The Candidate

[heliopauseentertainments]

Prompt: Day 5 - Change/Pledge

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Megatron/Orion Pax

Characters: Orion Pax & Megatron

Warnings: Alternate Universe Canon Divergence, AU of an AU, Vignette, Restraints, Not Beta Read

Summary: In which Orion makes his bid for the position of Lord Protector for the new vessel of the Fallen.

Notes: Canonical to An Unfamiliar Battlefield

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Suretread of Petrex, a withered retired general, stood with a ruler straight posture before the black granite stairs leading up to the throne of the Fallen. His thick burgundy armor appeared brittle, though highly polished. A few choice welding scars were even accentuated to give a rugged appearance. A slew of magnetic medals from various campaigns and conflicts glittered on his wide chest and tank-tread shoulders in the spotlight set to highlight whomever had approached the steps.

And he was still talking.

This was the sort of the mech, Megatron thought, that would likely boast about knowing Sentinel Prime personally after having touched palms at a public event meant to stoke goodwill or to present one of the many medals.

Valve, who lurked nearby at the top of the steps in all of his own gaudy finery and combat medals, had asked him to make his formal request and to then to state his case for why he ought to be considered for the position of Lord Protector. Twenty minutes later, Suretread was currently talking about his old buddy “Skip”—long dead now apparently—who had gotten his arm blown off eight million years ago in the “war.”

The very fact that Suretread was standing here meant he had been formally approved as a possible candidate, Megatron knew. Theoretically this was where Megatron could have an opinion. In reality, it was just a parade of possibilities of the torment to come.

Valve would be having the final say, no matter what Megatron thought about it. The Fallen’s “authority” in his own temple was a joke. The variable voltage restrains holding his wrists and ankles to the stone throne reminded him that this was a cell.

The whole thing was pageantry, window dressing for his one-inmate prison.

Suretread’s voice was proud and clear, minus the small measure of static indicating his advanced age. It echoed off the stone walls with a story that he had likely told countless times with a detail or two changing with each rendition.

Megatron had only ever known one miner to get this old, to see signs of a long life written into a frame and processor. What was it like to have many elders?

And, as Megatron had come to learn, Valve enjoyed rigid adherence to the idea that the “vessel” was here to be punished when not being used as a weapon of war. Apparently the prevailing theory was that by making the vessel frustrated, angry, and miserable, they would be more willing to vent those feelings into unspeakable violence on the battlefield.

Results of testing were still pending, but Megatron could almost guarantee Valve would choose someone who would personally cause his charge an unending migraine… or worse. Not that Megatron really thought he had much to fear, outside of losing his patience, from a brittle old man who would prattle on until the end of time.

It took all of Megatron’s fortitude to not slump in his restraints, which would only serve to then punish him with a painful shock. These restraints weren’t rigged to kill in one shock the way a full harness would, but they would not permit “relaxing on duty.”

Valve, still standing at the side of Megatron’s throne, cleared his throat to interrupt Suretread at last.

“That’ll do, sir. The Fallen has heard enough. Thank you for your—“

“And I said to Skip that—“

“That’ll do, sir; the guard will see you safely to your transport back to the hotel.”

A few of the more lightly armed guards approached the old general and politely herded him out. Suretread’s marked limp slowed them down but he still managed to carry himself with a measure of dignity.

“Next!”

A voice over the loudspeaker calmly announced the next applicant: “ Orion Pax of Iacon ”

If Megatron hadn’t been forced upright already, he would have sat up at attention when that name was read out. That was the only thing hiding his reaction from Valve’s scrutinizing gaze.

A mech of familiar sunset red and sky blue walked proudly through the doors and out of Megatron’s memories, followed by the spotlight until he reached the base of the steps. His armor was scuffed and scratched, like he had done an emergency buff in the transport on the way here. And he still glowed like a clouded sky at twilight.

They hadn’t spoken in almost forty years after his abrupt reassignment from Messatine to Croteus-12 interrupted their contact. Collateral damage from the government’s quiet covering up the mining facility’s explosive destruction.

And now Orion was here. His old friend hadn’t forgotten him, hadn’t written him off when Megatron unwittingly disappeared so long ago. He still had one friend remaining in this world, even if that friendship had been mostly sparkfelt letters ferried back and forth.

Megatron’s self-control and the variable voltage cuffs were all that kept him from charging down the steps to take hold of Orion’s face to determine if he were truly real and not a cruel trick of his imagination. It would have been the first time they had touched since Orion had ordered his release from jail.

Orion, and the spotlight’s beam with him, stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne. With the mask firmly in place, as expected, Megatron struggled to make out the expression of his eyes from this distance.

Somehow Orion’s application had passed through Valve’s critical eye. Had he neglected to mention that they had previously been acquainted?

… Or had he been honest and Valve had brought him here, dangling him as a faux possibility to further torment Megatron with “what if”s?

“Why are you here?” Valve asked. Megatron had been forbidden from speaking, so he would have to rely on whatever words Valve could pull from the new candidate.

Megatron’s hands gripped the arms of the throne, whatever he could reach without having to actually move his wrists and risk a shock.

“I’m here to pledge my loyalty, my allegiance, to the Prime of Destruction.”

Suretread had said he was here to offer his application for consideration, so this was certainly a more creative opening statement.

But why would Orion want to offer himself like this? Was he here to bail Megatron out again? Could it have been possible?

Megatron opened his mouth on reflex, but shut it again immediately.

“How will you prove your worth?” Valve asked, arms crossed.

He stepped forward, his wide white frame with overly large shoulder-mounted guns cutting into the spotlight’s beam to cast a thick shadow across Orion. If not for being seated, Megatron wouldn’t have been able to see around his bulk.

Orion reached behind his back and pulled out what looked to be an axe that had been strapped there. The edge of the blade glinted in the spotlight that wasn’t shaded by the high priest’s ego.

“I don’t know if I have the right words,” he said, “but I can prove it.”

Was this how Orion intended to free him? By lodging an axe in his frame?

Guards stationed by the foot of the steps tensed, ready to take down a threat. Not to Megatron, of course, but to order. Megatron’s life hardly mattered beyond what it could be used for.

Orion held up a palm in a bid that they wait before he threw the floor. The metallic slam of the weapon reverberated through the room, off the walls and pillars.

No one moved as the sound gradually faded away.

Orion locked his gaze with Megatron, raising his arm to point directly at him.

“I challenge the Fallen to unarmed combat so that I can prove my worth!”

A brave challenge Megatron couldn’t accept if he had wanted to. He frowned, pleading silently with Orion to understand that there was nothing to be done. His fingers cracked the edges of the stone under his hands.

Valve lifted his palm, his shadow shifting accordingly.

“Thank you; the Fallen has heard enough.” He gestured dismissively for a guard to collect Orion’s axe from the floor.

Orion’s optics burned up at Megatron with a fierce determination, perhaps a silent promise.

“You may now leave.”