Work Text:
Cyclonus wasn’t sure he liked how the day was going. Week, really, or even the entire month if he thought about it. Which he tried not to, because then he’d have to think about why he didn’t like it, and that was a tangled mess in a ticking box even a specialized bomb squad would sprint away from.
Put it this way: some days, asking Galvatron ”How are you?” could be a fatal offence. Cyclonus wasn’t quite to that point yet, but just in case? The Sweeps weren’t asking.
Why, precisely, was the day going…not badly, but not in a way that Cyclonus would prefer? There were the peace talks, for one thing. Peace talks with Autobots, as if the day weren’t surreal enough.
They had assembled on a theoretically-neutral planet famous for its rental halls (Available for any occasion! Insurance policies mandatory) and heavy orbital defense platforms. Also for its refreshment centers, which was why the Predacons had been confined to Chaar for the duration of this meeting. That decision had been filed in the category Back Up In Case of Autobot Trap, subdirectory Not Bloody Likely, cross-directed to the financial files under We’re Decepticons, Neither Stupid Nor Made of Money. Hun-Grr had still been sulking—and drooling over the menu—when the others left.
Red Alert had cheerfully informed Soundwave that they had bought the extended contract on their rented meeting place, guaranteeing that if (“When,” half the Decepticons had absent-mindedly said. The other half just looked resigned) Lord Galvatron blew up the first hall, they could immediately reconvene in a different hall. The construction business was a booming one on this planet. The Constructicons had drafted Swindle to check on whether the locals were interested in outsourcing.
So, yes, there had been explosions and yelling and screaming and, in the meantime, Cyclonus and Ultra Magnus actually met in the second hall. Rodimus Prime and Lord Galvatron finished their meet-n-greet pleasantries in the rubble of the first while the Decepticons stood around laying bets on the winner. Ultra Magnus looked insufferably smug as the other Autobots took the opportunity to nab the best seats at the peace table. Cyclonus fumed. He glared when Scourge guiltily wandered in, late-to-the-party backup. The Hunter had to evict some yellow minibot from a seat, as even the seats beside Cyclonus had been claimed by Autobots while the Decepticons were distracted by the show. Once the Hunter sat down, chairs shifted subtly until the two Decepticons were isolated even at a crowded table. By the time Soundwave finally came in (He’d been detained by an annoyingly efficient insurance drone with an alarming number of arms, each holding a separate datapad form that needed approximately 64 dotted lines filled out post-haste. Scourge had just been outside getting the odds and laying his money), it was quite obvious that the meeting had become two Unicronians against an entire table of peace-seeking Autobots.
Even odds, admittedly, but it was the principle of the thing. Cyclonus glared at Soundwave, too, but most of his ire remained directed at Scourge. The Hunter avoided meeting his optics, trying not to look chastised in front of the Autobots. One did not abandon one’s commander to place bets.
Well, not without cutting him in on the pot, anyway.
Cyclonus didn’t like the situation. Not one bit. He didn’t really get this ‘peace’ concept. He understood what a cease-fire was, because they were temporary agreements usually for survival or trickery or both. Pauses in the battle to regroup, more than anything. Peace was…different, and Cyclonus knew that. He understood that he didn’t understand what that difference truly was, and that was as far as his understanding went.
As it had been explained to him, peace seemed to be a long-term thing. The difference was more than the length of time, however. It also had to do with intent. The intent of a cease-fire was to deal with immediate, pressing issues and then return to fighting. Peace seemed to involve cooperation: construction, not destruction, and establishing instead of tearing down. Just the suggestion of peace had sparked wildfire conversation and research among the other Decepticons, and it seemed to involve them finding interests to pursue other than war.
Those words had all made sense individually, and then Swindle had actually said them in a sentence. They’d become very confusing at that point.
“Other interests,” Cyclonus had said cautiously, breaking the foreign sentence down into chunks he thought he could handle. “Such as…weapons dealing?” Weapons dealing was an obvious part of war. Cyclonus understood that. Supply and demand: Galvatron demanded and Cyclonus supplied, usually via the Constructicons or Swindle. Swindle had hesitated to agree, and Cyclonus had made another connection that made logical sense. “Mercenary work,” he’d suggested, and while it’d rested uneasily in his mind, there’d also been a sense of relief as he understood. The Decepticons could agree to a long-term cease-fire with the Autobots and turn their attention to conquering the rest of the universe!
Except it seemed that Cyclonus hadn’t guessed correctly. “Not exactly,” Swindle had drawn out slowly. “You know I sell things other than weapons, right?”
The businessmech had seemed genuinely curious of his answer, and Cyclonus had nodded with a wariness he usually only felt when Rodimus Prime smirked that peculiarly devious smirk at him across a battlefield. Acknowledging that look never led anywhere good, such as when it resulted in the Prime smacking Lord Galvatron on the aft before sprinting off trailing laughter and a murderous Decepticon tyrant. That had been one of the Decepticons’ least successful raids on Earth, as Cyclonus recalled. It’d been hard for them to fight Autobots when their glorious but single-minded leader was chasing a hooting Winnebago around in dizzy circles.
“You sell frippery to the rank and file,” Cyclonus had said, pushing down the wariness. He’d inspected Swindle’s wares before. Useless bits and pieces meant for entertainment, some memorabilia of Cybertron, and assorted random things like bird feed and an oxygen synthesizer for Blitzwing’s parrot (Cyclonus hated that thing. He’d confiscated the supplies in hopes of it starving or dying for lack of air, but then the triplechanger turned traitor. Sweeps #7 and 8 had adopted the fragging featherduster and taken the supplies back, and now Cyclonus was stuck with hearing it squawk football plays down the hall for the next 40 years).
“But do you know why they buy it?” Swindle had interrupted his parrot-loathing thoughts, and for a moment Cyclonus had been mildly irritated by the inane question.
Irritation had melted into a vast puzzlement the longer he’d thought on the question. After a full minute of thought, Cyclonus had turned widened optics on the Jeep as ragged shafts of pain speared from head to wings. The sourceless pain had nearly sent him into full-blown panic—with accompanying rage, of course—but Swindle hadn’t appeared surprised when the Decepticon second-in-command arched and cut off a yelp.
“Yeah, that’s about what I thought,” the businessmech had said instead. “Look, you’re not, er, like the rest of us.” An awkward pause had happened, as it always did when the command trine’s origins were touched on. Nobody cared if a Sweep overheard somebody grousing about Unicron, but Galvatron could sometimes be driven into furious rages just by somebody implying the name, much less anybody actually saying it.
Swindle had coughed his intakes clear unnecessarily and rushed on, “We do things other than fight. The Constructicons like to build things that don’t get destroyed or destroy things. Blast Off does narration for educational broadcasts. Vortex made a Jerry Springer shrine back on Earth, and now he says he wants to start a galactic talk show. Astrotrain is, well, uh, sick of fighting in general. I think he wants to travel for a while.” Another hesitation there, because Astrotrain and Blitzwing had been war-buddies for ages, and Blitzwing’s exile hadn’t made Astrotrain happy at all.
“My point,” Swindle had said, peering at Cyclonus as if doubting the Unicronian was following his words, “is that if the war stops, we all have things we’d like to do. We have things we can do. We don’t have to fight, you know?”
No, he really didn’t.
The idea of not fighting gave Cyclonus a full-body ache, like a headache of incomprehension that pulsed in his joints and under his armor. Scourge had confessed to a similar unplaceable pain. Various Sweeps had reported to medbay immediately upon the first hint of these peace talks actually happening, in fact. The Constructicons had kicked them out right away and gone straight into hiding. When Cyclonus had pried them out from the under the assorted objects they’d been hiding under (Sinnertwin had been terribly surprised to find he’d been sitting on Bonecrusher), they had reluctantly admitted that they did indeed know why the Unicronians were hurting. They’d also admitted that there wasn’t a thing they could do about it.
Scourge had been foolish enough to ask why. To be fair, Scourge had a comparatively low pain tolerance. Cyclonus couldn’t blame him—much—for wanting to know the reason for the itching, crawling pain. The Sweeps were blatant cowards when it came to facing up to torture and death, but Scourge had the bonus intelligence factor most of the Sweeps seemed to lack (Sweeps #3, 6, and 9 seemed smart enough. Three seemed to be a key number among the Unicronians.). Not only did he know it was going to hurt, but he often saw it coming. What Cyclonus thought him foolish for was wanting to see it coming. That was like looking up while the axe fell.
It had taken seven tries at one Constructicon per explanation and four on the last one, plus colored flow charts and a rubber squeeze toy stolen from the Predacons that vaguely resembled Unicron’s planet-mode, but Cyclonus and Scourge had eventually understood. Not that understanding had been helpful in understanding the situation in any way.
What they’d understood was that they couldn’t understand. Which was, in a contradictive way, actually helpful. It had been something of a relief to give up trying to wrap their minds around something because they were physically and mentally incapable of doing so. At the same time, that made the situation even more infuriating. Even Scourge had gotten a stubborn set to his jaw when the squeeze toy wheezed out its final emphasis to the conversation.
Finding out that they’d been built according to Unicron’s specifications wasn’t news. That didn’t upset Scourge or Cyclonus. They had gotten through that part of the Constructicons’ presentation with no problems, because it wasn’t like they were ignorant of their origins. Unicronians were made by Unicron, duh. Even Sweep #5 knew that, and he walked into closed doors regularly. They’d been designed by the chaos god of destruction. They’d been created strong, powerful, and probably a little mad compared to normal Decepticons.
What had made Scourge and Cyclonus look funky at each other was the idea that they’d been built to be limited. This was what took so long to explain, and they’d stood around outside the repairbay looking forlorn and befuddled after the Constructicons demanded they get out, post-explanation. It’d taken too long, but it’d finally been hammered into their heads via implacably logical flow charts. The Unicronians had always thought of themselves as more…free…than the other Decepticons. They had no attachment to Cybertron. They had more firepower and ruthlessness to spare. To find that they’d been deceived all along by their own bodies shook them to the core. Shackles and chains of pain, laced through their bodies and holding them to Unicron’s will, even after death.
That, they could understand. That upset them.
If by ‘upset,’ one meant ‘righteously bloody well pissed-off at the universe in general and Unicron in specific.’
It explained a lot of things they’d taken for granted all their lives, like how the other Decepticons talked with nostalgia about people or planets long gone. Like how they had friends, or at least companions, to do nothing with. Relaxation, enjoyment of company, hobbies, non-violent competition; all things that the Unicronians had watched with varying degrees of bafflement.
On Hook’s advice, Scourge had submitted to light medical statis; higher functions suspended, but body still online. Under Cyclonus’ close supervision, the Construction had administered a high-dosage fragment stimulant. It was a temporary energy booster with a nanite additive meant to cross the tank/systems barrier and introduce a virus to the mind while the body was scrambled by the sudden energy influx. It was normally only used to start interrogations, since the main purpose of the virus was to disorganize Autobots who’d put their CPUs under lockdown. In this case, Hook had introduced a separation between mind and body by putting Scourge’s mind into statis, then forcing it back up via the virus while his body kicked into overdrive on its own.
For at least a klick, Scourge’s mind and body had been unable to breech the disconnect. He’d peered up at them blearily afterward. “Is that normal?” he’d asked Hook, slurring the words slightly. “Feeling like that?”
The surgeon had looked down at him as if studying an interesting specimen. “Pain is not normal, no. Something hurting is generally a sign of a problem, in fact.” He’d turned to Cylonus next. “Do you wish to try as well?”
Cyclonus had looked at the faintly wistful look on Scourge’s face and immediately demurred. It seemed to be one of those situations where he’d be better off not knowing what he was missing. He was aware that serving Lord Galvatron occasionally pained him more in some circumstance than in others, but he’d rather not know how much it wasn’t supposed to hurt. Considering Scourge’s moping for the next few days, it appeared that ignorance was—well, not bliss, but at least more tolerable than knowledge.
Understanding that being in pain was going against Unicron’s leash made said pain easier to bear. Cyclonus and Scourge—especially Scourge--didn’t like it, but they understood as best they were able. Explaining it to Lord Galvatron had been a different matter altogether. The Constructicons refused outright. Trying to find out what they liked in order to bribe them had only rubbed in just how much Cyclonus didn’t understand the other Decepticons.
Fortunately, Rodimus Prime seemed to have taken the burden of explaining things onto himself. Hence peace talks and explosions, all in the same day. At the same time, even. It was a little comforting, to be honest. Cyclonus could get behind a fight. He didn’t get the concept of peace (No…war? What was there, if not war? What was he, if not meant for warfare?), but he was, above all else, obedient to Lord Galvatron’s wishes. Even more so than before, now that he knew it hurt worse because Unicron hadn’t wanted his heralds to be loyal. If Lord Galvatron wanted Cyclonus to sit and talk of treaties and boundaries and associated incomprehensible concepts while he himself attempted to beat the ever-living slag out of the Prime, who was Cyclonus to nay-say?
The other Decepticons had looked to him with hope brimming in their optics when Galvatron had decreed the peace talks would happen (Even though his helm had sparked madly, and he’d been seething with smoke and fire from his mouth and chest). Lord Galvatron wished it, and the other Decepticons wanted it badly enough to behave. As much as they ever did, anyway. Cyclonus didn’t like it, but he had to concede that it was probably for the best that he didn’t. He had put together a rather disturbing picture from the Constructicons’ restless, uneasy behavior lately. They had never been comfortable giving the Unicronians medical exams, but discomfort had edged into bomb squad behavior a while back. Cyclonus had the sinking feeling that the Constructicons’ inclination toward duck-and-cover coincided with their discovery of Unicron’s manipulations.
What would it be like to find out your leaders were so fundamentally different from you that they couldn’t understand you? Not didn’t understand. Cyclonus didn’t understand half of what the Sweeps did on a regular basis, and they were fellow Unicronians. Couldn’t understand was different. That meant Cyclonus was physically and mentally different from the other Decepticons to the point where, as Cybertronians, they had more in common with the Autobots than they did with him. It was a thought Cyclonus had to force himself to entertain, and just the effort required to think it put him through torture.
Unicronian likes and dislikes might be cause for much of the internal conflict happening among the Decepticons on Chaar. The time had come to either acknowledge the difference and work around it, or admit that the Unicronians weren’t Decepticons at all. And in that direction lay death.
It wasn’t that Cyclonus doubted the might and ultimate victory of Lord Galvatron. It was just that, at the same time, he didn’t doubt the Decepticons’ conniving natures. Right now, the Constructicons were hesitant. Give them enough time and cause, and they would make a decision. So far as Cyclonus knew, the other Decepticons only suspected in a vague and unverified way what the Constructions knew. Swindle’s considering looks and probing questions suddenly seemed far more ominous when reflected upon later, and Cyclonus hated the chill of dread. Hated the Constructions. Hated Unicron. Hated them because he had to think about them, had to weigh the implications of being a Unicronian instead of a Decepticon. How would an entire army of seasoned war veterans experienced in espionage, back-stabbing, and outright murder react to knowing that their rightful ruler…wasn’t one of them?
This question had led to an obvious answer. This answer had inspired an immediate solution, if an extremely short-term and not very conclusive one. Cyclonus had gotten smashing, crashing, falling-down, unable-to-fly, wastefully, and wonderfully drunk. He’d poured so much high grade energon down his intakes that his HUD stopped bleating alerts and started singing them in Swedish. With what sounded like accordions on back-up.
Then he’d slouched down in a heap against the nearest wall and thought awhile. The pain had been busy sloshing through the epic amounts of high grade in search of his muddled sensors, so while he hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly, he hadn’t been thinking within the usual restrictions, either.
What he’d eventually pieced together was this:
On a long enough time scale, even a glorious ruler such as Lord Galvatron would let his guard down for a vital moment. Mutiny attempts wouldn’t be enough to put his Lord down for the count, but if the Constructicons were also subverted, assassination survival rates dropped dramatically. Cyclonus had clung all the more fiercely to his loyalty after finding out it was against Unicron’s will. Where Lord Galvatron went, so went Cyclonus. What Lord Galvatron said was law to Cyclonus. Not so much because Cyclonus was blind to Lord Galvatron’s faults, but because of all of the Unicronians, Lord Galvatron had been created the most powerful. The Unicronians bowed to power. Under Lord Galvatron’s rule, they were held to his will and leashed to his army. So long as Lord Galvatron lived, the Unicronians had pride of place at his side. They had structure and duties, and until the Constructicons had forced open that door of ignorance in Cyclonus’ mind, he hadn’t known there were other options.
Hook had probably believed he was showing Scourge what it was like to live without pain. Expanding their minds to look beyond their self-contained unit of the Chaos Bringer’s heralds.
But while Scourge had been marveling at the sensation of a pain-free existence, Cyclonus had been taking a peek in the other direction. The easy way, the direction where they chose the less hurtful option every time. To kill the army instead of work with it, to defy Lord Galvatron instead of obey, to fight amongst themselves instead of cooperate. It would be a different life completely, and the Constructicons must not have known what Cyclonus had realized then, or they would have already decided against Lord Galvatron. Hook had tried to show Scourge a life without pain as if it were unattainable, but it was. It so easily could be their lives for the taking.
Take away the Decepticons, take away Cyclonus’ twisted fondness for Scourge or his loathsome tolerance for the Sweeps and their blasted parrot, and there were no anchors. Just the endless turning away from pain, the never-ending avoidance of what hurt, and the formless anger would drive him ever-onward toward an end that mocked glorious conquest. There would be nothing left for Lord Galvatron to rule, no desire for his Lord’s rule. There would be no future.
Scourge had melted into a spread-winged puddle at his side sometime during Cyclonus’ ponderous thoughts, and it would have been so easy to lash out. Cyclonus’ first instinct, ever and always, was to destroy. Stifling it as quick as it surged, however, was Lord Galvatron’s will that they be his lieutenants, not enemies. They’d looked at each other in mute hatred tamed to a pain that felt like affection, and Scourge had offered him a cube of high grade. Not a peace offering, but a mutual drowning of the urge to kill the world.
“He’s got less tactimal—tactisha--tactical sense than a Junkion,” the Hunter had said when Cyclonus managed to stop seeing double long enough to actually grab the cube. “He’s schizophonic—phrenic on a good day and stark raving mad the rest-a the time.” He took a swig and shrugged. “Which is most of the time, truth be shold. Fold.”
“Told,” Cyclonus had corrected him idly, mostly just to prove he wasn’t so overcharged he couldn’t pronounce the word.
Scourge had glowered at him. Or at the wall; it was difficult to tell, as one optic was pointing in the wrong direction. “Whatever. My shpoi--point is, he’s the worst leader inna lo~ong hishtory of bad leaders. I should…should fly outta here. Leave ‘im.”
On the one hand, what Scourge had said was utter treason. On the other hand, it was common sense. It would be freedom.
But it wouldn’t be, would it? They would still be slaves to Unicron’s will. It would only be freeing themselves of the Decepticons and the non-stop pain of obedience to Lord Galvatron’s will. Cyclonus had shuddered to even think of it. He could not understand peace, but he understood choice. It was an inherent contradiction that the Unicronians had never been meant to realize: the Chaos Bringer had designed his heralds to be slaves, but he hadn’t been able to expunge their free will. Of all of them, Lord Galvatron had chosen to take the brunt of the pain. There was no pain that could stop him, no being that could make him kneel. He chose his own route and refused to acknowledge any paltry agony that would deter his choice.
Lord Galvatron, who was stronger than them all. Lord Galvatron, who could choose peace despite the pain of flouting Unicron’s will so completely it would end Cybertron’s ancient civil war. Lord Galvatron, the unstable rock in the heralds’ chaos-born existence. Where their Lord led, they followed—or they drifted aimlessly with no direction whatsoever.
Free will wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The choices all sucked.
Cyclonus had let his head fall back against the wall. “Yes. You should.”
Scourge had, with difficulty, given him a resentful look for his apathetic agreement. Because they both knew that what a Unicronian should do was definitely not what a Decepticon would do, and Lord Galvatron had declared them Decepticons. For all his griping, the Hunter was nothing and no one without a Lord to hunt for. Just another outdated slave, still obeying a dead master’s commands. Waiting for death to find him, too.
After a while, they’d levered themselves upright again. It had taken a surprising amount of time to achieve that feat, and they’d celebrated by reeling off in search of more high grade. Cyclonus didn’t remember how that evening had ended, but he’d found parrot feathers in his cockpit, and Swindle’s salesmech smile had seemed less strained when next they spoke. The energon blurred a great many things, bless its pink high grade little cubes, but the Decepticon lieutenants came online two shifts later with aching motherboards and a shared resolution. Two, really. The first was to never drink that much again.
The second was that Lord Galvatron, no matter his faults (and they were many), was at least alive. A crazed, difficult life that burnt their sensors and left them keening with a pain that felt like love, but a life that overwhelmed them, swept them through their craven, broken needs, and sheltered them in his oppressive presence. They would do what had to be done to insure their Lord’s position and life.
So. Cyclonus endured the pain, because Unicronians didn’t understand surrender. But Decepticons did understand negotiations and a cessation of hostilities, and if Cyclonus was to be a Decepticon as well as a Unicronian, then he must at least go along with the proceedings. It was Lord Galvatron’s will that he sit with these wibbling idiot-Autobots to talk peace. It was also, in a backhanded way, for Lord Galvatron’s continued glory.
Unicronians understood survival just fine.
He glowered across the peace table at Ultra Magnus (It hurt) and reminded himself of that fact. Several times.
“No, we will not deactivate our base defenses. Chaar is ours. Leave it be, Autobot.” He didn’t—quite—snarl at the twitchy Autobot who seemed to coordinating all the security for the event. Cheerful or not, Red Alert had begun to look a bit hunted as the day wore on (They were never getting that security deposit back, but surely the Autobots had budgeted for the amount of destruction peaceful Decepticons could cause?). “Don’t venture into our territory, and we won’t shoot at you. That seems simple enough for even your pathetic lackeys to process!” Although it required looking at the notes Soundwave had jotted down for him in order to get those words out. Pain pulsed behind his optics as he said them, and the words blurred at the edges through no fault of the datapad. The idea of staying inside drawn borders instead of actively conquering was anathema, but Lord Galvatron’s orders. Lord Galvatron’s will.
Lord Galvatron’s voice getting closer and closer?
Cyclonus automatically rose to face his lord and master, only to leap aside as Lord Galvatron came bodily through the wall. Ultra Magnus sighed wearily even as Red Alert put his head in his hands and two Autobot aides deftly caught the datapads being flung every which way by Rodimus Prime tackling Lord Galvatron into—and then through the peace table. Decepticon heads poked into view in the ragged hole in the wall, hooting encouragement. Cyclonus noted several voices rooting on the Autobot leader instead of their rightful lord; he would have Scourge punish those disloyal Decepticons later. One of the Autobots shouted out a question about the current odds, which set off a flurry of bets while the thrashing, cursing tangle of legs and arms in the middle of the room kept going (Although Cyclonus could have sworn the Prime actually called out “Time?” and been answered by the little medic busily following them. Did they know something he was unaware of?).
“Shall we?” Ultra Magnus offered, gesturing with one hand toward the exit. Cyclonus ignored him in order to stalk out through the hole in the wall. It was closer to the third rental hall now blinking green on his guidance radar (Now available! Please watch your step as construction crews are en route, and have a nice day!). This was two rental halls down. By Unicronian logic, the third one would be the lucky one.
Of course, Sweep #3 had gotten himself flattened by the collapse of the first rental hall, so Unicronian logic didn’t always hold true. But what else could one expect of ‘logic’ spawned from the Chaos Bringer?
They reconvened in the third hall, and maybe it was the charm of three at work (Or Soundwave hovering over his shoulder, inputting and nudging and keeping him on track through the rising tide of pain versus Lord Galvatron’s command), but they made progress. An astonishing amount of progress, really. If not for the communication officer’s discernment of the Autobots’ intentions, the peace talks would have stalled out long ago. Cyclonus had faith in his lord, and his lord implicitly trusted Soundwave. It was another concept Cyclonus and Scourge had exchanged baffled looks over, because their programming enforced a limited amount of loyalty to Galvatron, but trusting him as they’d chosen to hurt like a firebomb to the cortex. Trusting Soundwave because Lord Galvatron trusted him caused Cyclonus’ head to pound.
He trusted Lord Galvatron. He had to, even though it hurt. And knowing the Unicron was trying to prevent him from holding onto that essential bond to his commander, lord, and master—that just made Cyclonus bull through the pain. It burnt like fire, and he cleansed himself in the flames.
Scourge sat beside him in the negotiations, tense to the point of rigid wings and flexing claws. He looked slightly wild around the optics. Cyclonus refused to dismiss him. He also refused to acknowledge the nervous looks the Autobots were giving his fellow Unicronian (He acknowledged the ones sent at him. It was only polite.). Either Scourge would be strong enough to survive the pain and bow to Lord Galvatron’s will, or Cyclonus would make him. Failure was not an option.
“I think,” Ultra Magnus said carefully, “we’re ready for a break. As far as an initial draft goes, this is ground-breaking. Now we need to pass it by our respective leaders,” Scourge flinched, and everyone found something fascinating to look at that wasn’t him, “get their approval and signatures, and bring any changes back to the table. Agreed?”
The words came out like individual shards of diamonds, scraping his vocalizer raw in their passage. “Agreed. Soundwave, request Lord Galvatron’s illustrious presence.” He couldn’t glance around the room to see what other Decepticon he could send, because if his concentration broke, he might just lose control and attack the Autobot second-in-command. He couldn’t risk sending Scourge, either. Letting the Hunter out of his sight right now would only be a bad idea.
“Lord Galvatron, approaching.” Soundwave prudently vacated his spot at Cyclonus’ back. The other Decepticons (They’d eventually lost interest in the fight and come to watch the peace proceedings with the wide-opticked wonder of those seeing history unfold—or a trainwreck in slow motion) scrambled to follow. Ultra Magnus took his cue and rose, taking his copy of the treaty draft with him. Cyclonus just swiveled his chair around.
When Lord Galvatron came crashing through the wall this time, they were ready. In fact, they were practically waiting, it was so calm in the room. Rodimus Prime seemed to take that in with one glance, and then he had Lord Galvatron pinned to the table. Not through it, this time, which was kind of an improvement. They needed that table to sign things on, after all.
“Lord Galvatron, if you could spare a moment…”
“Graaaaar! Cyclonus, you fool! I’ve no time for your blathering!” Lord Galvatron had the Prime by the hip joints, or maybe Rodimus had straddled him for strategic purposes. The warlord didn’t seem to be able to pry him off, anyway.
“Scapel!” the Prime called, fierce and grinning, and the little medic that belonged to the unpleasantly nice gestalt darted forward. A quick slap of their hands, and the Autobot leader was suddenly armed with a glowing laser scapel. It arched down, aiming for Lord Galvatron’s shoulder. Cyclonus jerked to his feet, an indignant cry—
--dying on his lips as his lord surged up to meet the descending tool. “Is that all you’ve got, Prime?!”
“Net!”
“HA!”
“Duct tape!—not that kind. The pink Hello Kitty stuff, First Aid!”
“This won’t hold me for long! I will break free, and no measly Autobot tricks will work twice!”
“Oops?”
“GwaaarrPRIME!”
“Roddy, I know you’re busy, but we’ve got the first draft down.” Ultra Magnus snagged his chair and dragged it over so he could sit down. The other Autobots were jockeying with the Decepticons in the room for good spots to lean against the wall. “We need signatures.”
“Hold on, hold—ow!—on,” Rodimus Prime muttered, then suddenly dodged a fist to swoop down and bite Galvatron in the side of the neck. Pink energon erupted and flowed onto the table. The Decepticon leader went abruptly still, optics flickering, and the Prime took the opportunity to ram one knee between purple thighs. The new position didn’t quite have the same leverage as straddling Lord Galvatron had, but the warlord didn’t seem eager to throw him off once he’d recovered from the surprise. Cyclonus’s vents stuttered to halt from a sensation much like surprise, only more thrilling. Rodimus got one hand free to wave frantically, and Cyclonus had to flatten his hands on the table to keep from reaching to catch it. “Shockstick!” the Prime called, wild and giddy.
“Cyclonus! What’s this about a draft?!” Lord Galvatron bellowed with anger approaching anticipation.
“I need a conductive lubricant!”
Cyclonus was having difficulty controlling himself. The internal turmoil created by the proceeds of the day had whipped into a new frenzy at the spectacle. All the pain was coming to a head, and his spark squeezed unbearably tight within his chest. There was something about the open interest on his lord’s face, even as Lord Galvatron snarled up at Rodimus Prime. Cyclonus gasped desperately, trying to restart his vents, but they squeezed shut as his lord shouted in pain. The shockstick ignited the energon collected in tiny threads on the buckled surface of the table. The sight, the sounds tingled through Cyclonus in a way he couldn’t understand and flared on the undersides of his fingers. He wanted—needed—to—to touch. To tear the Prime off his lord and offer himself. To bare vital systems and open his programming and spark and all that he was to the lord of the cosmos.
“Ah, my lord,” he started weakly, forcing his mouth to form words instead of the breathy whimper that wanted to come out, “I’ve done as much as I can. The final authorization must be yours, my lord. If you would only take a moment to—“
“You’re getting better, Prime.”
“You have no idea. More lubricant!”
Cyclonus faltered, and the words slurred into a low moan when his concentration broke. Pain had been consumed by the sheer building heat soaking through his internal structure at the moment, and he was having trouble focusing on anything but his lord’s writhing. Ultra Magnus pegged him with a stylus thrown from across the—occupied—table and pointedly cleared his throat when the dazed Unicronian looked over at him. “Signature?” Cyclonus squeaked.
“Shut up, Cyclonus! Prime, you’ve wasted enough of my ti—“
“Scourge!”
“Huh?” Only First Aid didn’t seem shocked by the Prime’s newest request. The medic bustled over and hooked a foot around the chair before Scourge could do more than collect his dropped jaw from his lap. First Aid jerked his foot, taking the chair out from under the stunned Hunter and pushing with both hands on broad wings at the same time. Scourge yipped as he was dumped face-down onto the table.
Also onto Lord Galvatron, but, meh. Details.
Cyclonus was having trouble remembering basic functions. Like, say, ventilation. For some reason, automatic temperature control had failed and he was overheating rapidly.
Rodimus Prime rolled back into place as quickly as he’d pulled away, this time making a Scourge sandwich. Lord Galvatron seemed mildly confused to suddenly be face-to-face with his subordinate instead of enemy, but all the lubricant First Aid had been dumping on the fight kept either Decepticon from escaping as the Prime came down on top of them. And then the shockstick came back into play.
At full power, a shockstick was a tool of severe punishment for a single mech. Spread out through two mechs, through conductive lubricant and already-primed systems that had been rebuilt by a God of Chaos to register pain and pleasure as the same thing, it…wasn’t exactly punishment.
Well, it was for Cyclonus, but that was a different sort of punishment. More of deprivation.
Scourge arched up against Rodimus as Lord Galvatron arched back against the table, creating a double-bow that met in a crackle of electricity and screaming. Light blew, sparking and hot, from their mouths and danced in white-edged shorts behind their optics. Scourge dug claws capable of actually piercing another Unicronian’s armor deep into his lord’s shoulders, and energon caught fire in an explosive burst of fire. “Aaaaargggh!!!” The shrieking started out a high squeal of strained metal being sheared and dipped lower as Rodimus reared up over them, tracing the shockstick between Scourge’s trembling, wide-spread wings. By the time he reached Scourge’s aft and the purple knee that had drawn up convulsively behind it, the cry had become the hollow boom of spark chambers grinding together. “Aaaahhhhhh uh uh uh aaah uh.”
Fire dripped in sluggish pink drops to the table, occasionally becoming a liquid torrent as Lord Galvatron’s back hitched higher or Scourge’s claws flexed in the wounds. Neither seemed to care that their armor crisped black and sooty, or that the entire room had stopped moving, stopped thinking, to stare and watch. Cyclonus had collapsed back in his chair, overcome and unable to stop the desperately needy shivers turning major joints to gelatin. Rodimus Prime smirked over the pair, tapping this way and that with his shockstick like the conductor of the galaxy’s most riveting, dangerous, and positively perverse orchestra (Soundwave seemed to be keeping time, if his tapping foot was anything to go by).
Lord Galvatron surged up from the table, optics mad and crazed. “PRIIIIIIIIME!” The medic helplessly rushed forward, hands fluttering uselessly, and Cyclonus looked up at his lord in awe. One powerful arm crushed Scourge to the mighty chest, and the other flung out and caught Rodimus Prime’s waving baton-shockstick. Caught and held, the warlord’s face twisting into a grimace of pleasure beyond pain, indefinable as either, and the Prime laughed in irrepressible joy back at him from over Scourge’s bent head. The victorious cry of a hunting Sweep suddenly pierced every audio, and Lord Galvatron’s bellow followed not a moment afterward.
They went down in a heap on the floor at Cyclonus’ feet. He stared. They smoked gently.
A hand wavered upward, groping aimlessly at Cyclonus’ closest leg. “He wants a stylus,” the Prime said confidently from the bottom of the pile. A toneless grumble complained at the Prime’s presumption. “Oh, sorry. He wants a stylus and you.”
First Aid was checking readouts and making notations to one side, happily immersed in the aftermath of a plan well-done, and Scrapper and Hook were peering over his shoulder with evident approval. Soundwave seemed a little disappointed that the ‘music’ had finished. The assembled Decepticons and Autobots were paying their dues (Red Alert had apparently won the betting pool, which almost made up for the security deposit fiasco). Ultra Magnus came to kneel at the side of the heap with the finished first draft as Cyclonus handed his lord a stylus. It took him a moment to find one. For some reason, the one he’d been using had been rendered unusable because of being bitten in half. The Autobot second-in-command gave Cyclonus the draft, and he held it in place for his lord’s, er, scrawl (Even for Lord Galvatron, that didn’t bear much resemblance to an actual signature). Then Ultra Magnus managed to unbury enough of the Prime to sign in turn.
Preliminary negotiations were in place. The treaty was becoming a reality. A reality Cyclonus didn’t understand and didn’t really like, but for the moment, it was out of his hands. He surrendered to the hand tugging insistently on his leg and sank to the floor as Soundwave signaled Swindle to start looking through the draft for exploitable loopholes and Red Alert snared Smokescreen and Mirage to block with extreme prejudice any they happened to find.
“You don’t seem to find any of this surprising,” he said to his opposite number in the Autobot ranks as the second-in-command resumed his seat. It came out more questioning than accusatory, but Cyclonus didn’t mind. It was hard to mind anything much when his lord had him by the antenna like this. It burned deliciously, his systems insisting it should hurt even as everything in him thrilled to belong to Lord Galvatron.
Ultra Magnus propped one elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. His expression was hard to read. “Yes. Well, it’s been a long war.”
The statement was difficult to understand. It was one of those statements that had a basis in something Cyclonus just didn’t have the information or ability to process. A long war, a short war, an ending war—what did it mean? What else could there be in existence but war?
He didn’t know what ‘peace’ was. He was fairly sure he wasn’t going to like it. But, like the day itself, he wasn’t sure he’d dislike it, either.
Free will was a pain, but for a Unicronian, sometimes just having a choice was as good as it got.