Chapter Text
Vos was brighter than Kaon. The air was cleaner. The buildings were taller. Everything was glass and gold.
Megatron was ill-suited for it, and the sneering mecha who passed him on the walkways as he was led to his destination -to his new home- made sure he knew that.
“The palace,” his guide informed him, when it came into view, a glimmering tower that reached into the sky, narrowing towards the top. It’s peak reflected the sun like it had been mounted with a star.
Megatron maintained his stride, giving the structure only the briefest of glances. It was beautiful, and he understood that most would be awed by the sight, but the opulence was wasted on him; as his guide seemed to realise, shaking their helm and waving him on.
When they reached the palace gates, Megatron was left to fend for himself, his guide leaving with a put-out huff.
Royal guards stood at attention, identical and statue-like. None reacted with surprise at the unpolished Tarnish grounder dragging himself before their walls, so at least they knew to expect him. One gestured with his weapon towards a smaller, hidden door further along the wall. Megatron nodded his thanks, noticing how the guards optics lingered on the sword mounted to his back.
He soon learned that the Vosian palace wasn't one building -like the pictures of castles and fortresses from the story-files of his youth- but a collection of many, each larger and more decadent than the last. Busy seekers rushed from one to another, all brightly coloured and clean. There wasn’t a grease smudge to be seen.
Megatron folded his arms across his dust speckled chest. It was probably best he refrained from touching anything.
“Finally!” A crisp, Vosian accent called from across the courtyard, as a tall, finely-polished seeker came striding out of building. He was the same blue colour as the sky, with white and gold embellishments. He looked expensive, in a truer way than any gangster or game runner that passed through the arena could ever be.
“You must be the mechling they sent us.” He said as he reached him. “Megaton, isn’t it?”
“Tron,” Megatron corrected, watching the seeker look him up and down, studying his frame. “My designation is Megatron.”
“Taller than I expected,” the seeker murmured to himself, not really listening. “But you must use it to your advantage. You’ll do.”
Megatron frowned at the idea that he ‘would do’. He had been chosen -plucked from his arena out of hundreds- by the very mecha who ran the games, because they had decided he would be best suited for this ‘privilege’.
Never mind that he had had his own ambitions back in Kaon. The Vosian royal family had asked for a gladiator, and so a gladiator they would get.
Megatron bit his glossa and remained standing at attention, like he would for the pre-match line up, when the spectators came to place their bets. The seeker circled him once more, pausing briefly at the sight (and size) of his sword, then nodded.
“I’m sure your armour will thicken when you’re fully upgraded.” He murmured. “Come. You’ll be housed with the servants. I’ll show you to your quarters. There will be wash-racks there to use. I can see you have had a difficult journey.”
The journey had been long, but not difficult. Megatron suspected the seeker actually just thought he was dirty. Little did the Vosian know this was the cleanest he might have ever been in all his years of function.
He followed the fussy seeker without protest.
But as they crossed the courtyard, he heard laughter.
With a frown he looked up, and saw three seeker mechlings watching him from a balcony. One waved, another ducked shyly out of sight. The last and smallest of them, with a dark face and silvery-white wings, sneered at him in disgust.
“Hurry now!” the seeker called from ahead, when he slowed to stare back. “We’re on a tight schedule. You will only have tonight to settle in before your training begins, and we will need to go over some rules.”
Megatron tore his gaze away.
He felt he had already been informed of the ‘rules’ when they had packed up his meagre belongings and hurried him into the transport ship. Clench waving a gun in his face and telling him to quit complaining, that if Megatron fragged this up for him, he’d be lucky if he was only dismantled for parts to make up for the lose of earnings with this contract.
“These are the servants quarters,” the seeker explained, as they stepped into one of the smaller buildings. It was older, and fairly plain compared to the other buildings, but it was clean and well maintained. Better than the rooms beneath the arena where Megatron had lived before.
“There is a private yard behind the building. There you will train and hone your skills. You’re not permitted access to the main courtyard or any of the other buildings unless you are escorted there by guard. You are not a guest here, so remember your place. And do not interact with any member of the royal household.”
“The Winglord’s household?” Megatron asked for clarification, unsure who existed in this ‘royal household’ to begin with. He had heard there was a Prince too, and a few viscounts -whatever those might be.
“Yes. Any royal resident of the palace,” the seeker told him sternly. “You are an expensive investment the Winglord is making. If you do well, when you reach majority, you will have opportunities the likes of which few could even dream of. Thousands of your kind would give anything to be in your place.”
Megatron wondered how this prissy seeker would know anything about Megatron’s ‘kind’, and what they hoped for in life.
"I would think they’d give anything not to be owned,” He muttered under his breath.
The seeker heard him, turning sharply with an unimpressed look, "If you wish to return to Kaon, that can be arranged. There is no shortage of brawlers on your streets to replace you with."
Megatron wanted to show him why he wasn’t so easy to replace. But it was unlikely the Vosian’s had easy-going opinions about being punched in the face by their lessers. Megatron wisely kept his mouth shut.
The seeker opened the door to his room. Inside was a modest berth, a small window, and an empty storage crate to house his belongings.
“Are there other gladiators here?” Megatron asked before the seeker could leave.
“No.” The seeker said. “But the guards-in-training use the yard too. You are permitted to speak to them, if you wish.”
Megatron grunted, moving to sit on the berth. The seeker looked him over one last time, before shutting the door with a sharp clack.
Megatron sighed.
It was going to be a long few vorns.
Starscream poked at his energon, scowling at his own reflection in the crystal cube. On his back, one wing always hung lower than the other, and no amount of adjusting his posture would fix it. He had been told he would upgrade out of it, but-
“What are you squirming for?” Skywarp noticed, slurping his energon noisily. “You sit on something pointy?”
For once, Starscream resented the absence of their sparkling-hood governess, and the swift smacks she would always deal to the back of Skywarp’s helm for his abysmal table-manners.
He ignored his trine-mate, leaning back over his cube, miserable-
“Starscream,” his sire’s exasperated voice called from the head of the table. Starscream lifted his helm, but the older seeker hadn’t even looked up from scrolling through his memos. “If you don’t drink your fuel, you’ll stunt your next upgrade.”
“He’s already stunted.” Skywarp piped up helpfully.
The dinning table in the main fuelling room was far too wide for Starscream to reach across and strangle his trine-mate, but his rush of anger was too great to ignore.
He snatched up his neglected cube, ready to launch it at Skywarp’s stupid-
When it was swept out of his servo.
“Impeccable manners as always, your highness,” Seneschal, his sire’s chief steward, strode past with the confiscated cube.
Starscream scowled hatefully after him, but Seneschal had other priorities.
“Your gladiator mechling has arrived, your majesty,” Seneschal stood at attention at his Winglord’s side.
Intrigued, Starscream suddenly forgot what he was annoyed about. A gladiator? Not that dirty-looking mud-dweller he had seen trailing after Seneschal that afternoon?
He shared a look with his trine. Skywarp looked equally intrigued, while Thundercracker looked like he’d just been put off his fuel.
“Hmm,” Starscream’s sire hummed in acknowledgment, still reading through his memos. “How is functioning?”
“He is in good condition, considering. He may be fight ready in just a few luna cycles.”
“Gladiator fights?!” Skywarp burst out, because he could never be subtle about these things. “Does that mean-“
“No.” Seneschal cut him off, knowing exactly what he was going to ask. “It’s a barbaric, senseless bloodsport that has unfortunately spread to the lower rungs of our society. It would be an embarrassment to the entire household if you were seen attending a game.”
The Winglord merely nodded along, taking a drink from his cube. Skywarp slumped back in his seat, sulking.
“Where did he come from?” Starscream glared at Seneschal, “This vagrant fighter? He looked filthy.”
“Is that why you were staring at him, Screamer?” Skywarp teased, even as Thundercracker nudged his arm, trying to get him to shut up.
If only Starscream still had a cube to throw.
“He was sourced from Kaon, but I believe he has Tarnish coding,” The Winglord looked to Seneschal for clarification. Seneschal nodded.
“Tarnish mecha are always strong. Very sturdy.” His sire continued, finally meeting Starscream’s gaze. “They’re often used to mine energon.”
“Energon comes from the ground?” Skywarp asked wondrously.
“So you bought a miner?” Starscream said disbelievingly. He had hoped this mech would be a real gladiator. A champion. Not a dirty mechling from the filth of Kaon.
“Not bought. He’s on loan.” Seneschal interjected quickly. “We don’t own mecha in Vos, do we?”
Starscream pulled a face. Seneschal said that, but he’d heard otherwise. Whispered mentions during palace balls and formal dinners, from the younger seekers of other high-caste households.
Just because the Winglord declared something a law, didn’t mean everyone was just going to blindly follow it, especially if it went against an already established order. Now that Starscream had gotten older, he had begun to realise how naive his sire could be at times.
“Just don’t bother the mech,” his sire warned impatiently, giving him a stern look. “He is here to train as a warrior. He won’t have time to entertain an overcurious prince.”
“I’m not curious.” Starscream snapped, folding his arms huffily. “I just don’t want any of his diseases spreading around the palace.”
“He was screened before transport,” Seneschal sounded annoyed. “And regardless, he will not have access to any buildings beyond the servant’s quarters. But that is entirety redundant because you will not be going anywhere near him.”
“Is there something wrong with him?” Thundercracker asked quietly.
“Probably.” Skywarp nodded seriously. “He’s from Kaon.”
“It wouldn’t be proper.” Seneschal looked between them all, his servos clasped behind his back. “He is low-caste, and a grounder.”
“I’ve never met a grounder before.” Skywarp said eagerly.
Seneschal was looking increasingly exasperated, “Nor will you be.”
“I don’t see why he has to stay here.” Starscream grumbled, thinking about the way the mech had stared back at him from across the courtyard, like he could see there was something wrong with him.
He was short for a seeker. His wings weren’t level. His thrusters were still flat. His sire said he was a late boomer, but he had been late to bloom for a while now, and if even a grounder could tell there was something wrong with him-
“You won’t even know he’s here, Starscream.” His sire’s reassurance tore him out of his spiralling thoughts, but when Starscream looked up, he had already gone back to scrolling through his countless memos.
Starscream sighed, dejected.
Across from him, Skywarp was smirking knowingly.
“Shut up.” Starscream whispered.
“I wasn’t saying anything!”
“You were thinking it,” Starscream growled.