Chapter Text
<#>
Two vorns, three decacycles and one solar cycle since the last time he was online.
Orion stared at his chronometer dumbly, feeling as if someone doused him in freezing solvent.
That sure did wonders for maintaining his earlier optimism.
How could he be in stasis for so long? The damage he got from the fall must have been far worse than he first thought. Even now, some joors after his awakening he was still feeling sore all over.
D would have known what was going on with him, with all the medical reading he did back at the Academy. If only he was here with Orion, then-
Orion shook his helm. D would have hated him if he ended up in a place like this because of Orion. It was for the best that he was spared such a fate.
It’s been over two vorns and yet he still-
Was he even functioning?
No, don’t think like that. He’ll find D. He’ll fix this.
Even though the revelation was shocking, it didn’t do much to dull his sense of urgency. Bee generously offered to share his energon rations, but neither of them would last long if they had to survive off so little.
And if they grew weak from underfueling they could truly kiss all dreams of escaping a bitter goodbye.
“What exactly is your job here, Bee?” Orion asked, forcing the gears in his helm to turn. Bee said that there was no way out, but Orion would like to make his own judgement of that. Surely, there had to be something.
“I just sort scrap metal, mech. Trash comes from this shaft you fell from, no offense, and then the conveyor separates ferrous and non-ferrous metals into different containers that I later go through myself. What is salvageable I send down the shafts.” Bee explained, pointing at a couple of unassuming rectangular structures. Orion glanced at the aforementioned shafts only to face disappointment - they were too small for any of them to fit into. “What can’t be recycled I incinerate in the furnace, and I know that I am technically not supposed to do this, but sometimes I keep the more interesting trinkets to myself.” The yellow mech declared proudly, rummaging through his rather impressive collection of pinions and other metal miscellanea.
Eyeing the silhouettes of other ‘coworkers’ behind the curtain, Orion chuckled. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“I think Steve will be able to tell you more about it than I could, though I must warn you, once he starts talking, he doesn’t stop for a while.” Bee whispered into Orion’s audial conspiratorially, leading the other mech by the servo towards the curtained section of the room.
Orion didn’t protest, too busy trying to devise a plan. The shafts were out of question, so the only other reasonable solution is to go up. But falling trash would certainly pose an issue and it really was a long way upwards. Orion didn’t want to risk another fall.
Actually, didn’t Bee mention a conveyor separating metals? That could only be-
“Okay, Steve, can you please tell Orion all about our scrap metal collection?” Bee fell silent for a klik. “What do you mean, ‘who am I talking about’, obviously Orion is a real mech.” Bee glanced back at said mech, as if to make sure. “Yes, perfectly real. Listen, I know that this happened before, but I swear that this time-”
The taller mech decided to leave Bee to figure out his issue with… Steve on his own, while Orion explored the contents of the room, still deep in thought. He took note of the other statues, sitting behind a makeshift table along with Steve. He remembered Bee introducing them earlier, but in his confusion he barely paid attention to the way they actually looked. And despite Bee’s certain… quirks, Orion couldn’t deny the craftsmanship behind the constructions.
Maybe Bee could have been a sculptor.
Shaking off the thought, Orion returned his attention back to the yellow mech, with a question on the tip of his glossa. But he was distracted by something resembling an actual optic shining from inside Steve’s fake helm.
“Hey, Bee, what is that inside Steve’s helm?” Orion had to interrupt Bee amid his heated conversation with the statue, unable to help his curiosity.
“Uh? Oh, I dunno, a shiny thingy I noticed in scrap metal some time ago…It obviously couldn’t be recycled, so… I just used it for Steve’s new optic.” Bee answered, patting Steve on his shoulder. “Don’t ask about how he lost his last one though, it was pretty traumatic.”
Orion gave Bee a reassuring thumbs up, leaning closer to inspect the foreign object.
“Well, his new optic suits him just fine.” Orion said warmly without breaking optic contact with the statue.
<#>
Bee went into recharge not long after that, though Orion’s chronometer showed him that the solar cycle wasn’t over yet. He kindly offered Orion his place on the turned-off conveyor belt, but the taller mech refused, not entirely at ease with the thought of recharging so close to the burning furnace.
“Huh. Suit yourself.” Bee shrugged, laying down.
Orion waited for the yellow mech’s venting to even out before he rose to his pedes and made his way to the curtain, trying to walk as quietly as he could.
He came to stand face-to-face with Steve, the statue’s blue optic still illuminating the dark room without break.
Orion felt only a little bad for what he was about to do. He wasn’t going to damage the statue, he would put the optic right where it belongs after he finally sees what it actually was-
Oh, damn him.
Despite Orion’s best efforts to catch it, Steve’s decapitated helm fell on the table with an obnoxious clang!
Orion winced, as the sound reverberated around the room. Surely, it wasn’t loud enough to-
“Orion! What are you doing?!” Bee shrieked, no longer in recharge. He gasped upon witnessing Steve’s limp frame. “Why did you kill Steve?!”
Damn him twice.
“Listen, Bee, I can explain-” Orion began, only to be interrupted by a hoarse voice.
“I am calling for reinforcements! I repeat there was a Quintesson ambush-”
Orion turned on his heels with a speed that made his helm spin. Steve’s optic fell out of its casing, laying on the table and playing a SOS message.
Both mechs fell silent, inching closer to the apparent recording device.
It didn’t take long to recognise the speaker’s voice. Orion had heard it enough times in the Hall of Archives to have it seared into his permanent memory.
“Alpha Trion…” He whispered with a furrow of his brows.
The message continued.
“I am sending the coordinates to our location. Direct more troops here as fast as possible!”
The ‘optic’ flickered before displaying a holographic projection of Cybertron with a red location marker insistently gleaming on it.
“This is a map to the Primes’ last battle...” Orion uttered in stunned silence.
“Huh?!” Bee’s eyebrow ridges rose to comical heights. “Primus below, how did this recording even end up here? It’s a type of thing Sentinel Prime should see, not us.”
Orion took the chip and, after a klik of deliberation, attached it to his left servo compartment.
“We should check this place. The Primes’ grave.” He stated, tone resolute. “Maybe we’ll find the Matrix of Leadership there.”
“That is a cool plan, Orion, but uh, we are still kind of stuck here.” Bee gestured around their room emphatically. “We can’t just leave Sublevel 50!”
Orion’s optics trailed back to the shaft that brought him here in the first place.
“We can always try to climb up.”
Bee worried at his lower derma. “Listen, Orion, I- I already tried this before.” After a moment of deliberation, he tapped his helm softly. “That’s how I damaged my chronometer.”
Orion winced in sympathy. Maybe he should try a different angle…
“I am so sorry this happened to you, Bee.” Orion said earnestly before shifting gears. “Okay then, what can you tell me about the conveyor belt?”
“Conveyor belt?” Bee was so confused, all traces of somber reminiscing vanished from his faceplates. Good. “It moves and separates the metals. If I had to guess it has a magnet hidden somewhere in its construction… Why do you ask?”
Instead of answering, Orion moved towards the edge of the conveyor. Where the belt curved to change direction, what Orion suspected were non-ferrous metals fell directly into the awaiting container beneath. However, non-alloy steels and cast iron dragged a little further, defying gravity until the spell broke and they dropped into a separate crate. Having seen enough, Orion called out to befuddled Bee. “Hey, Bee, can you turn off the conveyor for a breem?”
He still looked confused, but with a glint of curiosity in his optics, the mech did as asked.
Orion pulled at the rubber material of the belt, revealing a shiny metal cylinder underneath. He remembered reading different mining and scrap recycling manuals back in the Hall of Archives, before he got the clearance to access a wider variety of datapads. Recognising the structure in front of him, Orion was suddenly grateful for never bothering to purge his older memory banks.
A triumphant grin pulled at his dermas and Orion turned to Bee, invigorated.
“As I thought - this conveyor uses a magnetic pulley to sort scrap metal. We can use this to secure our escape, Bee!”
Bee’s entire frame stilled, his optics wide. “You mean, you want to take apart the conveyor and climb the shaft using magnets? Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Not really.” He replied honestly. “But I am afraid our only alternative is to wait here and hope that someone checks in on us sometime soon.” Orion said. Judging by Bee’s wince, that sometime soon could easily stretch into never.
Seeing Bee’s conflicted expression, Orion raised his servo to put it on the yellow mech’s shoulder in a simple gesture of reassurance.
It froze halfway through.
“Though, I am sorry for acting so bossy here. Clearly you know better given your previous experience.” Orion hurried to clarify. Slag, this sounded so insincere. Abort, abort- “I mean, I wouldn’t want to pressure you into anything… I know this plan is stupid and reckless, so I would totally understand-”
Bee’s faceplates shifted from thoughtfulness to a look of open confusion. “Orion, what are you going on about? I just need a klik for my processor to catch up with all of this.” He reached out, fist-bumping the taller mech in his shoulder with an easy smile. “You know, I have no problem doing this, dude. No pressure or anything.”
“Still, I don’t want to be pushy here. You don’t owe me anything. If you have any issues with this, please tell me.” Orion added, hoping that he would make Bee finally understand. Please don’t regret meeting me going along with my shenanigans.
“Orion, are you okay? You are kinda freaking me out.” For a klik Bee’s expression grew severe, looking entirely foreign on his faceplates. The yellow mech tentatively nudged Orion’s field with his own. “I am your friend, obviously I am going to help you out with this.”
Obviously.
“It’s all about your heroic nonsense, consequences be damned! Both to yourself and others!”
Orion remained in his silent stupor for far too long.
“Unless it’s your way of asking me not to join you?...” The way Bee’s shoulders sagged made an already small mech look even smaller. “I know I can be annoying, but I thought that you don’t mind…”
“What? Oh, no no no, I don’t mind you coming with me!” Orion exclaimed, optics blown wide. How did he manage to mess up even more?! “Actually, I’d love you to join… I just wanted to make sure that it was your choice.”
Bee glanced around the sublevel and bursted out laughing, catching Orion off guard. Well, at least he didn’t seem upset anymore, so Orion would take that as a win. He could use more of those these days.
“Primus, Orion, you sure have a funny definition of choice.” Bee clapped on Orion’s shoulder pauldron. “Now, come on, enough of this, we’ve got a pulley to dismantle, don’t we?”
Apparently done with this conversation, Bee grasped Orion’s servo and together they approached the conveyor.
Bee continued to chatter while they were pulling out the magnets, but Orion couldn’t hear him much past the static in his processor.
<#>
A couple of joors of trial and error later, Orion and Bee had prepared their gear and felt reasonably ready to take on the indomitable heights of the shaft.
The bots attached a magnet to each of their limbs and tied a cable between their torsos, so they could pull each other up in case of one of them stumbling.
Orion entered the shaft first, ex-venting in relief, when he felt the magnets snugly attach themselves to the steel walls of the duct. The pull on the cord eased and Bee’s yellow plating emerged in the shaft as well. The mech tested his magnets and nodded with a smile that nearly managed to mask his frenzied nerves. Orion reached out with his EM field, brushing up against Bee’s tightened armor like a steady wave of comfort. Orion waited as the shorter mech recycled his optics and tension gradually left his frame.
“Let’s get out of here, Bee.” Orion grinned.
And so they went, one step after another, dodging the trash falling their way. The elusive light at the end of the tunnel expanded, grew and widened with each clang of magnetised limbs. The coordinated chorus of thuds and thumps brought them closer and closer to the surface.
Orion could swear a fresher breath of air was tickling at his vents.
Of course, that’s when the disaster had to strike.
Orion was the first to notice a sizable shadow that suddenly enveloped them. His vocaliser barely began synthesising a warning, when a piece of metal debris hit Bee, missing the mech’s helm by a frighteningly narrow margin. He yelped in alarm, as his limbs lost hold and he was left suspended by the taut cable.
Orion’s magnets scraped over the walls with the added weight of Bee’s flailing form.
“Bee!” The larger mech called out, straining against the insistent downward pull.
Bee held onto the cable like a lifeline, horror dawning on his faceplates at the sight of his magnets shrinking as they fell down the shaft.
“Uh, Orion?” He choked out, each glyph dripping with anxiety. “I think I lost my magnets.”
Oh, scrap.
The yellow mech swung on the cable to find purchase between the walls, locking his limbs in place. He looked every bit the trapped animal he felt like.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, Bee.” Orion reassured, whether for his own benefit or Bee’s, he wasn’t sure. “There’s not much left to go, you can make it even without magnets. I believe in you.”
Orion moved as far up as he could with the cable connecting them, but Bee still remained petrified, no matter how insistently Orion pulled. Bee’s optics were trained on the dark expanse of the shaft, his chassis heaving with audible vents.
“Bee?” Orion tried again, his digits digging into his magnets with a force that made them creak. He forcefully deactivated the panicked subroutines emerging in his processor. It would do no good if both of them were paralysed by fear. He took in a steadying vent. “Please, look at me.”
After a klik of hesitation, Bee met Orion’s optics, his own looking glazed over and no less panicked.
I already tried this before.
“You won’t fall down, Bee.” Orion began. “I won’t let that happen. We are connected, remember?” He nodded towards the trembling cable. “I’ll have your back, I promise.”
Orion extended his EM for good measure, offering his resolve to Bee. The mech ex-vented, nodding to no one in particular.
“Okay… okay.” Bee whispered. Then, louder. “I can do this!”
“Yes! That’s the spirit!” Orion grinned.
And so they continued. Orion slowed his pace, as Bee lifted himself up, metron by metron. Seeing how often Bee’s optics darted down, Orion shared the memories of some of the adventures he had with D, both in the Academy and the mines. When Bee slipped again, Orion cried out in alarm, but the other mech only shook his helm.
“It’s fine.” He said. His tense EMF begged to differ. “Just… keep talking. Please.”
So, Orion went on. He ventured so deep down the memory lane, that he wasn’t entirely sure when his voice took on a melancholy tone.
He even nearly missed the moment when they finally collapsed on a dirty steel floor, struts weak from equal parts relief and exhaustion.
Orion got up, offering a servo to Bee. Looking around an unassuming hallway with open awe, Bee staggered to his pedes. The expression on his faceplates filled Orion with fluttery mirth.
“Where to next, Orion?”
<#>
“On a count of three, we enter that train.” Orion gestured to Bee, both of them stationed on a beam. The smaller mech held thumbs up in mute affirmation.
A mech entered with a crate into a carriage they wanted to infiltrate.
One-
He exited the wagon.
Two-
All clear.
Three!
In a matter of kliks Orion and Bee got inside the carriage and found cover behind its numerous crates. Bee fist bumped his friend, celebrating a mission complete. Orion silently chuckled, relaxing against the crate.
At last, after all this effort, they would go to the Surface, find the Matrix and bring it to Sentinel. Orion was so giddy his plating was almost rattling from excitement. Yes, they would help restore Cybertron, and then Orion would find D and they would finally make amends-
Someone stepped inside the carriage.
<#>
The stupid crate was a heavy weight in Elita’s servos.
Placing the final container into the carriage, the femme unbent her back. Elita sighed contentedly when it popped, releasing tension from her stiff struts. She was so ready to be done with this shift.
However, before she could leave her visual feed registered an irregular light source within the crate. Ah, an open rooftop entry. Elita narrowed her optics. Steps light like a feather, she prowled in between crates, looking for the blasted intruder.
If someone were to cause trouble with the cargo during her shift…
Elita shook her helm. Get yourself together. Today was not the solar cycle she would find out how many more times she could be demoted before reaching the rock bottom.
No matter what.
Within a carriage shrouded in the silence of an anxiously held vent, even the smallest clang reverberated with the force of a thunder. Elita turned to the source of the sound, her biolights on, only to be stunned into silence herself.
“Wait, Elita, this is not what it looks like!-” Orion Pax, of all mechs, tripped over his words, trying to get up.
She should have guessed that where there was trouble, Pax was always somehow involved.
“Intruders!” Elita shouted out, immediately sending a com to her superiors and halting the departure of the train.
The wait didn’t take long, as a couple of supervisors dragged out Pax and an unfamiliar yellow bot out of the carriage.
“Listen, I know this looks pretty bad.” Pax struggled in a cogged mech’s hold. “But I swear we had a good reason! We’ve got a message from Alpha Trion, I can show you-”
“Hah! Yeah, tell me more, no-cog.” The supervisor snorted. “What else, are you gonna tell me that you are secretly a Prime or something?”
“Stop arguing with crazy mechs, Oneshot. Getting kicked out of the Academy must have knocked a screw or two loose.” Another overseer sighed. The yellow mech in her grasp was babbling about something similar, doing his best to mimic a cyberworm with all his wriggling. The supervisor barely blinked.
Elita made a fatal mistake of accidentally making optic contact with Pax, who selected her as his next target for persuasion.
“Elita, please, you have to believe me!” He yelled, still being dragged away. “It’s about the fate of-”
The rest of the poor mech’s glyphs trailed off, the volume fading as they rounded the corner and gained distance away from Elita.
Something about Pax’s expression rubbed her the wrong way.
The femme ex-vented harshly, turning her helm to another supervisor who just reached the scene.
Better not to think about it too much.
“Good job on spotting the trespassers in time!” They congratulated her. Elita couldn’t quite remember what their designation was. “What a crazy way to end a shift, am I right?”
Elita hummed noncommittally.
After a pause that felt a klik too long she reset her vocalizer.
“So, uh, where do you think they are taking the… intruders?”
“Probably the closest holding cells.” The supervisor shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
Elita mirrored the motion with ease. “Just curious.”
…
..
.
<#>
D-16 got used to his new routine rather quickly.
Wake up from recharge, get fetched by one of the guards, who stubbornly refuse to make any direct optic contact, train until his struts give out under the weight of exhaustion, return back to his cell, refuel, and lie down on a slab, where D-16 would spend a couple of joors staring at the grey ceiling, too tired to move, yet too agitated to recharge either.
Due to being the only cogless gladiator in the Pits, he was required to train for three decacycles to “stand a chance against more advantaged combatants”. Most others started fighting and paying off their blasted debts within the first few solar cycles of their arrival.
But as D-16 investigated the contents of his chassis compartment, he was glad to have been surrounded exclusively by cogged bots. While his arsenal was limited, he did possess small pieces of tape, a barlow and some clinches and nails.
Ha, who was a hoarder now? D-16 thought with a caustic smile.
Unlike a certain mech he knew, D-16 wasn’t particularly well read on mechanics or electronics, though such trivialities would hardly deter him. He fished out his old broken datapad and eyed it with a critical optic. The damage was extensive, though hopefully not beyond repair.
In theory, adhesive tape would hold together the peeling layers of hardware well enough, but fixing the datapad’s shattered display posed a much bigger challenge.
D-16 sipped the remainder of his evening energon, tapping the cube in thought. Surely, he could find something that would fit the display-
His digits froze over the empty cube.
D-16 lifted it up, narrowing his optics.
The cube wasn’t made of glass, management of the Pits wasn’t that idiotic, but it did consist of clear plastic.
That would have to suffice.
D-16 stomped on the cube with all the tender mercy of a hydraulic press. Salvaging one of its less damaged sides for his repair project, he trampled the rest again for good measure.
The next solar cycle he asked one of the guards for a replacement cube. The mech raised an eyebrow ridge, but didn’t question further.
Though he did make it clear that the next time D-16 ruins his cube, he would have to drink energon from his own servos.
D-16 would happily ensure that there would be no next time to speak of.
By the end of that solar cycle fragments of the unfortunate energon cube were cleaned out and D-16 began his work. With great care he peeled away the shattered display, hiding it in the narrow space between the wall and his recharge slab. Using the datapad as reference, D-16 marked the required sizing for a new screen by leaving light scratches on plastic with his barlow.
Solar cycle by solar cycle he would work away at cutting the plastic during his rest joors, even if he didn’t yet know what he would use the fixed datapad for.
He would come up with a plan for escape in due time. For now, having a tangible goal to work towards had to be was enough.
<#>
The streak of repetitive monotony in D-16’s training was eventually broken by a sparring match with an actual living mech.
“So, you are the rumored cogless fella everyone’s been talking about, eh?” A red bot with a yellow chassis, introduced as Blaster, chuckled. The mech got into his stance, transforming devices resembling speakers into normal-looking gunmetal grey servos. D-16 could appreciate the effort of making this spar look less one-sided than it actually was. Even without any special abilities involved, which in Blaster’s case seemed to have something to do with sound, the mech was a hulking mass that dwarfed D-16 by a couple of helms in height.
D-16 didn’t bother to share his designation, instead nodding along to whatever Blaster was saying. Not being recognised put D-16 at great ease. It was probably the only time the mech would thank the Pits for allowing their fighters no communications with the rest of Cybertron. The less those mechs knew about his past, the better.
Hook, feint, clinch, parry-
The steady rhythm of a fight would have lulled D-16 into recharge, if not for the harsh punch to the jaw the mech received for his presumptuous slackness. Back to full awareness, D-16 tried to backpedal, only to be pinned by Blaster.
“Do you yield?” He asked, sounding entirely too smug.
D-16 struggled against the bigger bot’s hold, but in truth he knew that it was over. With an aggravated sigh he relented.
“Yes.”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Blaster laughed, getting up. His annoyingly unrestrained EM field radiated puffed up pride that made D-16 roll his optics. Oh, yeah, how impressive is that, to defeat someone almost half your size? Someone give this mech a medal before he bursts.
“Not bad, mech! Though maybe keep your helm up next time, eh? A common mistake for a beginner, but you gotta do better to survive in the Pits.” Blaster continued.
“I suppose you are the most experienced mech in here then?” D-16 bit out, before he could stop himself. Oh, well. It wasn’t like he was here to make friends anyway.
Surprisingly, D-16’s acerbic tone completely flew over Blaster’s helm. “Nah, that would be Barricade! He’s been in the Pits the longest.”
Barricade?
Turning the information over in his processor, D-16 hummed.
Maybe he should pay the mech a visit sometime soon.
<#>
Apparently, company was a privilege that D-16 had to earn.
Asking one of the guards to visit other gladiators got D-16 a barking laugh in response. The few times he’d be allowed to meet other combatants outside of the arena would be during communal lunch breaks - something D-16 would only obtain access to after his first ‘proper’ fight.
A death match with another ‘rising star’ that was.
And it made a perverse sort of sense, D-16 mused. Why lose more experienced, more valuable fighters in a death match, if they could put on a good show with their skill for many cycles to come? No, leave that to novices - even unprepared you can count on mechs to get creative, when their functioning is at stake. An unpredictable, savage fight fueled by a desperate desire to live would surely satiate a hungry crowd. D-16 could almost appreciate the pragmatic automatism the Pits operated with, if he wasn’t the one caught up in the crushing gears of this machine.
And before the mech could do so much as process the sharp bite of the machine's sprockets, the solar cycle of the fateful fight was upon him.
D-16 examined the wall in front of him, like one would eye an assortment of condensed energon treats. He was just allowed entry to the armory, to prepare for his initiation match, leaving him with a wide range of options for his weapon of choice. The armory was lined with all sorts of sharp and no doubt deadly objects, most of which D-16 has never seen in his functioning before. Carefully tracing his digits over blades and spears and arrows, D-16 considered his options.
He needed something that would let him deactivate a mech quickly.
Those cowards wouldn’t let him use any firearms for obvious reasons, but it didn’t mean that there weren’t any other awfully fatal weapons in the Pits’ arsenal.
Swords and blades did very little damage, unless you were able to reach vulnerable cables and struts, all the soft mesh hidden beneath tough armor. And that would require short range combat, that D-16 embarrassingly had very little prior experience with. However, if D-16 could find something with a longer range, it would give him the much needed advantage…
D-16’s digits paused over a simple metal handle. The unassuming handle slithered into an iron chain, coalescing in a fanged head, that promised a world of agony to anyone unlucky enough to end up on its receiving end.
A mace.
D-16 picked up the mace with tender reverence usually reserved for one’s own offspring. It would be an extension of his servo, an unstoppable force that would crush through shields, armor and whole mechs if necessary, destroying everything and anything that would dare stand in D-16’s way.
The mech grinned with all his denta, mulling the possibilities over in his helm. He allowed his processor to conjure up an image of him escaping the Pits, tearing through every guard, every barrier, every locked door, that kept him away from light, away from freedom. Such a fantasy held its allure, but reminding himself of how little he actually knew of the Pits, of all its winding corridors and beguiling labyrinths, D-16 banished the image. If he wanted to make it out alive, he had to be more strategic, than recklessly tearing through the walls like a storm.
No, what he needed to do was cause a flutter in a dovecote.
<#>
D-16 stepped back into the limelight with all the confidence of a newspark on its first mining expedition. The mace replaced the weight of his industrial drill; a new tool with the same old purpose.
Extraction of energon.
The bot he had to fight was just another shaft, one that would gleefully consume anyone with enough hubris to become complacent, one that demanded his full focus and attention. A beast he would have to slay if he wanted to get out of the mines, out of the arena, out of the Pits online. An assignment that required being as ruthless as he would be with sawing off a particularly dense energon crystal.
He wished gladiators wore masks.
D-16 schooled his expression to meet his opponent.
Towards him from an embrace of the shadows came forth a familiar figure, even if he did look smaller and more battered than the last time they met.
“Time for a match revanche, huh?” Blaster chuckled, as he approached with empty servos. The mirth in his voice barely reached the mech’s dim blue optics.
D-16’s grip over his mace tightened.
Why were they pitting him against a cogged mech, a gladiator who already had enough experience in the Pits to be training the younger fighters? D-16 didn’t even have the chance to become a proper gladiator yet, did the arena want to spit him out before it even could feast on his metal proper? Was disarming Blaster some half-baked attempt to even out their chances and prolong the spectacle?..
Though, it made him wonder why Blaster would hold back again, instead of using whatever fancy tricks his T-cog afforded him.
The mech himself adopted an orthodox fighting stance, a forced image of nonchalance, waiting for D-16 to make the first move. The grey mech circled Blaster before charging, his frame winded to transfer as much kinetic energy into his weapon as possible upon impact.
But Blaster dodged the attack, using D-16’s open stance to strike the smaller mech into his chassis. The blow forced all air along with a pained wheeze out of D-16’s vents. Staggering on his pedes, D-16 barely ducked away from the next swipe, directed to bash his helm open. Gaining some distance from his opponent, D-16 lunged for an attack again. This time though, he was careful to time the impact of the mace with his spring forward, to not afford Blaster another easy opening. The head of the mace shot off in an arching motion that was cut short with Blaster’s grab for the chain. In a blink of an optic, the larger mech tugged hard, dragging D-16 back into close proximity. Before Blaster could reach him, D-16 used the taut chain as leverage to launch himself to kick Blaster in his discolored yellow armor. The stunt did less damage than D-16 would have hoped, so after a split klik of recovery, Blaster seized him by the intake. D-16 struggled in the iron grip, only to be sent barreling helm-first onto the unforgiving surface of the floor.
He could taste the energon dripping from his shattered optic. His visual feed doubled, overlaid with an eerie azure hue. But taking a closer look at the bot looming over him, it gained clarity like a low-resolution snapshot undergoing de-pixelisation.
A haphazard jagged weld ran across Blaster’s chassis, right over where protective panels are usually meant to be. Ones that cover a bot’s T-cog. D-16’s remaining optic narrowed. Any surgery or medical procedure involving transformation cog reconstruction is bound to be immensely difficult and expensive, requiring specialised expertise. And that’s without even factoring in the prolonged recovery periods such injuries always demanded…
If he were to win, D-16’s initiation match would quite literally be waste management.
Grinding his denta, D-16 shifted his pedes into a wide stance, attempting another swing with his mace. As he expected, Blaster easily countered the attack and twisted D-16, bringing the mech colliding with the floor once again. Even though the mech braced for the impact, he still let out a loud scream once he was on the ground. He twitched for a couple of kliks, but didn’t get up, his optics closed and vents set to their highest (and loudest) circulation. Blaster approached him, expression grim, as he leaned over D-16. He lowered his helm, a perfect image of sorrow, and twisted back in preparation for what was evidently the finishing blow.
Seeing Blaster’s chassis left undefended, D-16 sprung from his position and tore into the flimsy weld with both his servos, ripping the panels from their hinges. Blaster cried out in alarm and backed off, desperately trying to shield his open chassis.
However, the damage was already done. D-16 had seen enough diagrams of T-cogs to know with a single glance that Blaster’s cog was in a sorry condition indeed.
Using his opponent’s disorientation, D-16 took his chance to swing his mace without a chance of interception. Accumulating energy with a spin, he aimed the blow right at the center of Blaster’s chassis, towards his exposed T-cog. The tip of the mace found its target and D-16 could swear that the scream it elicited could not have come from a bot, if he hadn’t seen it happen himself. Blaster roared in pain, collapsing to his knees, as his upper torso sparked and sizzled. D-16 tentatively came closer, mindful of not letting his guard down. Blaster laid down, struggling against his convulsing struts, overcome with electric charge. He raised his optics upon hearing D-16’s pedesteps. Looking down into them, D-16 found equal parts fear and betrayal.
And how fair was that? They were nothing more than strangers, whose only shared characteristic was their indentured servitude as gladiators at the Pits. The pair was no different from a couple of cyberhounds pitted against each other, trapped in a cage only one of them would be allowed to leave in one piece. If D-16 had capacity for focusing on anything other than his immediate survival, he would have bristled at the implication that they had any kind of moral obligation before each other.
D-16 had the victory in his servos. All he had to do was land the finishing blow upon his opponent. One who was already severely injured and couldn’t fight back.
The handle of the mace filled with lead in D-16’s servo.
From a corner of his visual feed D-16 noticed Clench beginning his descent towards the arena. The ringleader expected the fight to be over any klik now.
“Do you yield?” D-16 asked blankly.
“Yes.” Blaster croaked out, his voice full of static. His faceplates crumpled in an expression one could describe as something between a smile and pained grimace.
D-16’s digits went slack around the mace and the energon-stained weapon clattered to the floor. Clench stopped approaching at the safe distance from the two gladiators and gestured at D-16 in confusion. D-16 simply pointed at Blaster’s mangled chassis and shrugged. The other mech clenched his jaw, but after a klik relented and held up a servo to his audial, evidently sending a comm to the clean up team. Guards and Clench continued closing the distance on the gladiators, indicating the end of the fight.
“Maybe keep your helm up next time.” D-16 said and Blaster broke into a series of laboured chuckles. They both knew there would be no next time.
A couple of guards hoisted Blaster on a stretcher and carried him away, but D-16 heavily doubted that they were going anywhere near a med bay. Contrary to the cheering of the crowd, the grey mech felt anything but victorious. Yes, he won, yes, he spared Blaster, but to what end. It was obvious that the injured mech had run his course as a gladiator. For the Pits he was nothing more than a liability, a broken cog in the machine, a busted piece that will be inevitably disposed of. Regardless of whether D-16 would be the executioner or not.
Perhaps, it would have been kinder to go for that final blow after all.
D-16 raised his helm, his gaze going past the audience members and straight to the Thirteen Primes who were watching them from above, immovable yet still radiating stoic regality through their sheer presence. He liked to imagine that instead of casting judgement on the base displays of violence beneath them, their firm optics held a promise of strength and liquidation of weakness.
Especially the legendary warrior Megatronus Prime, the Vanquisher of Quintessons. The strongest, the noblest, the most stalwart Prime of them all.
The crowd quieted in the wake of Clench’s jubilant appearance in the arena. It took all of D-16’s restraint to not tear off the slimy mech’s whole arm, when Clench raised their servos in a joint gesture of victory.
“Congratulations on passing your initiation, gladiator. But don’t think that defying orders comes without a price.” Clench whispered into D-16’s audial, glyphs dripping with smugness. “Though enough about the negatives! Tell me, by what designation should I introduce you to your awaiting fans?”
Well, wasn’t that a no-brainer.
“Ladies and gentlemechs!” Clench began, gaining attention of dozens upon dozens of curious optics. “In this solar cycle you’ve witnessed the emergence of a new gladiator of the Pits.”
Clench paused, issuing a silence that drew the viewers closer, their venting held in anticipation of the ultimate reveal.
For all his disgust and helpless rage, in that moment D-16 reveled in their engrossment. Yes, he thought. One solar cycle nothing shall remain of this hell. But for now, I welcome each one of you with open servos - for you are cheering on your own unmaking.
“Please, extend your appreciation for the one and only-” Clench announced, all pomp and fancy. “Megatron!”