between the circuit speeder dealers and his strung-out patients, and he’d survived that.  He could survive this.  He could.

The silver mech tilted his head towards the back of the room.  It was an oddly graceful gesture.  ”We have wounded.  Come.”

“Do I get to learn who my patients are?” Ratchet asked, already standing up and taking his medical kit out of subspace.

“They are my followers.  They are of great importance to me.”

“And you are…?”

“The mech who will be removing your spark with his denta if you fail.”  His voice was as even as if he’d been commenting on the weather.  Ratchet didn’t quite manage to suppress his shiver.

There turned out to be three wounded mecha:  a minibot who just needed an injection to stabilise his spark after receiving some kind of massive electric shock (like running afoul of an electrified security system?  Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to know); a seeker with a near-shredded wing, but who was stable and awake enough to snark at him up until Ratchet put him under; and a yellow grounder whose chest and abdominal plating was mangled horrifically, and who graced Ratchet with a cocky smile and a soft, “Watch the paintjob, eh, Doc?” before passing out.  It took two hours to make certain they wouldn’t lose him, and another four to patch him up to the point where self-repair could take over.  Ratchet was nearly dead on his feet by the time he finished with all three of them.

Turning to his host, who had been watching impassively with his arms folded for the last hour, he snapped, “And now your arm.”

“What?”

“You’re hurt.  I noticed you favouring it as we came in.”

The mech glared for a moment; then, slowly, he extended one arm.  A meagre patch job and a haphazard lick of silver paint hid what was, once Ratchet got them peeled off, a particularly ugly gash.  Clucking, he said, “You’re lucky you don’t have the beginnings of a rust infection.  I get that you don’t want it seen, but next time, bathe it in a nanite solution before you wrap it – I can get you some from the clinic.”

“Your generosity to the mech who kidnapped you borders on suspicious.”

“Yeah, the guy who had his minions grab me in broad daylight and take me to a secret lair to treat battle wounds really has grounds to call me suspicious.”  He knew he should regret saying it, but somewhere around the fifth hour of surgery, the fear had burned off, replaced by exhaustion and worry.  Worry over every patient, from the kid with the torn-open plating to the mystery mech whose arm he was piecing back together.

To Ratchet’s surprise, his current patient said nothing more, until the repair was done.  Then he caught Ratchet’s retreating hand in his larger one, and turned it palm up, examining it minutely.

“You have a gentle touch, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why they pay me the big shanix.”  Ratchet’s mouth went dry, watching the mech turn his hand delicately this way and that.

“I did not mean it as a compliment.  I do not require coddling, like a fretful newspark.”  He had a gentleness of his own, though, in the careful way he folded Ratchet’s fingers over his palm and released his hand.  "However, you are skilled.  You have my gratitude.“  For the first time since they’d met, the silver mech smiled, flashing bright, sharp denta.  "You may find that a valuable commodity in the time to come.”

Hello! If you’re still accepting Prompts could I request Transformers Animated Strika x Megatron x Optimus Prime please? *Digs self underneath pile of trash*

fierceawakening:

decepticonsensual:

(*peeks under pile of trash*  You’re fine!  Come on out of there and have a fic. :))

Megatron’s General towered over him almost as much as he himself did over Optimus, and yet the warlord never looked the slightest bit intimidated, lounging in Strika’s lap as if it were a throne, his wicked grin discreetly half-hidden by the glass of vintage highgrade he was sipping.  Optimus watched them from where he knelt on the floor, his head pillowed lazily against Strika’s thigh and Megatron’s fingers caressing his helm almost lovingly.

“My loyal soldier,” Megatron purred, setting Strika’s engines rumbling, “and my clever little Autobot pet.”

“I have a name,” Optimus protested, then broke off, flushing hot; Megatron’s dark, gravelly voice had made his fans kick on audibly, causing the Decepticon leader’s smile to widen even further.

“Of course you do,” he murmured as he curled a finger and tilted the Autobot’s chin up, running his thumb over those plush lips, “Optimus Prime.”

I did not know I needed this in my life and then it existed and filled a void.

First World War AU, Megatron/Ratchet

decepticonsensual:

When the Great War is consigned to history, Medic Ratchet thinks to himself, they had better tell the story of this night, too – of a night of stillness and frost, gaggles of boys barely more than children playing football in their contrasting uniforms in No Man’s Land, of the night when we all remembered we were human before we went back to turning each other into sausage meat.

He starts a little as the big, grey-haired sergeant in enemy colours settles in next to him, then relaxes and accepts a cigarette, and offers a swig of brandy in return; there’s a little schoolboy French on one side and some scraps of workaday German on the other, enough to bridge the barrier, enough that Ratchet understands when the sergeant sighs and reflects, “The charade seems cruel, does it not – if you would try to kill us, then do it, do not taunt us by playing at friendship.”

Ratchet bristles, but the sergeant’s voice is so unutterably weary that he finds himself softening, and only replies, “Perhaps the rest is the charade, and this is real.”

Drabble meme: TFP Megop with a twist- OP is a benevolent Eldritch Abomination who watches over and protects Cybertron from even more nightmarish forces.

decepticonsensual:

When Megatron first said, “I don’t fear you,” he meant it as defiance, and he was unprepared for the sheer delight, the sheer longing, that emanated from the being in front of him, ploughing into Megatron’s EM field like a physical wave.

“What do they call you?” he murmurs now, much later, his claw-tips gently stroking a tendril of dark matter that is there and not there; the being doesn’t speak, but an idea presents itself in the forefront of his mind:  I Am First And Best, and Megatron would scoff, were it not for the sadness that accompanies the words, as if they are a burden rather than an honour.

“I will call you something new, more befitting a protector rather than an emperor,” Megatron muses, then offers, “What about Hunter of Peace – Orion Pax, in the old tongue?” and the dark void, so black it gleams with a kind of reverse light, settles happily against his frame, and tangles its essence around him.