Spoilerific, I just wanted to write a wee little drabbly-sort thing. It's not serious, really, and at a certain point (see the movie and you'll spot the point) it turned into major AU. Written just for fun - of course I don't own the Transformers.
Now I know how Mojo felt, Sam thought, darkly, tugging at the ridiculous looking collar around his neck.
Of course it was alive, too, all glowy lights and fake jewels and damn it if it didn't look ridiculous, just sitting there around his neck, beeping every once in awhile, scolding him if he tried to sneak away, otherwise just sitting there, heavy and warm, waiting.
He felt like an idiot. A lot like a chihauha with girl's jewallery on.
To be honest, he had no idea what had happened to Mojo. Or his parents, though he could probably guess, what with the fact that everyone else was either dead or slaving away somewhere. That was human life, right now, slavery, or death.
Or, in Sam's case, being a pet.
He really hadn't meant to give him the cube. He'd been given an order by the soldier guy - he wasn't even sure he'd ever actually caught the guy's name - and he'd tried to get up onto the roof, cube in tow, to get it away from Megatron. He'd tried. He'd done everything he could, but there he'd been, clinging to the statue, and had Megatron taunt, "Give me the cube, and I'll let you live as my pet."
Oh yeah, that had sounded attractive.
And then he'd slipped.
It was the shaking, the way the building was quaking, his fingers slipping in their meager purchase on the statue, the cube itself making it difficult to hold on. He'd been clutching as hard as he could, but he slipped, and toppled off the building.
His heart had leapt into his throat... and then his breath had left him in a rush as he landed - hard - on something metal.
For one brief moment, he'd let himself believe it was Optimus Prime, catching him again, like last time, but it wasn't.
It was fucking Megatron, looking down at him, overly pleased with himself.
His only thought: I'm going to get crushed.
And he had been - partially.
Crushed to the point of agonizing pain and bones that felt like they were going to crack and merciful unconciousness. And then he'd woke up, aching, with fucking robotic bling.
The air was smoggy, smelling like gas exhaust and various engine fluids, as Sam padded down what was essentially one of his own little maze-like hallways now. Barely anyone else alive could fit in these tiny little halls - he barely fit in them. No way a giant robot was going to fit. Stepping out into what others called the Throne Room (and he called The Hall of Assholes), Sam scratched idly at where the robot rested on his neck, and walked around the side of the room.
Megatron was yelling at Starscream again. Not that he wasn't usually. Sam couldn't figure out why Starscream was still alive anymore. Megatron clearly wanted him dead.
Bonecrusher smirked at him when he passed. You wouldn't think a robot could smirk, but he'd been living with them for... what, a year? two? three? now. He'd picked up their expressions, their mannerisms, their moods. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to recognize human emotions anymore, not after living with robots for so long. Technically emotionless faces were all he had to look at anymore. Bonecrusher hated him. He was waiting for the time when Megatron gave him the go-ahead to rip Sam limb from limb.
Frankly, Sam was waiting for it, too.
After all, short moment of agonizing pain, and then it'd be over. He wasn't an Autobot. He wouldn't suffer for weeks like Optimus did, being slowly ripped apart but continuing to live so long as his spark was fine. Sam was human. He was weak. A few limbs rent off, and he'd be dead.
Didn't sound that bad, in the long run.
He'd tried to kill himself, in the beginning, first after he saw Mikaela and Bumblebee's twisted, broken remains; and again after Megatron held him over Optimus Prime's body as he reached in and ripped out the other's spark.
Each time, the stupid Deceptacon around his neck had stopped him. And then told Megatron.
Damn it, the Deceptacons were evil. Why did Megatron care so much that he didn't die?!
Starscream left the room suddenly, the ground trembling as he stomped away petulently, pissy again. He usually was pissy. Megatron glared after him, clearly debating the advantages of just blasting the underling from behind, then glanced to the side as he always did, as though Sam's meagre body heat alone was enough to alert him to his presence.
"Ah, boy. Sit."
Sam sighed, and crossed to the edge of the 'throne' Megatron had fashioned for himself, sitting at the foot of it, on the little ratty blanket he had for a seat.
"I wanted you to see something. My newest development."
He pointed towards the huge television screen across the room, smirking himself.
There were people on the screen. Or, what was left of people - dried husks of what was once people, starving and dirty, aching and in pain, working hard at red hot metal, forging it into huge sheets of metal, huge sheets that as the camera panned out turned out to be plates that formed parts of bodies - giant robotic bodies.
They're making new ones. They're not modifying our technology anymore. They're making their own.
Horror crossed Sam's face, growing as the first stood up off the line, blinking red eyes sleepily, like a newborn, as it lifted its hands to peer at them thoughtfully.
"No... God..." he gasped.
And Megatron laughed, and he realized, all over again, why he was still here, sleek and well-fed, adorned with stupid girly robotic jewallery that looked after him and guarded him.
What was the fun in being an evil tyrant if you had no one to lord it over? Those people, out there, they knew nothing of Megatron, not really, and they didn't care. Life was work now, work and pain.
Sam... Sam was still himself. Sort of. But he still felt horror and pain and grief and vague joy, sometimes.
And Megatron loved to torture him, to see that horror.
Eventually, he knew, he'd probably lose that. He'd get too jaded. Then either Megatron had to get creative to come up with some new torture, or he'd just let Bonecrusher have him, and he'd be ripped limb from limb and then he wouldn't have this stupid robotic necklace anymore.
He wasn't sure which would be better - the end of all the torture, or getting rid of the bling.