legionworld | open log

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Who| Megatron and YOU
What| exploring, being needlessly Extra, making a scene in the walmart with drift
Where| All over Legion World
When| Post the most recent plots.
Warnings/Notes| an overly dramatic reunion, shooting sim robots with big hologram guns

a. biome

Cybertronian wilderness wasn't a particularly comfortable-looking place on its own. Metallic dust coats the hills pulverized by the radiation of a star that normally had little protective atmosphere to get in its way. It was cold and devoid of anything resembling life on Earth. It was home.

What looked like a battlefield coating its surface looked perfectly in line with the rest of the desolate looking place. Dull remnants of once grand buildings and the skeletons of a crashed ships streaked through it. The remains of Kaon just as he remembered it. It had been millenia since their planet had become uninhabitable and their species forced to become space-faring nomads. One would think that perhaps he might opt for a version of their world a little less obliterated by total war, but he preferred this reminder instead.

He even included the makeshift throne crafted from Sentinel Prime himself - half furniture, half Sentinel arranged in a decorative fashion. And it was here Megatron sat, eyes smoldering and with energon cube in hand. He takes a long drink in silence.

b. sim room

After having arrived gunless to an alien world - worse, one full of organic creatures - it doesn't take long for Megatron to fulfill his due diligence and survey some of the weaponry currently available. For posterity, of course. The sim environment is a blank room, with not even a single target in sight. Yet.

What lie at his feet are seven guns, each to scale for a heavily built thirty-five foot space robot. Excessive? Maybe. But totally necessary in Megatron's opinion.

Two were of Cybertronian design: one being his currently missing arm cannon, the other a sniper rifle easily as long as he is tall. To the far right was a simple pistol, rather paltry compared to the other two, but necessary. All solid light holograms generated from the rather specific memories of a person who had intimately used them for millions of years, down to some of the nicks in the metal.

The other four were local models he had found in the database. Two energy-based, two solid projectile. Weapons that had, for whatever reason, been built to a similar scale. There had been more, but he narrowed it down to these four. The closest approximations to the Cybertronian weapons that he could find while perusing archives.

Kneeling down, he could be found examining one of the solid-light guns, disassembling and reassembling it. Reloading it. Examining all the functions and mechanisms and familiarizing himself with the alien tech, occasionally suspicious of the fidelity of the solid light projection. You know. Priorities.

c. cruiser docks

Sometimes, a guy needs the peace and quiet provided by the empty, inhospitable void of space. Flight wasn't something that usually came naturally, but Shockwave and Soundwave had truly done rather marvelous jobs in building him a new body. His vehicle mode handled like a dream.

Eventually, after familiarizing himself with some of the outside of the moon-sized station, he returns, not particularly looking for a proper docking space so much as an area of the bay that had enough room for him to shift back to root mode. He enters the cluster of cruisers as a black, triangular sliver of a space-worthy bomber, purple plumes spewing out of the exhausts.

The black sliver slows over an empty area, splits down the middle and transforms, going from sleek aircraft to grouchy looking Megatron as the engines cut and he lands on his feet.

for drift: shopping area

On a flight within the larger open areas of Legion World, Megatron spots a familiar white speck on the ground. The only other Cybertronian on this forsaken world, and he had finally found him. Never one to shy away from making a grand entrance, he transforms mid-air, allowing himself to fall towards the open-air courtyard of unassuming shops.

He slows his descent with the jets in his feet, but only just enough to allow for a thud to reverberate in the ground and shake some leaves off the trees planted at the center of various arranged benches. He stands over a futuristic water fountain in front of the exit to the courtyard, paying no mind to the Legion staffers who happened to be attempting to go about their business without giant robots getting in the way.

"It looks like our paths have crossed again, Deadlock."

d. wildcard
ooc: Feel free to poke me for plots at

hematite

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A three-year-old's work is never done, but only because this particular three-year-old is a workaholic who's very good at evading well-meaning adults. The new traffic routing algorithms will shave several percent off the energy usage in Legion World's non T-gate travel, and a few percentage points of that much volume represents quite a bit of power saved.

And then, of course, someone immediately ignores space traffic control to cruise on in like they're the only person in the universe. Val erupts out of the control tower office, three feet of righteous fury, only to stop short (so to speak) in fascination at Megatron's transformation.

"Cool," says a tiny voice up by Megatron's head. Fortunately for ease of conversation--not to mention a lack of temptation to step on her--Val's standing on a catwalk that puts her about ten feet above him, though there's only so much psychological advantage to that when you're a pint-sized adorable baby holding a plastic teddy bear mug in one hand.

Shepard's carrying a real sniper rifle (can't let Garrus get too cocky about his scores) when she comes across Megatron stripping his simulated one and stops to watch. Drift had been perfectly nice, so Shepard has no reason to suspect the new Cybertronian will be otherwise, at least within the realm of normal behavior. Some people are just naturally set a little crankier, y'know? But she's not going in expecting Sovereign's more flamboyant cousin.

"What does it shoot?"

Bonding over guns...this should be an easy one.

He's only a few steps off the landing area before he hears Val's comment. The Decepticon looks up to see a flesh being - even tinier than your average human - watching him with fascination. He makes eye contact, mouth set in his usual frown.

It was a step down from the utter terror he tended to invoke in most organics. He definitely preferred the latter. All this casual conversation with a hated enemy was making his circuits crawl. His mouth curls slightly with irritation.

"What?" he asks briskly, already feeling overly generous that he didn't just keep walking.

The presence of another Cybertronian is unmistakable, and this particular presence is one Drift instinctively recognizes. He knows even before he turns around, even before he hears a name long dead, that it’s Megatron. Megatron is here.

Deadlock. From anyone else, it might not have gotten a reaction, but in Megatron’s voice, hauntingly familiar — Drift flinches even as he rises to his feet on a sharp turn. He’d come to the courtyard to sit in peace, a change of scenery from the comforting familiarity of his biome. Being around people, even organics, is still wonderfully refreshing — this place is so full of life — and he’d fallen into a pleasant state of almost-tranquility. He could practically feel his aura growing lighter along with his spirit. Until now.

“Megatron.”

Not Lord Megatron. It’s been a long time since Drift bent his knee to the Decepticon. His usual cheerful energy is muted, almost gone entirely, his optics flat and his expression guarded. The first Cybertronian Drift’s seen since his exile, and it’s Megatron. Why does it have to be Megatron? Drift tenses slightly, but his hands stay at his sides. They’re in a room full of organics — he’s not going to jeopardize their safety if he can help it.

“My name,” he says, optics narrowing slightly, “is Drift.”

As Shepard walks closer, Megatron reassembles the hologram sniper rifle. A figure is projected in front of them. Another Cybertronian, it looks like. One wearing the same purple badge that was displayed on Megatron’s chest, but with red and white armor. It was the form of his most wretched second in command, Starscream.

The blank room shifts to Cybertronian wilderness, with some mountains in the distance. Megatron looks through the scope, adjusting its settings. The figure comes to life, jolting into a fearful position, as if it had just suddenly realized it was the clay pigeon in a shooting range. The Starscream hologram makes a few steps back, his robotic voice panicked.

“Wait, Lord Megatron, can’t we be reasonable?”

Megatron stands, rifle in arm. The hologram Starscream reacts and jumps into the air, transforming into what looked like an old Earth jet to escape. The jet plumes send him rocketing away.

The next few steps are methodical and well practiced. The butt of the weapon is mounted on his shoulder as the jet gains some considerable distance. He steadies the rifle in his arms, lowering one eye into the scope. Seconds pass. The speck begins to bank for a turn.

A single beam of energy explodes out of the barrel, hitting it’s target. A tiny orange dot lights up in the simulated distance. The gun flares open to release steam. The Decepticon seems to relax with catharsis.

“Particle beam,” he says, finally.

...Uh-huh.

Shepard considers whether she should just go, but maybe there's a perfectly non-creepy explanation for why this guy is shooting sims of people he knows in cold blood. Cold...fuel? You never realize how anthropocentric your idioms are until you start making friends with alien robots.

"Uh. Right. Friend of yours?" There are a few people Shepard wouldn't feel guilty about shooting in the back if it came to that, but you don't see her going around programming Illusive Man simulations to do it in her free time.

A laugh bursts from Megatron at Drift’s response. It’s been a while now since he had turned. Since Turmoil had lost one of his preferred Decepticon warriors to the Circle of Light and eventually to the Autobots themselves.

But the war had always kept them apart since then. Drift had been spared the fate that most Decepticon traitors suffered: a timely visit from the DJD. That had been by design, at least at first, when he had initially hoped to bring him back to where he belonged.

Now? Well, now things were a bit late for that.

“What’s wrong, Deadlock? Are you ashamed of your past? Afraid that your new friends will discover who you really are?”

He gestures noncomitally to the passers by before making a step forward.

“It has been far too long since we’ve fought together.”

The biome Rico drifts his way into is... perhaps a little different than the others. Coming in from the edges, he takes his time exploring his surroundings, hovering above the ground and taking everything in curiously. He's had far too much free time on his hands and too much to think recently, and when he gets bored, he gets nosy. The ruins of everything almost reminds him of the immediate aftermath of the Atomic War, and he's just gotta wonder who would make their little slice of home like this. It's exciting.

And oh look, there's a throne right there. As well as an occupant, looks like. He's pretty large. Rico likes that a little less, but that's not gonna stop him.

Hm. Maybe he should get a throne.

"It's a nice place you got here," Rico calls out, sounding amused. If it were possible to swagger without walking, he'd be doing so right now. "A bit dusty, but who am I to judge?"

Edited 2017-11-24 03:33 (UTC)

Drift can think of few things that are more mortifying than a Decepticon warlord all but broadcasting to a room full of dozens, if not hundreds, of people that Drift has some kind of dark, secret past. He never meant to deceive anyone, but what's important is what he does now, isn't it? No one here knows about the Great War, or the Decepticons, or Deadlock -- do they really need to know? He's doing good now. The last thing he really needs is to lose the trust of the Legionnaires, not when he's only just starting to establish it.

He narrows his optics at Megatron, hands tensing into fists, but he doesn't reach for any of his swords. For the first time since his arrival, he's painfully aware of the scratched plating on his chest where his Autobot badge had been. Not his any longer. He doesn't rise to the bait this time, or at least he tries not to -- if he starts on the defensive about his past, it's only going to make him look worse in front of anyone who's paying attention. Which...yeah, people definitely are.

"Do you really want to do this here, Megatron?"

Starscream? A friend? He had certainly known Starscream well enough, but their relationship was furthest thing from friendship that one could imagine.

“My Second-in-Command. He has a talent for treachery and slithering away from death. I doubt it would ever be that easy to be rid of him,” his voice has an odd fondness to it.

It was complicated. Really complicated. And not necessarily in a healthy way.

The sniper rifle is placed next to the other six, and he picks up the next one - the closest approximation to his fusion cannon sitting at the far end of the line. He begins again, disassembling it’s parts and laying them down on the ground.

Edited 2017-11-24 06:49 (UTC)

Val either has ice water in her veins or doesn't find a giant surly space robot to be threatening, because she plops down on the edge of the catwalk, leaning on the railing, feet dangling.

"Did you come up with that transformation? It's a real good design." Unqualified praise is rare from Val. Shame Shockwave isn't around to...not care. Mnemosurgery is a bitch.

Megatron is finishing a long swig of the synthesized energon, the glowing pink fuel sliding easily down his intake. The taste was bearable enough. It certainly beat some of the synthetic fuel he’s had to drink over the years staking out some remote outpost in the middle of the war.

When he looks down, he sees a fleshling levitating in the middle of his picturesque rendition of Kaon post Decepticon Revolt, and his red optics narrow. Dozens of square miles of terrain to explore and this organic chose his. He very decidedly doesn’t get up from his chair.

“The dust makes better company,” he remarks, a sneer pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Megatron prowls forward despite the fact that Drift was the one armed here. As Drift knew all too well, he didn't need to have weapons in his hands to make another Cybertronian's day remarkably unpleasant.

He looks down at Drift, at the ex-Decepticon's tense hands, at the barely contained expression on his face, and most importantly, at the empty patch of armor where his badge used to be. A look of cruel understanding crosses his face.

"Ah, Deadlock," he says with mock sympathy. A huge hand reaches forward to rest on Drift's shoulder in a perfectly amicable fashion,"You're being far too bothered by what organics think of you, don't you agree?"

It never occurs to Megatron that a three year old talking about transformation sequences was a strange thing. Granted, it'd be one of the least strange things on an artificial moon in another dimension, but a strange thing nonetheless. As far as he was concerned, this was a small adult with good taste, which is more than he can say for most fleshlings.

He flexes the fingers on one hand, as if to enjoy the sensation of the recently built joints.

"Shockwave lacks the ability to enjoy compliments on his work, if he happens to get pulled into our little predicament."

Drift knows that look. He’s seen it before, Megatron pulling strings, a show of power psychological as well as physical. That he can completely dominate a situation by presence alone. He rose to power on his own merits, after all.

But Drift is no longer under Megatron's thumb. In a flash he's deftly sidestepping Megatron's touch, knocking that broad hand aside with the flat of his wrist. A bold move against someone like Megatron, but Drift's expression is flat and closed-off.

"We're guests here," he says evenly, as though that argument would have any impact on Megatron. He's all too aware that there are plenty of people within earshot, that every time Megatron calls him Deadlock it's only going to raise more questions, more doubt. Drift feels his spark contract uncomfortably in his chest. "These organics are our allies. And I will not let any harm come to them -- by your hand or anyone else's."

Never mind that many of these organics could take care of themselves. There's your warning, Megatron. Step the fuck right off.

That's fine, no need to get up on his account. Rest assured, Rico will entertain himself.

He laughs, and slams his fist into his own chest, over his heart. "Ouch. That hurts me right there." And with the corners of his mouth curled like he's laughing at a private joke, he drifts even closer.

"We haven't even started talking yet. Still, I won't take it too personally," he says, like he's being immeasurably generous by not taking offence. "Seems like you're the kind of droid who likes his solitude, with a place like this."

Something Rico's showing no respect for, as he circles around Megatron to inspect the throne.

The clang of Drift's reaction reverberates in the air with a short, metallic ring. Bold indeed. But he is hardly dissuaded. If anything, Drift's impudence brings vivid interest to Megatron's eyes. An interest Drift may find rather familiar, long ago when Cybertron was still a living world. He closes the distance between them further, looming forward, daring Drift to follow up on his unsaid threat to escalate their little game.

"There are more prudent problems that take precedence over the existence of organics of this universe," he says calmly,"We will be working together again far sooner than you think."

"Though I am curious why you're so reluctant," a hand moves forward to gesture at the scratched armor,"when the Autobots have already chosen to toss you to the wayside."

Should Drift allow it, he will go so far as to brush it with newly forged coal-colored claws with a brief, metallic shriek.

Drift's hand lashes out and grips Megatron's wrist, the Decepticon's fingers just mere centimeters from his chest plate. Megatron has never been one to trifle with, and even now Drift would be lying if he said that Megatron didn't intimidate him -- Drift knows that he'd only last so long in a one-on-one fight. But the idea here is not to fight. It's to defuse the situation before it gets out of hand, because with Megatron, it almost always does.

His expression flickers at that look, but he presses his mouth into a thin line. This isn't the time for relentless positivity -- this is the time to stand his ground, to stay firm, to show Megatron that he has no power over him anymore. He can't rise to the bait, however unnervingly familiar that interest might be, however much Megatron's comment about the Autobots might sting. Megatron doesn't know the truth of it -- but then, it wouldn't be much better if he did.

"If you mean you're joining the fight against Chronoblivion," Drift says, managing to keep his voice calm, "then yes, that does make us allies. But our fight and the organics' is one of the same. If any of our worlds falls, so will the rest of them."

He's playing a dangerous game here, he knows, walking a fine line between confrontation and provocation, but he knows Megatron. Any show of weakness, any chink in the armor is an opening that he can and will exploit. He really wishes this conversation were more private. He's still reeling from Megatron's appearance, his mind churning in a hectic attempt to make sense of all this. He knows he had to have been brought here for a reason -- but then Megatron must be part of that reason, too. Drift just wishes he could figure out what. Drift leans in slightly, dropping his voice. "If you really mean to help save the multiverse -- if you're really here to defend instead of conquer for once -- then I'll work with you. But understand this, Megatron: I don't work for you. Not ever again."

He release his grip on Megatron's wrist and steps back.

Megatron is contractually obligated not to destroy trespassers into his biome, but he very much has the desire to do so. Life is hard when you can't easily rid yourself of nosy organic creatures.

He finishes the cube of energon, emptying the transparent container of fuel. For a few seconds, he doesn't seem to acknowledge Rico's existence, allowing him closer observation of the half-easy chair, half-Sentinel Prime eternally wrapped around a piece of furniture as decoration.

That is, until he releases the empty cube over the side of the arm, letting it crash perilously close to his new guest.

"Nothing bests a physical reminder for proper motivation."

Megatron's expression is deathly still as Drift wraps fingers around his wrist to keep his hand away. Megatron doesn't attempt to break his grip, but an enormous coil of energy remains at the other end of that hand. All the barely contained energy of a pit fighter right before the start of a match, ready in an instant to explode to action and overwhelm what was in front of him with sheer ferocity. The words Drift picked now were critical, straddling the line between keeping the distance between them and inviting that arm in his grasp to snap free and retaliate.

But Megatron doesn't make the first move. He watches, and listens, allowing Drift to make his point without interruption.

Unexpectedly, some of the tension seems to evaporate as Drift releases his hand and takes a few steps back. The Decepticon was many unpleasant things - proud, quick-tempered, and exceedingly violent - but he respected someone who stood firm far more than he did a coward that bent to him. It's part of the reason he had taken favor to Drift back when he was a Decepticon, and it looks like Drift still had personality trait in him.

"We will see about that."

He still stares down, smoldering red, but there is no immediate intent to escalate.

"I swore the oath, whatever legitimacy that grants to you," he knew that from a Decepticon it meant little,"Our war can conclude once the threat of the Chronoblivion is dealt with. There is no point in conquering a doomed universe."

Edited 2017-11-24 19:51 (UTC)

Drift relaxes by fractions when Megatron doesn't escalate the situation, silently relieved, but he stays on his guard. If Primus sent Drift here, then he must have sent Megatron, too -- to, what, give them both equal chances at redemption for their past sins? But you have to want to do good to deserve that redemption, and Drift is pretty sure that isn't on Megatron's bucket list right now. Drift keeps his expression flat and unyielding.

"You were once a mech of your word," he says. "You have a chance here to prove yourself on your own actions. We'll see if that still holds true."

His expression flickers again, but this time with some mix between mild surprise and puzzlement. Then he narrows his optics slightly. "The war is over, Megatron. You lost. Cybertron has been reborn, and what's left of our race is finally rebuilding what we destroyed in our struggle to control it. That's what you'll be saving: a world finally at peace."

He would never admit it, but there’s a part of him - the part that has been growing to loathe what he’s become - that is elated at the chance to prove to himself that we wasn’t just Cybertron’s homegrown monster. That this was more than just an exercise in cold pragmatism. It was a voice he wasn’t too entirely sure where it came from.

But he’s not going to get too carried away here. He was still Megatron, and Megatron was not the type to just accept what he is assuming is his supposed future.

“You know how I feel about dictating fate, Deadlock,” he says sternly,”The war continues in my time, and we will see what happens in that regard once we return. Phase seven awaits - one way or another.”

Convincing Megatron of a future he doesn't believe in is most likely an exercise in futility. Convincing Megatron that that future might be worth pursuing, though? Maybe that is why Megatron is here. To remind him what peace is really about.

"We will see," Drift repeats, still tense, still guarded as he watches Megatron. He's known Megatron a long time, but the Decepticon is far from predictable. He starts to turn away. "Oh, and if we're working together now? That's the last time you call me Deadlock."

What is with these giant robots and their complete lack of consideration for those around them? America's beginning to believe it's a racial trait.

A good part of her decision to let them talk it out before approaching them is to pick up any juicy tidbits. Information that she should know when dealing with the two of them. And, while the conversation's been enlightening, it's very obviously over. However, the other half of her decision is simply that she couldn't figure out how to approach these two without seeming ridiculous. Like an ant approaching a dinosaur. Or a gnat, if she decides to fly.

She takes the ground-based approach, pulling her helmet mic out to address the two of them so she doesn't have to bellow. "If you two are quite done..." The comparatively teeny Beeny waves a trio of... citations. Yeah. Two for noise pollution. One for reckless... backflipping? Oh. Yeah, she'd meant to get to Drift earlier, but had been distracted by other matters. "The three of us have some business to go over."

He was ready to continue pushing Drift's buttons - he got quite a bit of enjoyment from it - but it looked like there was an organic holding three pieces of paper trying to catch their attention. What were those? Pamphlets? He wasn't interested in whatever flyers they were handing out.

Quirking a robot eyebrow, Megatron looks back to Drift, who would obviously be the expert in differentiating all these fleshlings.

"Who is this?" he asks, as if there wasn't a third person he could just speak to directly.

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