One Shall Stand

Any and all intrusive thoughts were discarded the moment he was, back armor squealing over steel floors before he caught a groove to hinge into, counter-balancing back onto his heels. The Communications Officer remains low, near stalking in gait when he manages his center gravity.

Before experience could pilot Soundwave's next move, his leader wasted no time to close the gap between them in a brutal execution of a freed blade aimed right to him.

A pause.

The floor between and beneath them gleams with energon, a canvas of their violent artistry. Much of it belongs to him, but a quick cut of optics reveals the most recent addition to Soundwave's own injuries is more than superficial. He scowls, hesitating.

Megatron knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Soundwave would press on, and while his own instincts and desires urged for him to do the same, there came the voice of reason to argue that causing any further damage to a bot so invaluable to their cause was foolhardy at best.

Yet, a match so glorious deserved an equally glorious end...

[closed starter for @paladinofthepits]

Mutiny couldn't say how he was feeling. 600 years of peace, and he had already decided, long ago, if Daddy dearest managed to track him down, he was going to be a massive, irritating bitch about it.

He liked to think he had succeeded on that point. The great Lord Megatron had to be seething right about now. Three ships in, and he knew the kid gloves were about to come off, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

The best case scenario was Dad let it all go and let him do what he wanted.

There was no such thing as a 'best case scenario' when it came to Lord Megatron, leader of the Decepticons.

So.

Here he was, loading up the bazooka, jamming in the missile in the chamber as he half-hummed, half-whistled some song from Earth about fireworks or something like that under his breath, a bit of a pep in his step as he took careful aim through the sights at the third ship he had 'borrowed', in-vent, ex-vent, and then--

The rocket sailed through the air right as the timer went off, the loud, high-pitched whistle making the audials ring, and the ship blew sky-high, triggering the fireworks that sprayed out PRESENT #3, GET IT TOGETHER, DAD! in the air. Parts and frag sprayed all over the valley he'd planted it in, smoke rising, and he grinned.

"Boom, boom, boom," he said, and tossed the bazooka to the side, before he turned around, and--

Ah. He really didn't look any different after 600 years, he thought.

"How many ships do I have to blow up before I get my housewarming presents, Dad?" he asked, cocking a hip and tilting his helm, entirely unrepentant, because Megatron showing up to loom behind him still wasn't a jumpscare.

"While I can certainly appreciate the lengths you've gone to in order to spite me, I feel as though this has gone on long enough."

A narrowed gaze sweeps the ruin caused by his petty display, and the tyrant wonders idly how many more ships the little menace could afford to destroy in the name of mockery. Such a waste of resources.

Optics snapping back to said menace, he drawls, "I suppose there is no point in asking you to make this easy for the both of us?"

Kup was knelt down on both his knees at the pedes of the seated warlord, both servos bound behind his back - an electric staff pointed directly into the small of his backstrut - electricity sparking at the end of the stave.

"Kiss the ring," Starscream ordered from the sidelines.

The Wrecker didn't budge. He kept his defiant gaze locked on that of Megatron's.

"Kiss the ring, Autobot scum!" the second in command hissed again as the prod sent a jolt of electricity coursing up his strut.

The Wrecker still didn't follow the order. Instead, he rose to his pedes before placing a searing kiss to the mech's dermas - and then immediately spitting on the floor.

Stealing glances through slitted, frustrated optics, the Seeker's engines whirr from somewhere in his frame, the fans in his ribs kicking on and discarding heat. He can pretend, but he knows who this is.

Dreadwing growls softly. Both hands reach up under Megatron's arms, as if you draw him closer, only for the sharp tips of his claws to jam into shining silver armor. Using all of the formidable strength in his massive hands, the Seeker drags them down the warmonger's back, making metal scream in a piercing cacophony of horrid noise. If he is going to do this, then he will make certain that the King of Decepticons feels the pain of his presence for a long time coming.

Megatron tries to pry the claws embedded into his sides away, though not without a measure of difficulty. The blue seeker fights to keep hold, wrenching yet another moan from his vocalizer. Finally he pulls those grasping digits up and out of his armor, pushing them aside and dropping to a single knee. His weight rattles the ship, spearing points of his own menacing servos wrapping determinedly about their targets, one over the curve of a hip, pressing, holding steady, the other under a thigh. He lifts minutely, angling it away, creating space for his hulking frame to press in close to the apex of those powerful legs.

Like the rumble that precedes a volcanic eruption, hunger escapes in the form of a deep growl, wide chest vibrating, steam hissing through slim vents. The warlord's optics snap upward, capturing the matching red gaze that peers down at him. His tone brokers no room for arguement.

"Still. Thrilled to make it into the pile of disappointments in the great Lord Megatron's life. There sure are a lot of things here to keep me company. Feels nice. Fulfilling. Homey, even."

"I certainly hope you weren't expecting to wound me with words."

His optics narrow, grin turning cruel. "Perhaps the next attempt to create worthwhile offspring will produce better results. Yet... if I find myself disappointed again, I'll just discard them as well. I have all the necessary resources to simply keep trying until one of you gets it right."

He shifts, servo lifting to pull up the visual Soundwave was sending. A small dot blipped on a map, coordinates scrolling across the bottom of the panel.

"Regardless... you have two options. Come to heel, and cease this ridiculous act of rebellion. Or die by my own servo. I'll be seeing you very soon, Mutiny. Do try to 'make up your mind' quickly."

"... Oh. So, you're not dead yet."

"Oh," he said, warning sirens going off in his head as he froze on the spot. "Don't mind me. Just-- Lost, aha. Thought it was a lift! Pardon me, just gonna--"

Yep. Not dealing with that. Magivoke did an abrupt about-face and prepared to slink off, because he was not about to put himself in more bots' crosshairs he couldn't afford to offend this time.

A clawed servo shoots out, hooking the ring of the retreating mech's collar plating before he can get too far.

"And what mess, pray tell, have you gotten yourself into this time?"

The sonorous command brokered no room for questioning, filling the quiet of the otherwise empty hallway like a roll of distant thunder. Hellish optics pin the mech with the weight of his expectancy as Megatron exits his habsuite.

Even so, Magivoke couldn't tell Megatron, whose berth he was not supposed to be in, and where was the rumored spark casing garland of sparks removed from Autobots' chassises personally by Megatron himself?? Where was the ambiance? The arch of decapitated helms? Why was it just some random door? He couldn't be blamed for this! It should at least be painted with the energon of his enemies! Anything! He was going to lodge a complaint with the quartermaster, actually!

In any case, he was not going to tell Megatron he got caught cheating at gambling. 1.) Cheating. 2.) They weren't supposed to be gambling. 3.) Cheating.

"Aha... Er, well, you see, some people are just so touchy, m'lord," he babbled. "You know how my mouth is, I don't even know what I said to make them so upset with me, but I assure you, I will-- Not be making it your problem, so if you could just--"

He wiggled in place, ever so slightly, and something about his evasive language and squirming with his back to Megatron gave off the extreme impression of some kind of prey animal caught in Megatron's servo trying to devise the best way to escape before it got eaten.

Everything about the flyer's reactions bespoke a primal kind of fear, the sheer level of it simultaneously thrilling him and tamping his urge to maim. Knowing he was suffering in his own way seemed suitable punishment enough, for now.

The silence that follows seems to suck the air from the vicinity, the atmosphere suddenly stifling. Finally he releases the fidgeting mech, denta gnashing as he further threatens, "If you have not corrected your error within the cycle, I will devise your discipline myself."

A single step draws the towering mech alongside the seeker, stare cutting as he gauges the other's cagey motions. Drawing himself to his full height, Megatron waits until the bot has garnered his courage enough to meet his gaze, then speaks again.