An Unfamiliar Battlefield

[heliopauseentertainments]

Anonymously requested here on Tumblr

Continuity: IDW1 (roughly)

Relationship: Megatron/Hot Rod

Characters: Megatron & Hot Rod

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Notes: AU of an AU, Canon Blending, Past Relationships, Referenced Character Death, Romance, Recovery from Grief, Vignette

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr

Summary: In which a seemingly unqualified suitor vies for the open Lord Protector position for the Prime of Destruction.

Fic below cut.

Small. Thin armor. Loud paint. Incautious gait.

Megatron could have crumpled him like a frail sheet of foil if he so chose.

Yet in front of him, posed confidently with his hands on his hips at the foot of the impractically tall dark granite dais, beamed some red little fool the herald had introduced as “Hot Rod of Nyon.” Given the obnoxious flames painted on his chest, Megatron thought the mech’s name was a little on the nose.

This scrawny fool, apparently, wanted to be the Lord Protector of the alleged incarnation of Destruction itself. What a ridiculous thought.

Since Orion, Megatron’s previous Lord Protector, had succumbed to early onset cybercrosis more than three decades ago, Megatron had spent most of his time alone.

He, in fact, intended to keep it that way.

Watching his partner waste away against an invisible foe had been more of a punishment than being forcibly ascended to a position of ritualized shame and fear for his crimes had ever been.

The ritual mourning periods of seven months, then thirty months, and then a decade had all passed. The generals and officers who made up his “priesthood”—more like a religious militia meant to keep him in check—hadn’t pressed him to take another protector before the formalized markers of grieving had been reached. It wouldn’t have been proper, for all they, his prison wardens, pretended to care about propriety even when their “Prime” still lit decennial memorial lamps.

Megatron, regardless of his own opinions on the matter, was kept around solely for the fulfillment of ancient laws and summoning his strength in times of war. The First Prime was nominally the Prime of War, but Sentinel spent far too much time playing politician, leaving Megatron as the de facto holder of the purview.

It wasn’t as though he needed protection, not physically. He could protect himself, as was obvious from the battlefields they pleaded that he would drench in spilled fuel, like the arena of banal bloodsport they had unilaterally plucked him from. When Megatron had turned the rare suitor away before, the battle clerics hadn’t objected too strongly.

Usually.

Besides, it wasn’t as though suitors were commonplace. Not many were lining up to consort with a “deity” of death, forced to use his violence as a tool for theocratic control. Orion, before his untimely death, had been an irreplaceable exception. No one is else would or could ever take that place again; it would never be the same.

Starscream, the general who oversaw all the others who allegedly paid Megatron homage, was a sharp-eyed mech with innumerable half-spoken agendas. He relished being what passed for this "Prime's" high priest, chief jailer rather. This was clearly part of some of his machinations.

He stood, smirking, next to Megatron’s throne, arms crossed in front of his chest. His gleaming white wings were held out wide as he swayed side to side, not-so-subtly trying to make his heavily embroidered cape undulate in the artificial breeze.

“Starscream, this is unnecessary,” Megatron said, hunched over with his elbows against his knees. He glowered down at Hot Rod. “You know this is unnecessary.”

Hot Rod was hardly much bigger than one of Soundwave’s mini-bots, who were generally relegated to sabotage work as a result. A Lord Protector, expected to accompany him into the heat of battle, could never be allowed to fill a less combat-oriented position. Hot Rod would end up as little more than shrapnel littering the battlefield.

“Come now,” Starscream said, his slick grin stretched broad. It barely concealed that he was up to something, a fig leaf of pious duty. “It’s been so long since you’ve kept any company but your own.”

They both knew the other role a Lord Protector fulfilled: controlling the sacred monster.

“He’s not—“

"You've been lonely, absorbed in nothing but your work for far too long."

Starscream, of course, would be eager to have someone once more take up that mantle… for the approval of the public rather than practical necessity, given Megatron’s self discipline. That was likely why he had allowed this fragile mech to even put forward a petition. Any tether at all was better for their reputation than a beast with no leash.

“I’m right here!” Hot Rod, speaking for the first time, brazenly put his foot on the lowest step on the dark dais and smacked his tiny fist against his chest. His beaming grin became a frown at the perceived disrespect. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

What a rude little mech.

Talking out of turn, ascending the dais uninvited…. No self preservation to be had. The distance was supposed to be for the protection of any visitors, in case the “god” lost control. More time for the jailers masquerading as devotees to restrain him if the Lord Protector didn’t get there first.

This Hot Rod was clearly on some elaborate suicide mission for some reason. This was far more effort than most would bother putting towards such an end; there were doubtlessly easier ways to go about it.

“Just how badly do you want to die?”

“Not at all, actually.” Hot Rod didn’t back down, a determined look set on his face. “A big shocker, I know.”

Not the answer Megatron had expected, not that mechs tended to be forthright about their deathwishes.

“What exactly is your purpose here?”

“Surely, that’s self-evident.” Starscream’s opinions, as usual, were unnecessary so Megatron ignored him.

He merely repeated the question to Hot Rod, who had begun climbing the dais as though he thought he’d been given some sort of invitation. His bright paint was a stark contrast to the stone, black as the void, giving the impression of a rising star.

Some of the officers, all armed with guns and blades, stationed at various points up the steps began to shift, bristling with unease at the blatant disregard of norms. Several stepped forward, as though to get in the intruder’s way.

Megatron gestured for them to take no action.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s obvious what I’m here for.” Brow furrowed, Hot Rod continued scaling the dais, stepping past the officers as though they were harmless bystanders. Armor clattered in the quiet hall as they made way for him.

Hot Rod’s bravery reminded him somewhat of Orion.

Orion had not climbed to meet him, no, but had lain down his weapons on the floor of the hall and had challenged Megatron unarmed combat.

Hot Rod too was challenging him in a way, but why?

Megatron silently let him approach.

Starscream whispered a reminder to mind his manners, as though he were some uncouth newbuild courting for the first time.

If only Starscream didn’t have wings…. Megatron occasionally considered pushing him off the side of the platform.

Once Hot Rod reached the top level, he stopped just within arm’s reach of the throne.

Megatron leaned forward, as far as he could without overbalancing. Seated, he was at Hot Rod’s eye level.

“What do you gain by asking this?”

Hot Rod’s bright smile was back, this time as a smirk, like he thought Megatron was joking.

“What do you lose by letting me?”

Smart aleck.

“Why are you determined to die?”

“I’m not.” Hot Rod shrugged, as though that were the obvious answer despite all evidence to the contrary.

“So you’ve said before, yes, but that’s the only outcome at the end of the path you’re trying to walk.”

“That’s my business, I think.”

Stubborn.

“So be it.”

Huffing, Megatron waved Starscream over without looking at him. The clicking of thruster heels against black granite told him that the high “priest” had obeyed.

“Yes?” he purred, clearly pleased with himself. He was getting what he had wanted after all.

“Have him trained. Presuming he survives, schedule the ceremony.”