#I think the core of this would actually the deterioration of the Cyclonus & Galvatron relationship

[desdemonafictional]

"I know it doesn't seem so, but I'm going to take care of you" Whirl/Cyclonus?

"...Galvatron, what is this?"

The rotary, once a graceful and lithe figure, had been chopped at the wrists and dismantled at the faceplate. Where there ought to have been an intake and a nasal ridge and all the usual details of a faceplate, only hollow yellow light remained. Like a drone. Like the face of a drone.

"A deserter," Galvatron said, lip rippling into a sneer. "The little coward made a break for it during shore-leave. Couldn't take military life, I suppose."

"You suppose," Cyclonus repeated. The hollow yellow eye was fixed on him. Mute, expressionless.

"I don't care for the prattlings of cowards," Galvatron said, flicking his fingers. "No matter why he did it. We caught him."

"This isn't..." Cyclonus started. Normally deserters were demoted and reassigned to a position less enabling to flight-risk personnel. "What has happened to his face?"

"It's a new disciplinary action the bureaucrats recommended," Galvatron said. "Demotion is just a number on a rank check. This will make them feel it."

Cyclonus' tanks twisted uneasily. He was a captain, he certainly did not shy away from proper discipline among his soldiers, but this was--this was a violation beyond anything he was comfortable with. His soldiers were free mechs. They had to be, the heart of the fighting force was the will of individuals to defend their brothers. Without will, without spark, he might as well command a fleet of drones. There should always be pride in one's work.

"I don't like this uptick in rebellious sentiment lately," Galvatron went on, "too many of our mechs are getting ideas about how this army is to be conducted. It's time for a crackdown. You'll get this one, to set an example for the rest."

"Yes, sir," Cyclonus said. "I will assign him a position in scullery."

"No, no," Galvatron said, and at this he smiled. "I don't want him near the others. I'm giving him to you personally."

The word "giving" set off a klaxon in Cyclonus' alarm protocols. "Sir?" he said.

Galvatron reached out and gripped the rotary by his slender neck, over the vocal blocker that sat clunky and dark around his throat. The rotary twitched, but he was secured too well to resist the touch. Military grade restraints were thorough.

"He has an excellent alt mode," Glavatron said, "good coding, aside from the disrespectful streak. You're always telling me you're too busy with work to engage in courtship--how admirable you are, my dear captain, and yet, for the good of our species, we mustn't let your good breeding go to waste forever."

Cyclonus held himself entirely still. The single yellow eye seared through him like a condemning searchlight.

"You will get heirs off this reprobate," Galvatron instructed him. "Several, I suggest. With the correction from your coding, we shall have a cadre of officers in short order."

The rotary's engine, not nearly so powerful as a jet, growled with some nameless, unexpressed emotion. Galvatron laughed.

"Have fun, Captain," he said, and tossed the bound mech into Cyclonus' arms. "He's a handful, I've been told."

The mech was certainly an armful--his frame was blazing hot, barely mobile, and now struggling furiously against his restraints as if the tumble forward had re-awoken his desperation to flee. Cyclonus tightened his grip, more out of a worry that the mech would unbalance and tip himself over.

Galvatron said, "Once you've gotten a litter out of him, we'll see about appropriate reassignment. Although if you'd like to keep him... well, we can discuss it." He flashed a smile with a nasty edge, and then added, "You're dismissed."

With little other recourse, Cyclonus took himself off active status and spent the next several minutes hauling an unhappy prisoner back to his quarters in the officer barracks. As fleet captain, he had his own suite on the base. The process of hauling was as humiliating to himself as it must have been to the rotary--undignified, unusual, and not at all the image of reasonable authority he endeavored to project for his mechs.

In the middle of the room, on his own precarious legs, Cyclonus stood the rotary up and stepped back, overcome with a clawing helplessness. Galvatron was his admiral, his direct superior, and Cyclonus' desire to respect the chain of command could not seem to reconcile with the absurd and cruel order he had been given. His soldier were free mechs. They could not be--they could not be--

He slammed the lock key on his suite door and stood there, head bowed, for a moment while his vents bled off heat. Then he turned.

What could he say? Introductions were laughably late, at this stage. Reassurances? It would be a false promise, as even he did not yet know what would come to pass.

"I am not a cruel mech," Cyclonus said, his voice thick and clogged. "I have no desire to be your tormentor."

He reset his vocalizer. "I know it doesn't seem so," he said, "but I will take care of you."

He came closer, hands hovering above the hot navy plating, and unlocked the inhibitor around the mech's throat.

The mech's own vocalizer popped and cracked, and then--with a crunch of static--it said, "Yeah? Pull the other one, you truckfucker."