Transformers does not belong to me. They are the property of a bunch of other people. This fic is based off of IDW's mini-series, "Megatron: Origins". There are a lot of question marks left in this chapter and this story is how I interpret what was going on in Meg's head at the time.
We all were.
It was so unreal my central processor almost refused to digitalize what I was seeing. What I had seen. What we'd all seen.
I never thought I'd bear witness to the day when our rag-tag and rowdy bunch of social misfits were at a loss for words. That silence, I'll never forget it. It hung over us, an exclamation point of disbelief and shock. I'd never heard anything so deafening or profound in my life.
They'd killed him. Killed him as if he were nothing. As if he were insignificant. And all because he put a voice to the words that we all were thinking. It was a warning. A lesson. A promise to us all. The Senate had drawn their line and shown us what happened to those who dared cross it. If our place as Cybertronians had ever been in doubt, there was no mistaking now where the Senate thought we fit in.
I couldn't recall the dead mech's name as I stared at the still jerking body. There were too many of us on this rusted rock and all our faces looked the same after awhile—tired, battered, and bitter. But in some round about way, by sharing the same frustrations and hardships, he'd been a comrade and companion.
Now he was dying at our feet.
Were these…these monsters our protectors? Our leaders? I never deluded myself into believing the Senate cared for anything other than lining its own coffers, but to stoop to murder? In front of witnesses? That—I had not expected. None of us had.
"Workers…Brothers! Now if you'll just remain calm…"
I tore my gaze from the dying robot and fixed it upon the Senator. Remain calm? There's a mech twitching in his own fluids on the floor—put there by your own security team! And I'm supposed to remain calm? I could barely contain my disbelief. Could he not hear the death rattle? Could he not see the hand twitching, reaching in desperation, pleading to be saved?
"…I think you'll find the terms quite generous, hmm?"
Generosity? This? Having your head pulverized for having an opinion? I'd rather eat molten slag than accept this kind of 'generosity'. We slaved and slaved and slaved in the mines, destroying our bodies, practically starving, just so the Senate could build another Crystal City or art gallery in Nova Cronum. And this is how we're repaid? First fired, then executed for getting angry about it? When had we stopped being Cybertronian and started being drones to abuse and destroy?
"The Senate is just making sure you get exactly what you deser—"
I wanted to hear no more. The Senator's words became a slur, drown out by the buzzing of anger lancing across my internal systems. How much did they expect us to take? How far would the debase us? I was no one's slave. I was not an animal or a mindless drone. I had a name. I had a face. I deserved a place in our world—more so than the menace standing at the podium, surrounded by his guards and heel dog lackeys.
Somewhere inside me, a pendulum began to swing—and with it my hammer. It arced over the crowd, spinning like a wild electro-top. I buried my point home—literally—into the shoulder of the mouthpiece standing at the podium.
That's right. Everyone should get what they deserve, right Senator?
His scream was music to my audio receptors. For the briefest moment I thought it a pity I had missed his chest—and his spark casing. But the pain on his face, his whimpering cries as he fell to his knees, brought a shiver of satisfaction coursing through my fuel lines.
There was little time to savor the moment though, as his defense force moved to intercept me, and, no doubt, pound my face into pieces of scrapling.
That wasn't going to happen. I wouldn't go down crying for help—not like that no named mech now lying dead on the floor. If they wanted me, they would have to tear the Spark from my living body first.
I wasn't sure where this viciousness came from, I'd never been much of a troublemaker or fighter, but I tapped it like an energon line gone long dry. When the largest mech closed in on me, far too over confident in his size and upgraded body armor, I sent his aft colliding to the floor with a well-aimed kick.
Then I laughed at the shock in his optics.
It felt good.
He had expected his size to intimidate me, his sheer bulk to overpower me. The fool hadn't realized that me and mine were made of tougher stuff. Our bodies were scarred and battered, but we were built for heavy labor, made to take a beating and keep going. When had this son of a glitch ever felt the sting of an energy pick though his hand or been buried under a thousand pounds of rock? He was so proud of his fancy unmarred armor and ridiculously large shield—so proud he was blinded by ignorance. When had he ever had to suffer? When had he ever felt pain, gone hungry, or mourned the loss of a friend?
Never, that's when. And that thought made me even angrier. Why him? Why not me? How was he any better than myself?
It felt good to gloat as he sat prone on the floor, looking infuriated and nursing a dented backside.
I almost missed the blaster. He pulled it from subspace and pointed into my face. For an instant, my processors registered fear. He would kill me. Without so much as off-lining an optic. Shoot a hole right through my face without a second thought.
And suddenly the battle changed. Where I had been angry before, I was now consumed by rage. I slapped the blaster from hand with enough force to send it spinning into the furthest wall. The mech's optics flashed in surprise as I leapt at him, knocking him back to the ground. The fight became a grappling match, his massive hands trying to rip my head from my shoulders.
It was me or him. One of us would expire first.
I felt something pop in my neck and I snarled.
I wouldn't die.
My processor kicked into overdrive, readouts flashing before my optics.
"No," I hissed at him as he squeezed, my facial frame aching under the pressure.
Not like this.
Not by them.
I reared up and once more brought down my hammer—this time in the form of my fists. The mech's hands fell away from my head. Something warm blinded me, but my mainframe was running code past my optics so fast my CPU couldn't compute what was happening.
I barely heard the battle cry ring out as my brothers took up arms. "Take 'em apart!" The heavy footfalls were a din of thunder around me as I sat there, bewildered and confused. Everything seemed to slow down, time crawling as the fury bled from my body. For the longest time I couldn't move, I could only sit there and try to make out the mess that was left of the other mech's head.
Something warm and liquid dripped from my face and onto my arm. I raised my hands, staring at them in confusion. It was a deep purple, warm, and very sticky.
A lot of it.
I looked down at my opponent's still body. Looked at the place his head had once been. Stared at the explosion of purple and pieces decorating the floor.
What…What did I…?
My hands. They were covered in it—in him. It was leeching into the seams of my fingers, coagulating into the gears and wiring.
A horrible sick feeling made my Spark stutter.
What had I done? I closed my optics, praying to be woken up from the nightmare. Praying for it all to just end. Praying for it all to just be a dream.
One of my prayers was answered.
I opened my optics, staring though the mess on my hands, just as a blaster sighted in on me.
For the sake of spoilers, I'll keep the explanation brief. In IDW's "Megatron: Origin", Megatron starts off his life as a no name grunt chipping rocks on some mining outpost. The Senate comes to town to fire them all. Things get heated. Megatron makes his very first kill—and has a very un-Megatron reaction to it. If you have the chance to read the comic, do so. It is very good.