𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚂𝚃.

Orion turned just as Trailstop halted his approach. Primus, it was so nice to hear somebot speaking logic instead of simply throwing insults. It helped to ground him, pulling him back from disassociating from his body. A heavy ex-vent escaped the smaller frame, but he didn’t lower his guard.

The noise of the crowd was blocked from his processor. There was something more important he had to focus on.

“Please, record my words so you have them as proof,… so Megatronus will hold no ill will.” He took a brief moment to let that sink in. “I know Backtread is -not- a true example of a gladiator.” The archivist spoke at the same volume, his words intended only for the large bot before him. “I have been in Kaon enough to know the honor of a true warrior. I see it in you.” Orion had never met Trailstop, only seen him in passing, but his actions now spoke of the kind of warrior he was.

The grip on the axe tightened, pedes widening in stance to prepare for the next attack, but he felt himself shaking beneath his plating. “I am -innocent- of their charges, but know I don’t hold any anger towards you or the others. Just… please grant me a request? Tell Megatronus… I’m sorry. And that the council is… getting worried if they’re accusing a bot like me of treason. All of you, please stay safe.” Megatronus would contact Alpha Trion and Ratchet, let them know what had happened. Even as he faced his own death, he worried about the safety of others. “And… and please help Backtread…. I know he has not acted honorably, but I don’t want one of my last actions in this life to cause the death of another…”

It was hard, but Orion pushed back the emotion that had welled up within him. Coolant had gathered in his optics, but he refused to let it fall. Not there, not in the Pits. If it was someone like Trailstop, he could… accept this. He could die with a little dignity in his spark.

But that didn’t mean he would go down without a fight.

The archivist turned out to avoid the blade and spun the axe to deflect it with the staff end. The momentum of the blade continued and Orion spun the axe up for a potential strike.

Backtread watched from afar, anger curling wickedly in his tank as he glared upon Orion Pax and his partner. He grasped at his splintered joint, sparking and popping discharged volts of electricity from torn wiring, Energon flowing freely and puddling beneath him. Standing in his panic became impossible, crumpled to the floor of the arena as he waited for his internal repairs to stop the tide and redirect the flow of energy to other parts of his frame. He was seething, but still in the fight. His remaining hand shook he moved to flatten it against the ground, clasping at black sand over and over between uncertain digits. He would simply wait. Yes. Trailstop was an effective fighter―he would be fine for now. And then… and then Backtread would strike from behind while Orion was distracted. Yes.

It was just a lucky shot, he told himself. There’s no way that little slagger actually knows how to fight. Megatronus couldn’t have taught him that much.

Shakily, he rose to a stand, stumbling in anxious fervor as he clamored for his discarded weapon―weapon, stick, weapon. His mind was in a flurry, HUD pinging him in different locations in his peripheral on potential blades to use in the distance. Damn the stick. He inched―stumbled and crawled, and stood again―as silently as he could to the scattered weapons that still lay stranded in the sand. He could still find victory in this.

Trailstop, meanwhile, had begrudgingly acquiesced to Orion Pax’s plight if only because he knew that sneaky slagger would be watching. And if Megatronus found out his little friend’s final words were dismissed… Well.

He personally saw no reason for recording the Iaconian’s words. Stay safe, he thought with some bitter resentment. When The High Council and The Guilds breathe down their necks? Right. But he also personally enjoyed staying out from certain mechs’ personal agenda radar, and if doing something as pointless as this would make certain of that, he was all the more for it. At least there was no true effort to be had in a simple recording―he was not expected to care about what the Iaconian said.

But he had to admit some amount of impress with Orion Pax’s quick reaction. He’d seen the other in training with the Champion, but he hadn’t thought a mech of mid caste would actually bother to retain the lessons. He let his blade be deflected, following the change in momentum with ease. Not bothering to dodge the ax, it made a clean strike through the armor of his chassis, and he followed the swing of Orion’s weapon with a swift left hook aimed straight for the side of Orion’s helm.

The scream echoed in his audials, making him wince. The spilling of energon, even that of those intent on killing him, was abhorrent.

But…

He couldn’t allow Megatronus to come to any harm, he couldn’t allow that dream of an equal Cybertron to die. Plus… the champion was his friend and the thought of him returning to the darkness of the mines made his tanks roll.

Orion’s HUD was still hued red, survival programming overriding his higher processor. With his first attack done, he put some space between himself and the gladiator. The spear shaft was hardly threatening, but he could not underestimate anything in the Pits. The other two were still on his peripheral, but not a threat. Yet.

Until the siren sounded.

That had meant the start of this battle, so it now signaled a change in the situation. The roar of the crowd hid the shift of sand beneath pedes, but Orion’s outer plating flared and his currently pale blue optics darted from left to right, searching for new danger. The axe was spun in his servos as he readied for an unseen attack.

Behind!!

While the wounded party retreated further from Orion’s presence, shivering in trepidation, the second warrior descended on the outsider like a hive. The panels on the side of his right arm folded, releasing an electric blade from its cage and immediately came to life with a surge of power. The crowd roared at what they thought would be a sneak attack from behind as the new gladiator raised his arm as if to strike the archivist from the back. His servo clenched into a fist, the yellow visor that shielded his optics glaring brightly as they were transfixed on his enemy before he lowered his arm to point the end of his blade in Orion’s direction. He moved no closer to the newcomer.

The crowd’s attitude shifted at the pause in battle. Most of the cheering had died down, intrigue enrapturing their attention. Others berated the pause, booing their displeasure and throwing waste into the arena to try and egg on the battle. But the gladiator remained unphased at their taunts.

“Backtread is a coward and a leech,” he starts suddenly, loud enough only for Orion Pax to hear his words. Despite not being able to hear the conversation at hand, nervous energy spread amongst the crowd in anticipation of a blowout. “He is unworthy to speak the insults that he has. With luck, my partner will die before the day is through.”

The disdain in his voice is hard to miss in regard to his partner, and his dismissal is mirrored in the third mech that stands near the walls, a silent observer. He does not move to aid the bleeding and shaken Backtread―in fact, he hardly spares a glance in his partner’s direction. Neither do.

“My name is Trailstop, and I know who you are, Orion Pax. I bear no ill will against you in this fight. This is just business.”

He moves again, adjusting his stance with his legs spread, planted firmly in the sand with his knees bent. He brings his blade-arm to his side, his left arm extending in front of him to act as a shield with his far heavier plating. In an act of respect, he bows his helm for a brief moment in Orion’s direction, but never removes his optics from the threat before him. The crowd, recognizing the stance, begin to stomp and clap in tune with each other, creating a chaotic rhythm to which one might battle.

“May death have mercy on you this day.”

@warlordratchet ／ unprompted ／ always accepting.

Dear Primus, would this mech never shut up? Self-righteous and inflated self ego… not much different from the council members who had sent him to his death.

Orion braced his pedes against the shifting sands, widening his stance as a wave of dizziness spun his helm. It was brief, but enough to send a flare of brief panic through his system. Alarms flashed over his HUD: low energon pressure, damage to internal systems, approaching threat, but he dismissed them all with an override. They didn’t matter any more, this was it.

For a moment, his processor began to slide in ‘acceptance.’ This was to be his end. He’d die on his pedes, but this was -it.- Someone needed to alert Alpha Trion as to what happened. All forms of comm lines had been disabled when he had been offline. But… Megatronus would take care of that. They didn’t get along, but there was a threat greater than their personal rivalry. Perhaps… Soundwave could-

Within an instant, his thoughts snapped back into focus and his processor played the audio file back so he could verify what he had just heard.

A threat.

A threat against Megatronus.

The Guild.

The mines…

Orion’s HUD shifted in color, sorting through data in red font.

With a flick of a switch, the axe powered on, it’s blade lighting up and sparking with bright orange energy. The shed of energon was still the last thing he wanted, but protecting those important to him overrode that desire. He’d be a fool to waste this chance.

As the gladiator fought with his own weapon, the Archivist darted forward with what speed he had left and spun the axe in his servos. Ducking low, Orion swung the blade up, aiming for the joint that connected the gladiator’s arm to his pauldron. The laser sliced easily through the armor and up into the follow through. Once behind the larger bot, he spun, braced in the sand and weapon raised for retaliation.

“You seem to know a lot about him. Odd. Jealous that I’ve slept in his berth?” He and Megatronus weren’t romantically involved, Orion had literally -slept- in his berth. How another interpreted that was their fault.

So occupied with his floundering, the gladiator never noticed the change in Orion’s stance. He ripped at the chain, cursing whoever thought to fill this damned pit with sand before a searing hot tear ripped through his armor. His entire frame locked in on itself, the shock overwhelming the pain, his HUD glitching, and going haywire with warnings and damage reports. He was too stunned to react to it―too numbed to register it. He heard something hit the floor, suddenly feeling lighter than he was previously and―and wet. Soaked down his side, iridescent blue spouting and glistening upon the black sand like a constellation.

He felt departed, not of himself, when his helm twisted to take in the separated limb from his body, now discarded on the ground. Panic swelled in his vox, choking him and stunting his vocals as nothing but static tore from his throat. Then the pain set in―burning, splintered, needle-piercing pain that wracked his body. He couldn’t remember when he started screaming. Grasping at his torn shoulder in desperation to stop the flow, his anger was overridden by the realization he might die.

Red optics turned on Orion, flashing a terrified white as he pushed away from the other mech, no longer the haughty upstart that he was before. He stumbled, slipped, slid on his own energon in his fear while grabbing at whatever weapon he could now that his mace-arm had been sawed off. A spear―yes he could work with―his hope shorted out at the broken end, lacking its spearhead. Anger swelled at the irony of it.

“You―you think you’re so d̶͓͠a̴̯͘m̶͎͆n̷͙̆ë̷͔́d̴̜̉ ̴̘͒c̴͓̋ĺ̴̰e̵̙͊v̷͓̉ḙ̷͆ṛ̷̊, don’t you?” he seethes, voice spitting static from blowing his vox. He backs away from Orion, effectively defenseless beyond a stick, but he knew he only need buy time. 

He just needed to wait a little longer. Glancing at the two mechs that still circled the outside of the arena, he knew he need only distract Orion a little longer. It was his specialty, after all.

“Well, you’re not! You’re just á̵͜n̶͂ͅo̷̼͐t̵͋͜h̴̲͆ë̷̙́r̷̲̕ pretty f̴̤̀å̵̟c̷͔̋e̴͍̅―hope you don’t think you’re the first f̸̛̯ä̵̼ṅ̸͉c̵̳̏y̷̝̓ mech that’s f̴̧́r̶͖͗a̷̲͋g̷̢̓ged him! You’re nothin’ special,” he hisses. It stings, and it takes all of his effort to push the words from his mouth, and he hopes that the slagger can hear him over the roar of the crowd at his injury. He swings the pole in a threatening sweep, backing up another few steps before his body shakes from the noise―

―and the siren blows again.

One of the mechs against the walls steps forward with patient silence from behind Orion, masked face revealing nothing to an outside observer. A stoic hunter stalking his wounded prey.

                 ...

Megatronus meanwhile has located his Amica, concern spiking with the uproar that he can hear from the crowd above along with the second siren. He refuses to linger on what it can be (he will be fine, he must be fine, he would KILL him otherwise), no longer able to see Soundwave’s video feed once the other departed his roost to meet Megatronus. Megatronus paces impatiently, locked away in their hidden cove that Soundwave has structured for his own purposes, his frame wired into one of the multiple terminals that have been repurposed for their use. An array of code is flying across the screen faster than Megatronus can make out, and he’s thankful that Soundwave can work so quickly and efficiently.

The spymaster remains still, visor alive with corrupted runes and glyphs as he downloads the necessary files to make their plan work. They are both reliant on this code―Soundwave cannot afford any mistakes, and Megatronus knows he will not. Despite the other’s dislike of Orion, he would not leave him to die (at least not with Megatronus aware). There is a wry smirk at that; he wonders if Soundwave would hesitate to terminate Orion himself if he were on the field right now.

Suddenly the machines screech to a halt, monitors going black. Soundwave disconnects from the mainframe, a port on the terminal clicking and releasing a small chip. Taking in delicate claws, Soundwave offers it to Megatronus, and Megatronus holds the small item with tender carefulness. He stares at it grimly, aware that if it doesn’t work...

If it doesn’t knock Orion offline as it should, many lives will be lost this day. His own, possibly. And if he falls, Orion will surely follow. But he hardens his resolve, confident in Soundwave’s hacking ability. He does not even offer a thank you before he’s departing, the understanding pulse in his spark telling him that Soundwave is aware of his distress enough to overlook his bad manners.

The spear landed at his pedes, but Orion ignored it. This was -actually- happening. Seeing the gladiators and the weapons made it all the more real. The noise of the crowd, the -pulse- of bloodlust through those mechs made his spark shudder. He’d seen battles before, but to be on -that- end, AND seen as a traitor, was unnerving.

He recognized the approaching gladiators, but only knew them in passing. They weren’t a friendly lot and he could often feel their optics glaring at his back as he passed. Oddly, Orion was almost… relieved to see them and not Megatronus. The champion wouldn’t kill him and that would make more trouble for his friend. Megatronus had a goal to achieve and Cyberton needed him. He could not throw that all away for an Archivist.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t defend himself. It would be an insult to the champion who had been actively training him if he didn’t.

Orion forced his back strut straight and lifted his right servo to his left pauldron, all the while he kept his gaze locked on his first opponent. Finding the broken energon line, he crushed the sliced section to stem the flow. That would keep him alive a little longer.

“You know this isn’t right!” The slurr didn’t hurt, he’d been called far worse in the past. However, it did reveal more of his opponent’s thoughts. Jealousy. Most gladiators knew Orion and Megatronus were friends and accepted the Iaconian’s presence easily. “We’re both being used!”

From the offered weapons, he took an axe from the rack, double bladed and handle almost as long as he was tall. But, Primus, he felt so… heavy, so slow…

Megatronus snapped back to reality when a siren rang loudly throughout the underground, signaling the beginning of the first bout. The crowd erupted into another frenzy, and Megatronus rose to his feet. He had to know what was going on ― or at the least, he wanted to know the identity of the mech that was going to die today. Moving with purpose, his field flared with the promise of violence upon anyone who tried to thwart or delay him. His movements earned a curious ping from Soundwave (ever the watchful obelisk, always tracking, always learning) but Megatronus elected to ignore it in-depth for now, responding only with a reassuring signal of his own to declare his curiosity. He had no intention of getting either of them into trouble at the moment; and, he surmises, the fact that Soundwave has not revealed the details of this mystery mech only incites his anxieties worse. Whoever planned this was determined to keep it hidden. Soundwave responds with his own confirmation, relaying his intrigue as well. Perhaps with both of them investigating, they will get to the bottom of this.

After some navigating, Megatronus finds himself at a crowded area near the massive doors that had since closed after allowing entry to three prior. There is some loud debate amongst the gladiators, some arguing with Enforcers that stood in the halls (why were Enforcers there? this was not their shelter to take; they would find no sanctum here) while others bickered amongst themselves. The presence of the Council’s lackeys set fire to Megatronus’s tanks.

“―ain’t our damn busin―! They want... so he’s gonna be dead!”

“You can’t be serious! If he finds out―... you know what he’s gonna―!?”

“I said back―!! That is an order―!”

“―outta our Pit, slaggers!”

“...ouncil should kill their own, they want... Tired of bein’ their clean-up crew...”

“―such a little thing. He’s not gonna last long, that’s for sure. Cruel to end him this way...”

The conversations could barely be made out from each other, overrun both by the crowd and each other. There were far more witnesses than he cared to contend with, but he pushed forward nonetheless. Like a parting river, those who took notice of his field and presence were quick to sidle by, while those more ignorant were shoved with (perhaps) more force than necessary from his path. He did not stop until he stood before the small ring of Enforcers that had attempted to blockade the doors. Megatronus met gaze with one of them, scowling at the smaller mech with authoritative confidence that only a Champion could wear within these halls.

“I want to know the identification of the prisoner you’ve sent here to die.” He wastes no time in mincing words, expecting that such information will be difficult enough as it is to obtain without him delivering his usual snark in tow. The Enforcers exchange a glance as if communicating whether revealing such information was forbidden or not before they return their stares to him.

“We’re not in authority to tell you. You’ll just have to find out on your own when you enter the ring, Champion,” and the way they spit his title nearly earns a punch in the face. His field goes alive with voltaic rage, briefly thrown by the sheer acidity. It takes an effort to hold himself back, sneering down at the Enforcer. There are hushed whispers between the crowd around them, some gladiators wisely making more room in case Megatronus decides to become violent here.

But he won’t. An incoming urgent request from Soundwave interrupts his HUD lighting up to declare the impudent bot before him an enemy, and soon a video file covers his visual array. He’s stunned into silence at what he sees.

The panic is instantaneous.

He turns without a second thought, leaving a stunned audience as Megatronus retreats from the challenge presented him, murmurs and curiosity thrumming between the gladiators while tense Enforcers who were prepared for a fight uneasily look about themselves in question.

But none of it matters―perhaps his fellow gladiators will look down on him for not defending himself, but he has never cared for the pitied opinions of those beneath him, and if need be, he will remind them at a later date why he reigns above them. For now, his only concern is Soundwave’s location, and figuring out how to resolve this fragging mess.

In the arena, the gladiator facing down Orion has hardly moved despite the other wielding such an impressive weapon. No, he is far more agitated at the other’s words than the audacity he displayed in choosing a weapon that does not suit him.

“The only one who gets used around here is the precious Iaconian pleasure-drone!!” He advances on Orion, the ball of his mace dragging in the abyss of sand behind him, his anger clouding his judgment. “You're nothin’ but a mid-caste port-hopper!! Look at you! Even your own people don’t want ya’ no more! Even your precious tool of a Champ ain’t here to look at your aft!”

The call to battle has long gone off, yet the gladiator cannot bring himself to swing, pointing accusingly at Orion in his self-ignited rage as his mace digs further and further into the sand, unheeding of the sinking force that begins to pull it below.

”But let's talk about right! What’s right is that when I get done with you, I’m gonna get a nice fat favor from the Guild. And you know what? Maybe I’ll just have ‘em send D-16 back where he belong―hey!!”

@antipathix​

The sand was cold beneath his face plate and the dark grains jarred him back online as his intakes sputtered to clear themselves. Both servos slipped in the pool of energon beneath his frame, processor still fighting to catch up with what was happening.

"Tonight! We have a -special- event!!" The voice was unfamiliar, but echoed over a loudspeaker. "Judgement has been passed to a traitor of Cybertron and for your viewing pleasure, his punishment will be carried out -here-! Let the Judgements of the Pits decide his fate!"

The roar of the crowd finally reached his audials and realization froze the mech in place. The last thing Orion remembered, he was in the archives, working on translating a recently discovered data pad on ancient flora. Alpha Trion was away and the archivist had been determined to finish before his return.

And now... Now he was in Kaon. But not just Kaon, the Pits. Of course he had visited this place before to see his friend, but had stayed away from the fights themselves. Now, he was -in- them and named a... traitor? A chill ran through his frame. What the frag happened?

The sound of the crowd grew louder... and louder and louder, overwhelming his senses, suffocating him in the chaos of charged air and processor lag. It continued to grow until his audials cut out entirely in an attempt to regain control. It was then that Orion could feel the -fear- that chilled his frame. He was no fighter and yet, he found himself on the same energon soaked land that held some of Cybertron's fiercest and most savage.

He was going to be offlined.

The reality struck him hard and his processor finally began to catch up with the present. Sound returned in a wave of a crowd, cheering and hungrily awaiting the shed of more energon.

He had done nothing wrong!

"...- cast by lots and the winner has been chosen to- "

The Council... they -had- to be behind this!

"-what he deserves!"

No!! If this was how it was going to end, he would -not- offline on his knees!! Megatronus would be proud of that. Through will, Orion managed to push himself up onto his pedes. The manhandling he had been given previously was obvious in the dents and dirt that marred his plating, a stark contrast to the bright energon that ran down his left arm. Blue optics flickered, but he would not go down without a fight!

With a scream of rusted metal, the doors across the arena began to open...

The thrumming echo of stampeding footfalls in the arena above pounded in his processor and piqued his curiosity. The crowd was going wild, and he could not blame them. It wasn’t often that an Execution Line was performed for the audience. Even he was finding himself looking forward to the bout, but resigned himself in knowing that it likely wouldn’t happen -- it was rare for whatever poor sod to survive the trail of gladiators that would enter the battle floor long enough to actually engage with the Champion themselves. In fact, he doubted that whoever the mech was that had been thrown to their mercy would survive the initial five rounds.

(the execution line was reserved only for highest offenses, and he knew none of his fellow warriors had been convicted of anything of late. whoever the council had cast into the death toll was likely no fighter, and an unfortunate casualty soon enough.)

The force of their cheering caused rust and grime to fall from the walls and ceiling, some landing on his own frame. He ignored it, for the most part, more intrigued by who could have angered The High Council enough to allow this sort of fight. Not that they would ever admit that they were behind the judgment, he thought with sobering detest. Oh, The High Council condemned the gladiators and their practices to the public, but certainly reaped from their struggles in shanix and convenient bodybags. They would never acknowledge using the Pits as a punishment; that was their secret to benefit from.

Still, it made him wonder. It was unusual for there not to be at least a name to identify who was being thrown into the arena. The Guilds in particular with their pride in control over the populace of Cybertron would have certainly paid measures to detail the information. After all, what was the point in shaming one unto public execution if you did not even bother to speak their name? It made his armor lift in anxiety and paranoid alert. He did not like that there was so little information about who the Execution Line was for. Something was screaming at him in his spark (it’s wrong, something is wrong, the picture is misaligned) that he had to investigate further, but what could he do? It wasn’t as if he could simply run out to the field now; his turn would not be for some time, and upsetting the way of things would earn him beratement from his patrons. He didn’t feel much like listening to the inconveniences they’d suffer because of him.

But sitting idle and waiting his turn was not something he desired either. Something wasn’t right, and he had a sinking feeling that he would not like what he discovered.

Elsewhere, heavy metal gates (rusted and worn and adorned with spikes and scars from its own trials of standing watch over countless battles) opened before Orion with struggled movement. A triad of gladiators stepped from beneath its shadow, each of them only a head taller than Orion himself. After an exchange of glances and a nod, two departed to either side of the arena, remaining close to the walls and banging loudly on the metal to rile the crowd further.

Their uproar drowned the announcer, reveling in the barbarism to come. The third gladiator, rolling bulky armored shoulders, loosened an electrical mace in his grip to allow it to fall to the black sand with a loud beat of discharge. The electrical surge popped, upending parts of the sand and shooting it into the air like a black geyser. He did this a few times, mockingly staring Orion down in the center of the arena, attempting to intimidate the non-combatant in his display. The crowd was not the only one eager to see metal spark and burn.

Especially for what they perceived to be a dead mech standing.

The two gladiators that had split to the side came to the center, only to dispatch an array of weapons on the field for Orion to choose from. Bloodbath it might become, but even the guiltiest party deserved to fight for their life. The two simply stared Orion down before turning and backing away, returning to slamming the metal of the walls and amping the crowd.

The remaining mech laughed, going so far as to kick a detached spearhead in Orion’s direction with lackadaisical care. 

“Think you’re lost, librarian! No archives here for you. Thought you higher caste were all about your smarts! Well, we’ll see what I find when I crush that dainty li’l helm of yours, huh? Maybe put it on my wall as a trophy -- maybe invite your high’n mighty Megatronus himself to look at ya’!”

The roar of the crowd nearly drowned his words, even shouting as he was. So confident in his own ability to win the battle, he disengaged the electrical line along his mace, stretching his arms out, open and taunting.

Orion -understood- that his friend was restricted by unfair laws and regulations. Of course he didn’t agree with such rules and would be astonished and delighted to see Megatronus in Iacon. There was so much he wanted to show him! However, it did not matter how excited the thought made him, he knew the unfairness of their society would be blaringly -obvious- while visiting the city. Orion himself, had thought of it many times since he first met the gladiator and often felt shame that even his meager habsuite was far more than what most Kaonites could dream of.

But enough of those thoughts, he was visiting Megatronus.

The pede pushed back as Orion chuckled then waited for the gladiator to join him. A grunt sounded in his chassis and the archivist gripped the railing tightly, the entire thing shaken with Megstronus’ ascent.

“I enjoy surprising you,” he started once he was steady on the rail again. “You would love the Archives, multiple levels all filled with datapads. Different topics, times, theories. I could go on and on, but as for being treated well.” He leaned closer and lowered his vox. “You could maybe put some fear into ScriptScan, he’s a bit of an aft.”

But his expression fell and the archivist groaned dramatically when that name was mentioned, face soon buried in his servos. “No. Never again. You two are -never- meeting again.”

There’s an almost gleeful amusement sparkling in his optics at the possibility of doling out punishment for one of Orion’s coworkers. It was, perhaps, Orion’s own granted permission that made him oddly excited at the idea. He was a violent mech by nature -- to survive in the Pits, one must be -- but purposeful antagonism was hardly on his mind in most events. In fact, most of his temper and violence sourced from those who had already shown their hand by their treatment of his people or comrades. Orion could be just as temperamental (even if he might not admit so) but never resorted to offending others if he believed there was another way.

This ScriptScan must be quite the irritant for Orion to give his blessings for whatever Megatronus might consider appropriate retribution.

“I will keep the designation in mind. Even the name sounds annoying,” he chuckles but interrupts his own laughter with a howl of delight at Orion’s immediate twist in expression at the mention of his other-mentor. It was no known secret that he and Alpha Trion hardly got along -- in fact, he muses, he would not be surprised if they both were content the other simply stopped existing entirely. There would certainly be no lost love between them in that event.

“For Orion Pax, ever-believer in finding common ground and cooperation, to give up on both of us so soon? We must have been quite terrible. It wasn’t that bad, surely,” he jests. Then again, he can’t recall a time he purposefully said such lewd and provocative comments about nor towards anyone in his life beyond Alpha Trion. Idly he wonders what it is about the mech that seems to set him off so badly.

Superiority complex, the lot of those upper castes, his mind provides bitterly. 

“Besides, he started it.”

Megatron: I'm aware of that.

Ratchet: But then you and I had some time together.

Megatron: Yeah...

                               the youth found himself immediately rendered to silence. did he– just– he did. he most certainly did. this mech managed to threaten him, belittle him, and taunt him in one fell swoop. lubricants beaded at the youngling’s optics at the last retort, it struck the boy directly to his core. the entirety of starscream’s frame had just now began to semi-relax, only to become rigid once more, more than likely not for the final time. those embedded talons crumbled the metal beneath, shavings sprinkling the floor. coating his digits. the boy felt the hot heat, the pain writing over the trauma, and it was too much. starscream awaited a pause in the mech’s work before abruptly jolting upward, into a standing position. an unstable one.

                              maintaining his wings facing the other, starscream loathed the lubricants that once more stained his cheeks. his frame tremors at a dissimilar velocity, cradling his own chassis as if the boy attempted to comfort himself.  ❝ y- you… ignorant– ❞ was all the boy could spit out before his frame erupted, abruptly facing megatron with pain that mirrored what megatron himself previously felt.

                                      ❝ you might as well just put me out of my misery now, then. because that dream you envisioned i frolicked in was a facade that had you fooled! ❞ flaring his elegance mounted upon his back, starscream hissed in pain with the involuntary movement, forcing more tears of agony and rage down his face.  ❝ i was far from my father’s pride and joy. i was his stress relief, his target practice. i lied when i stated i had no other injuries! my entire frame feels as though it could fall apart with each step, each blink of my optic! did you ever assume i was so sloppy to end my own suffering?! i was sentenced to death today, you insufferable– ❞

                              the boy’s systems made such a miserable, audible sound to them both before starscream fell upon his knees, to the floor. before the other could react, he whimpered so softly, voice absent of life. 

                                     ❝ you should have left me to perish. ❞ after all, that is all his father wished at the moment was starscream dead.

Starscream’s tense frame is all the warning he has before the other lunges away from him, and he is impressed with himself at managing to maintain still servos at the jolt. His stare narrows into a glare at the quiet words, so familiar, so provoking (how many times has he heard slurs and insults thrown at him beginning with that phrase? how many times has he heard it used as an excuse for the abuses they’ve suffered, used as a bludgeon to keep them in place?) that his instincts shroud him in pre-emptive anger, ready to burst at the seams to defend and protect himself from whatever scathing remarks the Seeker might spout at him.

But his words stall. The Vosian’s outburst takes him by surprise, though he does not express it so. He watches, silent and observant as Starscream seems to crumple upon himself at declared truths and testimony, wracked with pain (and familiarity he hates to admit and refuses to acknowledge) as if it is a burden unable to bear (because to acknowledge it would find fault with himself, and that he defies). Ugly derision wants him to mock the Seeker, to make it known that what he suffers is incomparable to what he and his have endured, that he should be grateful for his mercy.

Yet he doesn’t. The venom comes short and he can only stare at the pathetic cluster of wings and claws, folded unto themselves as if they might fade from existence if they only curled tighter. He felt pity -- and it was not an emotion he thought he’d ever experience in regard to another not of his own.

“Perhaps I should have,” he agrees after heavy silence allowing the Vosian to weep and rage to himself before finally speaking. “But I didn’t. And that is the consequence we will live with now.”

He has no words of wisdom for this. He has experienced the abuse of a taskmaster, of a noble, but he has never experienced the betrayal of a sire.

But anger. Anger, he knows. Fury, he knows. Hatred...

He is lovingly experienced in the benefits of holding that flame too close to the spark and using it to ascend higher than others would permit. Of riding the high of rage and capitulating to petty revenge (to justice) upon those who have wronged.

Orion tilted his head purposefully, brow ridge lofted just slightly. That was -not- what he meant when asking that question, but Megatronus was either ignoring that or he was clueless all together. Both concerned the smaller mech.

“You know I mean something -more- than just physical injury.”

A servo gripped the railing at the end of the row, the barrier separating the audience from the fights, and he jumped to sit atop it. The metal creaked under his weight, but held easily. There were some advantages to being smaller in build. From that position, he was above the gladiator, pedes dangling just inches higher than his friend’s helm.

Megatronus was still on edge, but Orion held no fear, just trust. Perhaps he could help him calm a bit more.

One pede swung almost playfully. “No rolling necessary, my trip was uneventful. I finished the last of the translations from the datapad I was assigned, so I managed to catch an earlier train. I thought I’d surprise you since my last trip was cut short.”

For a moment he is silent, merely admiring the view of his friend, his trusted, his brother from the vantage point. He hesitates to respond, not wanting to drag his own personal issues into the air between them; he wants to spend time with Orion, not wallow in himself and his own duress. Sometimes he feels selfish when they see one another, knowing the journey that Orion must make to and from Kaon, while Megatronus is restricted in his travels and bound to his city by law.

He wonders what expression his friend would make should he find him someday wandering about Iacon, lost and challenging any to tell him he belonged elsewhere.

“It is nothing, Orion. I will be fine. It has simply been a long day and I would not wish to burden you.”

The swinging leg above makes him tilt his head in turn, playfully striking up and knocking the foot with gentle force as if he might push Orion off-balance. Taking a step back, he gauges the height of the wall. He knows he can make the jump (he has done so before), and soon enough he is leaping, one cloven foot pressing into the wall at a distance to push him the rest of the way. His servo grasps the rusting bars and he can hear their audible strain against the density of his frame. He would not challenge their ability to hold his weight as Orion does, but he is content to stand beside his friend, turning to glance back at the arena and its void of sand.

It is strange to see it from this angle.

“But a surprise indeed. If I knew you were going to be arriving this early, I would have come to meet you at the station. Perhaps someday I should come and visit you instead,” he jokes, leaning into his earlier thoughts.