Chapter Text
The dark green clouds were looming over the white towers of Iacon, their heavy bellies promising rain soon, an acidic downpour to scour the streets and reinvigorate the crystals growing in the parks. A wind rose up, rolling colder fumes around the buildings, smearing some of its dirt and soot on the whitewashed walls that it brought straight from the Kaon factories. The rain would wash it off soon, but for now, the usually spotless buildings were smeared with black and grey, their elaborate lines marred by the dirt.
The street itself was strewn with windblown trash too, the heaps of scrap-metal among the oil-puddles and some broken glass an unusual spectacle even at this part of the mighty capital of Cybertron. The houses on its sides were stark and utilitarian, a far cry from the magnificence of the inner city, where the tourists from many towns and planets marveled at the Senate, the High Temple or such spectacles. Mechs who lived here were neither rich nor influential enough to wander into the inner parts, they lived and worked amongst the docks, the spaceport and the other industrial parts that Iacon too sported, but never advertised. Most of them barely scraped by lately, since the prices started to rise and energon as well as housing became more and more expensive.
It was a long, slow process, lengthy even by the standards of mechs living for thousands of vorns, and as such, barely perceivable. The mechs living in the poorer parts of the mighty capital mostly believed it to be temporal, waited and hoped for things to become better again, Cybertron’s Golden Age reasserting itself, like it always did before. They trusted their Lord Prime and his Lord High Protector to lead them to better times again, as they’ve never before failed to bring wealth and peace to their planet, they, who were almost gods like Primus himself to every Cybertronian…
Except for one mech, huddling on a small stool in a dirty bar, holding the cube of cheap high-grade in his servo, knowing that it was the very last of his credits spent on it. The flames on the flashy paint were scratched and fading, and the vain mech absolutely abhorred to appear in such condition in public. But he had no choice. He no longer had credits for detailing, painting or just simply washing his frame. He no longer had a house in fact, since he was owing so much rent that his landlord had him forcibly thrown out earlier this light cycle…
…and he could call himself fortunate that the landlord was not one of the cruel ones, stripping him down for parts to cover the debt. Hot Rod had heard tales of such cases, illegal as they were, but happening nevertheless. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he was broke and no hope of getting any better. The last job he had, the one in the docks he was fired after only two orns, pretty much the same occurrence as the previous ones. Hot Rod knew that he should keep his vocalizer muted and his opinions to himself – but he couldn’t help himself. Criticizing everything and every mech might not be the attitude employers want, but it was what he did. Too bad.
Hot Rod snorted angrily and sipped a small mouthful of the high-grade. He grimaced a bit at the unrefined, crude taste – a vorn ago he wouldn’t have touched such a substance, much less drink it, carefully as it behooved to his last drink. How did he loose everything in such a short time? Mechs started to avoid him when his problems became known and he tried to scrape by, get new jobs and new loans to cover the previous ones. But friends soon proved to be unsympathetic after he’d borrowed so much and repaid nothing while banks closed their doors at his credit history. He slid down all the time, selling his trinkets, his furniture even, which wasn’t even his per se… and when nothing remained and no mech came to his aid he found himself on the street with only two credits in his otherwise empty subspace…
And he spent those on this icky cube, like so many of the last ones, so what? It wasn’t like he could do anything productive with them. His next stop would have to be the nearest charity stall, where every former colleague driving to work could see him queuing for a small cube of mid-grade whenever he could, starving slowly instead of a quick end… and frankly, Hot Rod didn’t think his pride could stand those glances or the prospect. Better then to simply drive out of the town far enough until his fuel lasted and let an acid rain come. Yeah, that would be an ignominious end, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of chances.
Drinking up the last of his high-grade, Hot Rod grimaced again at the taste and stood up, his desperation making the decision instead of common sense. He left without a backwards glance to the decrepit bar which he wouldn’t see again and the patrons didn’t care about his leaving either – destitute drunks are not friends, not when they compete for the same charity drips. Stepping outside he grimaced thinly at the towering clouds and the biting wind that already carried the smell of acid in the air – it was a fitting weather for his misery. The clouds further darkened the sky that was already leaning towards blackness of the dark cycle.
The group at the end of the alley was one that almost made him turn back. The bots standing at the corner were clean, well-maintained and wearing expensive paints and trinkets on their frame, all the latest fashion. He’d have to go by them, let them see how far he’s fallen and how dirty his once-shining paint was… and he even knew some of them by sight. Hot Rod tightened his servos into fists and fixed his optics on the main road traffic as he walked by the group. But he couldn’t help but flinch when the disdaining voices spoke up…
“Ugh, what a disgusting frame! I’d be deactivating myself if I looked that unkempt!”
“Hey, rust-bucket, keep to the slagheap where you belong! Don’t touch us or you’ll regret it!”
“Yeah, I can’t believe such mechs are allowed in the city!”
He walked slowly and tightly keeping himself in check out of the back alley, into the main road, transformed fast and melted into the traffic. He was trying to forget the words that hurt, that cut into his already nonexistent self-esteem. Driving was one of those things he enjoyed and excelled in – unfortunately never enough to become a racer, only trying himself on the roads of Iacon, speeding to outrace Enforcers and entering small, illegal contests that he always lost and which contributed heavily to the diminishing of his funds. But he wouldn’t race this time – he got caught enough times so that his next sentence would be a reformat to a stationary alt and that was a worse prospect than deactivation.
Hot Rod shook and wobbled on his tires even just at the thought before righting himself and blending into the flow of traffic. But at the next crossing he was forced to stop anyway; the Enforcers set up a barrier and told the commuters to transform to base form and pass the main road on pedes, to let a priestly procession pass unimpeded. The indicated detour led through a small park, its crystals glittering in the many bobbing headlights that passed them, the sight eerie in his tired and listless optics.
He parted from the long line of mechs trudging through the park, on their way to home, work, parties or such… he didn’t belong among them, not any more. Aimlessly wandering among the bare crystals and wrought iron statues with hungry optics, the flame-coloured mech once again lamented his chances – or rather the lack of them. No matter how hard he thought there was just no more favours he could ask, no more friends who would help and no way out of this downward spiral he’d fallen into. Staggering to a low bench he slumped onto it, burying his helm into his servos, moaning low in helpless despair.
But when a servo fell onto his shoulder guard, he acted as fast as long time ago, in a self-defense class he barely remembered any more. Catching the servo with his own, and pulling it, he threw the attacking mech over his shoulder… or rather he tried to, but the mech was standing as solidly as though he’d set roots into the gravelly ground and he’d only sprained his own wrist-joint in the effort. It was like trying to throw Cybertron itself, by the weight he felt and the strength in that servo.
In that taloned servo, he noted with dismay, the details standing out in his overworked processor with a clarity he hardly felt lately, freezing his tanks and making him swallow uneasily. Talons were bad, even he knew it. Barely any but the military class had them and they didn’t frequent Iacon often. Hot Rod himself hasn’t seen a military mech so far, unless an occasional speck of a Seeker in the sky counted. But certainly not from up close.
All these thoughts flashed across his processor while he jumped to his pedes and whirled to face his attacker, retreating at the same time. Desperate as he was and contemplating his own end even – but his frame and coding still acted with survival instincts, trying to escape from what he perceived as dangerous. The attacker didn’t follow him and Hot Rod’s lipplates slowly fell open and his processor froze in shock, hardly letting him to hear the rumbling deep voice from the huge mech…
“Apologies.” – the strong, deep voice held no tones of apology though, the flame-coloured mech dazedly noted, it was cultured and superficially polite but bristling with intent and self-assurance underneath, strength and dominance that he could not hope to match ever – “It wasn’t my intention to startle you.”
Hot Rod wanted to ask what then his intentions were by approaching a lone mech from behind in a deserted park, but by then the details of the mech became undeniable to his deeply shocked processor. The silver-black frame with the deep red accents, the huge, heavily armoured flight-frame that towered over him, the red optics that seemed to spear him with their frightening intensity… and those taloned servos that grabbed him and looked perfectly capable of ending his pitiful existence in a matter of kliks…
Hot Rod was almost embarrassed by the squeak that came out of his vocalizer, had he been able to gather enough courage to feel such a thing. The mech in front of him was… no, his processor whispered, it was flat out impossible... and oh Primus, he’d tried to throw him and what will he do to punish him, sweet Primus… he tried to answer and kneel and bow at the same time, not knowing what would make the Lord High Protector more lenient towards a dirty beggar, because yes, he admitted to himself that it was Lord Megatron himself standing there in front of him and Hot Rod couldn’t make an intelligible sound as he fell to his knee joints.
“No need for that little mech.” – the tone became a little impatient, but Hot Rod would take impatient any orn instead of angry – “I just wanted to ask you something. Stand up now, will you?”
Hot Rod scrambled to obey, because when the Lord High Protector ordered you to do something you obeyed first and only wondered later and in the secret of your mind what and why he wanted you that. Not that he’s ever met the mech, but there were… stories circulating around, rumours and tales about him that made him quake in his armour. Firmly locking his shaking knee-joints he rose silently and peered upwards into those smoldering optics that frankly gave him the creeps. A tiny thread of relief curled in his meta that the co-ruler of the planet didn’t look angry and didn’t look like wanting to punish him for the infraction he’d committed.
“S-sure, I mean y-yes of course, My L-lord! What-whatever you want to!”
The red optics flashed again with something that, in other mechs Hot Rod might have dared to label as amusement. It didn’t reassure him much in the context though.
What’s your designation little mech?”
"H-hot Rod, My Lord!”- he didn’t dare to allow the indignation for the adjective ‘little’ form in his processor, much less show it outwardly. He was little compared to the huge warframe, much as he didn’t want to think about it a lot.
“Mmmm… nice designation for a nice mech.”
If it wasn’t completely and utterly impossible, Hot Rod might have thought that the large mech’s voice held a deep purring as he said that. As it was he shook that inappropriate thought off and tried to think of something to answer that hopefully wouldn’t get him slagged, incarcerated or killed… like his usual brand of bad jokes have done before so many times. It would be suicide with this mech…
“I… thank you, My Lord…”
“You seem to have seen better times though.”
The penetrating gaze slid down his frame and Hot Rod blushed deeply and flinched, acutely aware of every scratch, dent and rusted patch on his formerly bright, stylish armour he used to be so proud of. It was awful to know how much his appearance has fallen, but it was pure agony to be brought up by a mech so far above him…
“I’ve… lost my job, My Lord, recently.”
“I see…” – the red optics became just a little more calculating, causing Hot Rod to nearly try and flee, a hopeless endeavor what it would be anyway – “Maybe you’d be amenable to my proposition then. It comes with a nice sum after all."
Hot Rod felt his knee-joints would just fold up despite the lock and his vocalizer seemed to be stuck. What could he mean…? What could the ruler of the planet want from him, a simple mech who was wanted by no mech else?
"W-what would that b-be? My Lord?”
"Why, can’t you guess?"
The tone was deep, smooth and this time distinctly purring with a hot, dark emotion smoldering underneath. Suddenly Hot Rod remembered another branch of tales about the Lord Protector and his brother, their pastime that involved mechs picked up on the streets... His own, blue optics widening impossibly he stared back at the mech, putting two and two together.
“I… uhh… an…interface…?”
Lord Megatron laughed easily, deeply and the sound rolled through Hot Rod with waves of exciting-arousing-frightening intensity.
“Not quite just one, if you know what I mean… but yes, that is what I… we want.” – his tone turned serious and he continued – “You aren’t obliged to agree though. We much prefer willing participants and you wouldn’t be harmed even if you decline.”
Hot Rod felt like in a dream. His fear spiked at the thought of interfacing with Lord Megatron of all mechs, but he couldn’t deny the allure of him either. Huge, dark, dangerous, the Lord High Protector wasn’t the kind of mech he’d ever imagined as a partner, but there was his magnetic draw, that deep thunder of a voice that shook him to his core… and hadn’t he entertained the notion of interfacing for credits before? In fact… what could he loose? Nothing, since he had nothing? He knew that he’d have to decide fast, for the Lord High Protector didn’t look a particularly patient mech.
Still, he almost didn’t believe the words that came out his vocalizer.
“Y-yes… I’d… do it. Umm. I mean… yeah, why not? I mean I’d be glad to!”
He was babbling, Hot Rod knew and should stop before he made himself look like a fool. Or was it already late for that? Anyhow, he was relieved to see that scarred lipplates draw to an easy smile, even with the pointed fangs flashing out in the meager lighting.
“Come on then, little mech. You’ll be told the details soon and if you don’t want to… you can still decline then."
Well. At least he’d see the Palace from the inside. Better than a deserted park in the coming acid rain, Hot Rod’s processor told him firmly.