echoesofmessatinemegatron

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron takes all of that in and then freezes in place, acutely aware of his own sigil...not what Rung is wearing. And also the my lord catches up with his audials a moment later than would have been useful. "Ah," he says. He puts a packet of rust sticks down in front of Rung anyway.

He really needs to stop being so startled by alternate universe versions of the people he knows. It is a multiverse, after all. "It's no difficulty. I remember how vexing it was. There was one required psychology course in my training. It too justified everything that was done to us."

Rung's not going to try to tear his throat out for being a traitor, is he?

"So much studying. All the better for it, yes, but I wish I could simply take a test to show what I know and do not know."

"Still, I suppose I have nothing better to do. I can't practice here without a license, and my license needs a degree. Oh well."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

"Would you like any of my notes? Or simply some snacks, and a sympathetic audial?"

He's been through the wringer of medical school more recently than almost any other mech he knows. He can sympathize.

"So much studying. All the better for it, yes, but I wish I could simply take a test to show what I know and do not know."

"Still, I suppose I have nothing better to do. I can't practice here without a license, and my license needs a degree. Oh well."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“Another friend back from the dead?” Jazz’s tone is light. His expression is neutral. But a half-second glance he flicks at Riella is neither. It’s worried. Because the last mech back from the dead was Tarn.

First Aid busies himself laying out tools. “I’m going to get to work on your wing, Melody. Can you hold it very steady for me, please?”

��Yeah,” says Jazz. “We’ve had our share of trouble with Tarn. We’ve also had some trouble with your Prowl. But if you have our backs, we’ll have yours. Oh, and you will need to be ready to fight the whole war over again. And there is the issue of whether you’re willing to follow Megatron Prime, not Lord Optimus.” He smiles a little grimly. “Some mecha have a bit of culture shock from that.”

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

“Oh, great, two Tarns,” says a cheerful voice from the door, and Jazz saunters in, with First Aid in his wake. “Well, we’re working on the voice issue. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll both work the same way.”

He leans against a medberth well within Megatron’s line of sight and pops his hip as he settles, both flirtation and reassurance. Megatron almost rolls his optics. It’s sweet of Jazz to make it clear what happened with Tarn hasn’t changed his willingness to flirt for fun, and that he’s willing to go out of his way to make him feel attractive, but it’s a bit silly.

He’s not really considering Jazz might be serious.

Jazz meanwhile looks at Megatron with a fond expression, then at Melody, hard. Message: I care about this mech, and if you hurt him, I’ll make Tarn look like a picnic. Tarn can’t drop off the ceiling onto you.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re new here, huh?”

Primus, they’re both terribly obvious. Riella rolls her optics at both of them, and almost says just kiss, but she looks at Melody first, and she’s suddenly too shy to joke about flirting. “This is Melody, Jazz,” she says. “She was one of my squadmates, from…from before.” She reaches out and twines her fingers with Melody, an obvious she’s with me signal.

Melody inclines her head slightly to Jazz. Message received. She’s never particularly wanted to tangle with Jazz, and she has no interest in starting now. “I was told that this universe was a safe place to find refuge. As I’m guessing you know, Tarn’s not the easiest mech to get away from once you’re in his sights.”

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron’s optics cross when his nose is booped. “I really do know,” he protests, a little weakly in the face of this insanity and easy affection. “I really, really do, and I don’t care how insane you’re going to drive him, I really don’t want to have to fight him again to rescue you, which I will do.”

Never mind that he’s not sure he can take Overlord in a fair fight. He sort of…pretended to be seduced and then stabbed Overlord in the chest with a hidden blade, and things were a little closer than he’d have preferred. And that was back when he’d hoped to take a medical oath and keep it! “Maybe we could chop a finger off or something?”

This is a really good example of Rung's need to create overriding his sense.

Baby fever makes Overlord look really appealing.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron puts his face in both hands and groans. “I really think it’s just better to kill him,” he says into his hands. “I’m pretty sure he’s not that good a lay. Just kill him and harvest his CNA if you really must, it’s a much better plan.”

(After all, he might be Prime, but he is still a Megatron, with all the ruthlessness this implies).

This is a really good example of Rung's need to create overriding his sense.

Baby fever makes Overlord look really appealing.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“They were people under my protection,” Megatron says. “And no pro is going to outweigh the con that he might just kill you because he thinks it’s funny.”

He ended up killing Overlord and the less said about how he managed that, the better.

This is a really good example of Rung's need to create overriding his sense.

Baby fever makes Overlord look really appealing.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

He leans forward to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Rung. Overlord tried to court me once. His idea of courtship was leaving dead bodies on the doorstep every morning, and they weren't people I wanted dead. I'm not concerned about his CNA; I'm concerned about whether you'd survive long enough to...produce offspring."

He's...not going to get into the issues of leadership, because then he's probably just going to start yelling, and Rung doesn't deserve that. He's clearly got...something going on.

This is a really good example of Rung's need to create overriding his sense.

Baby fever makes Overlord look really appealing.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“I should most strenuously recommend against it.” From what he’s heard, his own (brief, before he killed the mech) experience with his own Overlord was an aberration solely for its relative mildness and lack of serious injury.

This is a really good example of Rung's need to create overriding his sense.

Baby fever makes Overlord look really appealing.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“Oh, great, two Tarns,” says a cheerful voice from the door, and Jazz saunters in, with First Aid in his wake. “Well, we’re working on the voice issue. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll both work the same way.”

He leans against a medberth well within Megatron’s line of sight and pops his hip as he settles, both flirtation and reassurance. Megatron almost rolls his optics. It’s sweet of Jazz to make it clear what happened with Tarn hasn’t changed his willingness to flirt for fun, and that he’s willing to go out of his way to make him feel attractive, but it’s a bit silly.

He’s not really considering Jazz might be serious.

Jazz meanwhile looks at Megatron with a fond expression, then at Melody, hard. Message: I care about this mech, and if you hurt him, I’ll make Tarn look like a picnic. Tarn can’t drop off the ceiling onto you.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re new here, huh?”

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

Megatron gives her a smile that’s a lot closer to reassuring. “I’ll handle Jazz,” he says, blissfully unaware of how this sounds to anyone who’s been watching him and Jazz and Prowl all dancing around each other for the last few months in the Autobot army’s most attenuated game of romantic chicken. “Aid will be back in no time. You’re in good hands with him–we went to medical school together. We’ve worked out the servo shortage, so you should be back in the air soon.”

He props himself on a stool, and his expression darkens when Tarn comes up. “I will have no compunction dealing with your Tarn,” he says. “My understanding is that his background likely differs from the one here.” The implication; he still has some compunction dealing with his own.

Riella stifles a snort. Handle, indeed. Melody glances at her, slightly taken aback - laughing at Megatron is the sort of thing you don’t do, even if your respect for authority is otherwise tenuous at best. But Megatron doesn’t seem offended, though Melody knows too well that being offended and seeming offended are two different things. “Servo shortage?” she asks, because that seems to be the safest topic out of the options of Riella is laughing at Megatron and Megatron went to medical school.

“There’s a lot of empurata survivors that need replacement hands,” Riella says, guessing that Megatron doesn’t want to discuss his own need for them at the moment. “They’re delicate and fiddly with lots of nerves. It’s a thing. But we don’t have a lot of fliers, so getting you back in the air will be a big help if we can get it done quickly.

Melody nods, wondering when, exactly, Riella started thinking quite so strategically. Her expression tightens at Megatron’s comment, though she wonders what compunctions he has about dealing with his own Tarn, and whether or not that’s going to be a long-term problem. “I couldn’t say,” she says. “You’re different enough from the Megatron I knew that it wouldn’t surprise me, but Tarn’s background was never common knowledge. I’m sure Command knows who he was, but as far as the rest of us are concerned, he just turned up one day ready to talk people to death.” 

She has her theories, about some of it anyway, but she’ll keep those to herself until a more opportune time.

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron gives her a smile that's a lot closer to reassuring. "I'll handle Jazz," he says, blissfully unaware of how this sounds to anyone who's been watching him and Jazz and Prowl all dancing around each other for the last few months in the Autobot army's most attenuated game of romantic chicken. "Aid will be back in no time. You're in good hands with him--we went to medical school together. We've worked out the servo shortage, so you should be back in the air soon."

He props himself on a stool, and his expression darkens when Tarn comes up. "I will have no compunction dealing with your Tarn," he says. "My understanding is that his background likely differs from the one here." The implication; he still has some compunction dealing with his own.

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

First Aid listens, then taps on Megatron’s arm. “Jazz is late for his appointment,” he says, knowing damn well that Megatron knows Jazz has no such appointment. Megatron nods. This is something Jazz should hear. First Aid goes off to deal with it.

“We can deal with him if he does,” he says. And then he smiles, a smile much more like that of his alternates. “In fact, I’ll look forward to it.”

Riella disentangles herself from Melody, reluctantly, and glances nervously in First Aid’s direction as he leaves. Maybe Jazz actually has an appointment, but she’s pretty sure that was actually meant to call in Jazz to talk to Melody.

But it’s fine. She talked to Jazz too when she arrived. It’s standard procedure.

Melody doesn’t look nervous, standing with her wings folded down and a hand still resting on Riella’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll let First Aid finish fixing my wings before Jazz’s appointment,” she says, mustering a wry smile that looks slightly forced. That expression from Megatron is jarringly familiar. Reassuring, in its own way. 

“Your wings?” Riella turns to look, horrified. Melody’s never liked being grounded for long, and Riella had just assumed that if she looked all right, she must be uninjured. “What did they do?”

Melody pats her shoulder. “Leftover nerve damage. Some frames have unfortunate obvious weak points. I’m told it can be repaired.” Melody turns back to Megatron, drawing Riella closer to her side. “If you’re truly willing to throw yourself between us and the Tarn I knew, I hope you’ll forgive me if I let you. I’d rather not fight him again.”

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron tucks the smaller frame against him and curls an arm over Rung, petting long soothing strokes along his back, ready to stop instantly if it causes discomfort He listens, thoughtful.

"When I got the Matrix," he says, "it thrust me into the thoughts and feelings of every mech on the planet. Their experiences, their exultations, their pain. When I try to fight, it wants to override my training and responses with the reflexes of Primes past; when something terrible happens, it overlays the experiences of the victims on my own perception." His mouth twists a little; it did that with Praxus, and he had to fight through it to respond properly. "I say this because what you're experiencing is something I know our species can experience without illness. Perhaps you've been exposed to something that triggered something within your frame. You are very old."

The rhythm of his petting doesn't falter. "We are a very strange species, after all."

He thinks of the hectic days after his Ascension--the second one, the one in Iacon after they'd vanquished Mirage's family. Up until then, being Prime had meant defending a handful of people, responsibility for faces he knew, individuals he understood, but the full weight of authority had settled hard after he'd scandalized the priesthood by bowing to the people, not the statue of Primus.

And there it had stayed, and he'd wanted it terribly and he still wanted it, because having felt its full weight, he couldn't imagine trusting another with it. But if that happened, it wouldn't be be his problem; he'd be dead when the Matrix passed to another, and very possibly that would happen sooner than later.

It's flattering to be thought of as following in the footsteps of a saint, he thinks, but I doubt it. There is far too much anger in him.

"For a long time, mnemosurgery amd psychology were one in the same."

"Therapists flocked to modders, aching for needles of their own. Why not? Imagine, being able to see your client's problem firsthand so you can build a treatment plan. Imagine, being able to heal with a poke. Imagine, removing trauma at its source."

"I always hated the practice. But only because I was a victim; had I never formed these scars, I'm sure I'd have a set of my own, aching to prove the process can heal."

"It can't."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

Megatron kneels by him, settling comfortably, and opens his arms in silent invitation. Sometimes what a mech needs is simple contact, and Rung leaning into his hand makes him suspect that’s the case here. An invitation, then, a place to curl up and be held, no expectations.

Megatron himself isn’t fond of touch, but for Rung he makes an exception. If he offers, it’s all right, it’s under his control. “It’s all right,” he says softly. “I understand. Just tell me about it. Whatever’s happening, telling someone will help, and the Matrix has already done and shown me such things, I can believe you.”

Rung’s refrain is terribly familiar. “It is,” he says. “Surrounded by my alternates, all of whom have taken such a different path than me… I know I’m balanced on the blade of a knife. But the difference between them and me is, if I fall, I drag the Autobots with me. My spark is a small thing to risk, but theirs? And they would follow me, Jazz and Prowl and Ratchet, and all would be lost.”

"For a long time, mnemosurgery amd psychology were one in the same."

"Therapists flocked to modders, aching for needles of their own. Why not? Imagine, being able to see your client's problem firsthand so you can build a treatment plan. Imagine, being able to heal with a poke. Imagine, removing trauma at its source."

"I always hated the practice. But only because I was a victim; had I never formed these scars, I'm sure I'd have a set of my own, aching to prove the process can heal."

"It can't."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” Megatron repeats, reaching for the hand that hides those needles. The way Rung looks at it is enough to hint at what might be there. He forces himself to reach out anyway. “We all know how the demons close to our sparks run, but I don’t see careless mutilation in your nature. I see so much of myself in my alternates; I wonder what other Optimuses would see in mine. But you…you have an iron control I lack, that most people lack. It’s hard to imagine that changing.”

Rung is gentle, yet full of steel. Rung has seen him hurt beyond bearing, and doesn’t hate him for it. It’s hard to articulate what faith that instills in him.

"For a long time, mnemosurgery amd psychology were one in the same."

"Therapists flocked to modders, aching for needles of their own. Why not? Imagine, being able to see your client's problem firsthand so you can build a treatment plan. Imagine, being able to heal with a poke. Imagine, removing trauma at its source."

"I always hated the practice. But only because I was a victim; had I never formed these scars, I'm sure I'd have a set of my own, aching to prove the process can heal."

"It can't."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

"Sometimes, the mercy in what people do to us is that, had the victim been another, we would have been one of the attackers."

He's heard it enough from others, tales of looking down at a sea of angry faces as your home is split apart at the hands of a mob and thinking, there but for the grace of Primus go I.

It is a hideous thing to realize.

At every juncture, with every choice, he tries to show himself that no, he wouldn't do what others have.

Mnemosurgery, however, still terrifies him. It sickens him, the seductive promise of healing Rung's laid out, because yes, he could see that being appealing.

"But I think you don't give yourself enough credit," he says. "Or you give your ability to delude yourself too much credit."

"For a long time, mnemosurgery amd psychology were one in the same."

"Therapists flocked to modders, aching for needles of their own. Why not? Imagine, being able to see your client's problem firsthand so you can build a treatment plan. Imagine, being able to heal with a poke. Imagine, removing trauma at its source."

"I always hated the practice. But only because I was a victim; had I never formed these scars, I'm sure I'd have a set of my own, aching to prove the process can heal."

"It can't."

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

First Aid listens, then taps on Megatron’s arm. “Jazz is late for his appointment,” he says, knowing damn well that Megatron knows Jazz has no such appointment. Megatron nods. This is something Jazz should hear. First Aid goes off to deal with it.

“We can deal with him if he does,” he says. And then he smiles, a smile much more like that of his alternates. “In fact, I’ll look forward to it.”

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

“She’ll stay,” says Megatron. “I wouldn’t send a cleaning drone back to your Autobots, much less your Deceptions.”

They faked her death, did they? That’s…very interesting. Jazz will have fun winkling more information out of her. Megatron wonders what kind of influence his alternate was, if his presence does harm or good.

“I would however appreciate a warning if your version of Tarn is likely to come after you,” he says. “He’s a pain in the aft to deal with.”

“He won’t,” Melody says, though the way her hand tightens on Riella’s makes it come out as more of a prayer than anything else. “I’m no one important. He’ll stop looking at the borders of our universe.”

“You are important,” Riella says, automatically, and then winces when she realizes she said that out loud. “But - you’re probably right, if you don’t think he’ll show up. If you’re sure.”

Riella has her doubts. Melody may not remember, or may just not want to talk about it - but Riella remembers some of what their Decepticon jailers said. She might be important enough for Tarn to come looking. But - no. If Melody’s sure, she’s right. She would know better.

“I’m sure,” Melody says, and then she smiles, and the tears that have been threatening to well up ever since Megatron said Melody’s name spill over. Riella flings herself at Melody in a desperate, clinging hug. 

“You’re safe,” she rasps. “You’re safe here and they won’t come for you, and if they do we’ll protect you. You’re safe.”

Melody stands frozen for a split-second, before returning the hug with slightly more hesitation. Riella doesn’t notice. 

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

“She’ll stay,” says Megatron. “I wouldn’t send a cleaning drone back to your Autobots, much less your Deceptions.”

They faked her death, did they? That’s…very interesting. Jazz will have fun winkling more information out of her. Megatron wonders what kind of influence his alternate was, if his presence does harm or good.

“I would however appreciate a warning if your version of Tarn is likely to come after you,” he says. “He’s a pain in the aft to deal with.”

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

“Yeah I saw Prowl,” says First Aid. “Is the mnemosurgery thing true? Do they actually just do that to Autobots? Sounded horrible.” He comes to a halt at the same time Melody does, and sees how she and Riella are looking at each other, and manages to pull his hand back and lean away as Melody’s wings flare. He’s going to put the scalpel down until the reunion is over.

Megatron leans against the wall by the door, watching with a certain sadness. It reminds him too much of greeting Tarn in that room, and his tank lurches sickly at the thought. He goes to run a hand down his face, and stops–it’s not his hand, it’ll never be his hand again–puts it down at his side and curls both into tight, aching fists.

Riella is not him. Melody is not Tarn.

He masters himself, stills his face. First Aid comes over and nudges him away from the wall, mercifully breaking him out of his fugue.

“I thought I recognized the name,” Megatron says, carefully not saying from where. He forces himself to meet Melody’s optics, though looking directly at anyone right now is the last thing he wants to do, with remembered fear coursing through his lines. It’s hard to be someone to trust, to confide in, with those wounds so recent. He wants her persuaded to talk to them, to trust them, to tell them who and what she is, really.

He wants Riella to be happy, but Melody has him worried. There’s too much unknown. This might be for very good reason, or for…other reasons. He’s not letting Riella go through what he’s so recently survived.

If she were able to focus, Melody might have wondered why Megatron knows her name - she’ll wonder, later. But she can’t focus on anything, except that Riella is alive, and here. 

“What are you doing here?” she repeats. Carefully, worried her knees might not hold her, she slides off the medical berth and takes a step forward. “Did you come here after…how long have you been here? How did you survive?”

Riella stays frozen. Part of her wants to run to Melody and cling to her and never let go, and another part of her can’t move her limbs. “A while,” she says, her voice shaking. “I - the Autobots - our Autobots - they took Vos back after you…after I thought you died. Things went bad and I came here.” 

She finally breaks through whatever is holding her still and takes a few stumbling steps forward. Melody does the same, until they’re close enough to touch. “What about you? I thought - I saw you die.” Riella’s voice breaks. Cautiously, she reaches out to take Melody’s hand. “What happened to you?”

Melody’s optics dart, almost imperceptibly, toward Megatron and First Aid. “I’m not the first death the ‘Cons have faked,” she says quietly. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, you’ll - you’ll have time to tell it. You’re staying.” Riella glances toward Megatron. “She can stay, right? She’s - you can’t send her back to our universe, you know what they’re like.”

[echoesofmessatinemegatron]

"Yeah I saw Prowl," says First Aid. "Is the mnemosurgery thing true? Do they actually just do that to Autobots? Sounded horrible." He comes to a halt at the same time Melody does, and sees how she and Riella are looking at each other, and manages to pull his hand back and lean away as Melody's wings flare. He's going to put the scalpel down until the reunion is over.

Megatron leans against the wall by the door, watching with a certain sadness. It reminds him too much of greeting Tarn in that room, and his tank lurches sickly at the thought. He goes to run a hand down his face, and stops--it's not his hand, it'll never be his hand again--puts it down at his side and curls both into tight, aching fists.

Riella is not him. Melody is not Tarn.

He masters himself, stills his face. First Aid comes over and nudges him away from the wall, mercifully breaking him out of his fugue.

"I thought I recognized the name," Megatron says, carefully not saying from where. He forces himself to meet Melody's optics, though looking directly at anyone right now is the last thing he wants to do, with remembered fear coursing through his lines. It's hard to be someone to trust, to confide in, with those wounds so recent. He wants her persuaded to talk to them, to trust them, to tell them who and what she is, really.

He wants Riella to be happy, but Melody has him worried. There's too much unknown. This might be for very good reason, or for...other reasons. He's not letting Riella go through what he's so recently survived.

echoesofmessatinemegatron​:

Megatron gives her shoulder a small squeeze, then opens the door, letting her enter first.

“He certainly can!” says First Aid, a little hotly; he’s very protective of Megatron’s reputation. “When we left the Decepticons, Optimus set Soundwave on him to try and force him to tell them about us and our capabilities. He fought them so hard it would have killed another mech, and then he got up out of the interrogation chair half-dead and came and faced them down until every last one of us escaped. Even right after Tarn kidnapped him he’s been in the field, running rescue missions with Rodimus, even before he got the replacement optic. He protects all of us and he means it.”

Megatron, just stepping in, raises his optic ridges at First Aid, who snorts. “Well, it’s true.”

“All right, all right.” Melody raises a jokingly defensive hand, though she’s frantically running through the string of information First Aid’s providing. He’s defensive of his Prime, apparently with good reason. Optimus does lead the Decepticons here, but if there’s any other high-profile changes, they haven’t been mentioned yet. Soundwave isn’t an Autobot. “I meant no offense. Where I come from, leadership is a little bit less reliable…”

She trails off mid-sentence, because there’s a ghost standing in the medbay door.

Riella steps aside enough to let Megatron through, but she can’t take her optics off Melody.

And it is Melody, her Melody, not an alternate or a coincidence. She couldn’t explain how she knows, but she knows. 

“Mel?” She doesn’t recognize her own voice, thin and shaky. She can’t force herself to move, no matter how hard she tries. “Melody?”

Melody’s wings flare back sharply, probably disrupting First Aid’s work. “Riella?”

“You’re - “ Riella breaks off, presses a hand against her mouth, and starts again. “I thought you were dead. I thought - how?” How are you alive? How is this possible? “How did you get here?”

“I thought you were dead,” Melody says, and glances frantically at Megatron, trying to figure out if this is real or some kind of horrible, twisted joke. “I knew you were dead. The DJD never leaves anyone alive. What are you doing here?”