A Terrible Responsibility

[heliopauseentertainments]

A request from @felinalain. Quintuple drabble.

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: General

Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Connie, & Whirl Jr (off-screen)

Crossposting: Tumblr | AO3 | Pillowfort

Summary: In which Megatron misses out on shore leave and is asked to watch Connie and Whirl Jr.

Contains zero sparklings, fic may get another scene on AO3 later

Fic under cut

“Rodimus, you can’t be serious.” Megatron shuttered his optics behind their lenses in disbelief for a moment, shaking his head to banish what seemed to be the implication behind his co-captain’s words.

A high-pitched scream went up beyond the closed door behind the two captains.

“Oh, buddy, I am dead serious. Serious as a spark attack, my guy.” Rodimus, smirking like he was getting away with cold-sparked murder, patted him on the shoulder as though that would help. “The rest of the command crew drew straws for who would have to stay behind during shore leave to babysit.”

“That hardly counts if I wasn’t there to even draw a lot—“

“Oh, yeah, about that, so we just decided you would probably be the best at it with your boundless patience and ultimately threw out the results of the straw draw.”

Rodimus was about to get some “boundless patience” firsthand if he didn’t come up with a better rationale.

“But a spark-powered organic infant and a half-tame scraplet swarm are hardly new-builds in need of guidance. They can’t even talk.” Whirl Jr. was Whirl’s responsibility. Connie—as the Scavengers had named her—was collectively the responsibility of the former crew of the Weak Anthropic Principle. Surely one of them could stay behind to watch their own ward. Not that Megatron had been particularly interested in participating in shore leave, but that was hardly the point. The point was that he hadn’t even been consulted.

Their species didn’t even reproduce this way. He would be looking after a glorified pet and an… organic who could barely toddle around like a mech with no legs. There were no instincts encoded in his programming to tell him what to do or how to do it. No books on Cybertronian child-rearing he could consult. The whole idea was alien.

“You’ll do great. I promise. Maybe you’ll even like it so much, you’ll want an evil science experiment of your own one day.”

“Don’t be rid—“

“Later, big guy!”

And Rodimus was gone, wheels spinning black skid marks into the decking in his wake.

“What do they even eat, Rodimus?” he called, a futile request for pity that, of course, went unanswered.

Megatron, turning back towards the room onboard that the Scavengers had set up as a nursery for Connie, worried that perhaps he might become the next meal.

Another scream rose past that last barrier.