The Afterparty

[heliopauseentertainments]

Requested anonymously on Tumblr

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Characters: Megatron

Warnings: Quadruple Drabble, Vignette, Suggestive Themes, Referenced Drug & Alcohol Use, Referenced Violence, Not Beta Read

Summary: In which Megatron is taken to celebrate his first victory in the arena.

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Through the open doorway, the lights burned, not like the hot, distant lights of the arena itself, but cold, impersonal, and far too close for comfort. Megatron felt surrounded by more opulence than he could have ever imagined.

Boisterous music shook the walls, loud enough to shudder one’s very plating into involuntarily dancing on one’s frame. It nearly drowned out the din of conversation of polished mechs—patrons and gamblers and prostitutes.

No, perhaps “opulence” wasn’t the right word, he thought. He had known of “opulence” from high caste literature, from advertisements—public but not meant for eyes like his own. Perhaps “extravagance” and “indulgence” were more appropriate to describe the glittering decor and cloyingly heavy fragrances saturating the air of the party.

He was sure it was some kind of party; it must have been a party.

And it was for him. All for him. Apparently.

Whether he wanted it or not.

Apparently he had both made and broke fortunes, at the cost of lives and his integrity.

Though, Megatron had never been to a party before, not one like this , not one held anywhere but an old tunnel to celebrate a work anniversary for crew members who had managed to survive another one trip around their uncaring star.

Even for all of the pretense of luxury, there was something cheap about the atmosphere, like it was but a mimicry of true status. The shining polish was a little too bright, the paints a little too vibrant, the scents a little too obnoxious, the dancing a little too lewd.

The spilled fuel and oil of his now deceased opponents still coated his hands, drying where it had splattered on the rest of his frame, all underscoring the macabre vulgarity of it all.

Megatron hesitated on the threshold, squinting at the crowd beyond.

No other gladiators, no scuffed and battle-damaged frames to be seen aside from his own. No Rumble, no Frenzy. He was alone here, out of his element.

“No, I—this is unnecessary.”

His optics remained narrowed against the sensation onslaught as the pop-up arena’s operators goaded and shoved him out of the hallway into the venue’s temporary backroom.

The crowd roiled as soon as he stepped through, their overcharged cheers for the “champion” drowning out even the migraine-inducing music.

Drinks and beautiful mechs were pushed into his fuel-stained hands.

Was Terminus disappointed in him in the void?