raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2015-12-01 05:13 pm
raisedbymoogles) wrote2015-12-01 05:13 pm
Entry tags:
Yet another Transformers AU, for some reason.
Borrows heavily from TF:Prime, and... maybe a tiny bit from Final Fantasy X. XD
*
Orion Pax could have told his creators that he would make a terrible gladiator. It was right there in his name. But no one had asked and no one would have listened even if he’d spoken up. His future had been branded on him from the moment of his activation.
They called him Red Storm in the ring. But that was never his name.
It wasn’t a bad life, really. He found a few friends who taught him to enjoy the push-pull dance of combat, though he abhorred killing and avoided it whenever he could. He had a dedicated fan club, and his merchandise sold well, so Orion didn’t think he was in any danger of being killed off anytime soon. He’d never had the kind of cruel owner rumors whispered about whenever someone was sold or repossessed. He was, he told himself, content with his lot, though of course he dreamed of one day winning his freedom.
Then the monster attacked, and everything changed.
It took him six horrible, wretched planetary rotations to kill the tentacled beast that attacked his arena. He had help at first - first the pair of split-spark twins he’d been tasked to fight, then the wardens had released the rest of the gladiators to join in - but one by one they’d fallen, and Orion was the only one left. The wardens roared at him to retreat. Grimly, Orion ignored their commands and kept fighting, bearing the pain of his injuries and the sick worry for his friends and fellow gladiators until - at last! - the monster crumpled to the ground, never to rise again.
Orion staggered to one knee, leaning heavily on his axe. Even now the arena was not empty of spectators, and he was getting a spare but enthusiastic round of cheering and applause, but he could barely lift a hand to acknowledge it. Everything ached, and he was so low on fuel his HUD was flashing critical. He’d given everything he had to beat this - whatever it was. It almost hadn’t been enough.
Someone shouted across the arena at him - the roar of affronted entitlement was so similar to that of the arena masters that he couldn’t help but respond. “You!” they roared, and he lifted his head dully - just in time to catch a flying datapad right between the optics. In his weakened and exhausted state, it was just enough to send him sprawling on his aft.
By the time he regained some sort of equilibrium, the arena manager was standing over him, arguing with someone - someone Orion didn’t know. He was huge, big and well-armored enough to be a gladiator himself, but the way he spoke as he snarled and disdained the arena manager spoke of a more high-class upbringing. Orion squinted, his poor aching processor trying to make sense of the words. “-know how long it took me to summon that creature from the Underdark!” he snarled, in the same voice that had shouted at him before the datapad had hit him. He must have been the one who threw it. “And this scrap-heap of a mid-tier gladiator DISMANTLES it!”
“You SUMMONED that?” the arena manager blurted. “And set it loose on an arena full of spectators? Do you have any idea how many regulations you’ve broken-“
“I’m an archivist, not a lawyer,” the stranger retorted, head flung up proudly. “And my next one will be even more fearsome.”
The arena manager opened zir mouth, then closed it, a shrewd look stealing over zir face. “…so, would you be willing to do that summoning thing in a more - say, controlled environment? With an audience who knows what to expect? I’m seeing a multi-tier exhibition match-”
Orion wanted to groan. Typical. This thing kills who knows how many innocents and all zie can think of is how to profit from it! He was just irritated enough to be ready to protest aloud before the stranger - the summoner, it seemed - beat him to it.
“Is THAT why you think I did it?” the archivist growled dangerously. “Profit? Fame? For the petty entertainment of the mindless, comfortable masses?” A dangerous smirk, an expression that chilled Orion down to his struts, stole across the archivist’s face. “No, my good mech. This has been the opening salvo. A wakeup call to Cybertron. I have traversed our world’s distant past, and within it found the means to direct her future!” Silver fists clenched; that baleful red glare turned to Orion next. “You,” he growled, “fought well, but if you interfere again you will be destroyed - Orion Pax, the Red Storm.”
He turned away. Orion surged to his pedes, instinct screaming that that was a challenge, one that he couldn’t help but answer even as the arena manager caught his arm to hold him back. “Wait!” he called after the archivist’s retreating back. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The stranger’s steps paused. “You will learn my name soon enough, contract-slave.”
“Arena protocol insists you give your name,” Orion shot back, trying not to let on that it was the manager’s firm grip keeping him upright. “I may be a contract-slave, but I have the right to know whom I face.”
The stranger turned back, just far enough to fix Orion with a single glaring red optic. “Very well,” he said slowly, and was that almost a smile on his face? “Forgive me for my breach of protocol. My name is Megatronus.”
“Megatronus,” Orion repeated in a low hiss. “May we meet again on the field of battle.”
Megatronus turned away again, deliberately dismissing him, and Orion remained on his feet until he disappeared. Then the arena manager, no longer distracted by the archivist, decided zie was tired of holding Orion up and stepped away, letting him fall hard to his knees.
Megatronus, he repeated to himself as the manager commed for medical transport. We will meet again.
*
Aaaaand now you're picturing Megatron cosplaying as Yuna. You're welcome. :D
*
Orion Pax could have told his creators that he would make a terrible gladiator. It was right there in his name. But no one had asked and no one would have listened even if he’d spoken up. His future had been branded on him from the moment of his activation.
They called him Red Storm in the ring. But that was never his name.
It wasn’t a bad life, really. He found a few friends who taught him to enjoy the push-pull dance of combat, though he abhorred killing and avoided it whenever he could. He had a dedicated fan club, and his merchandise sold well, so Orion didn’t think he was in any danger of being killed off anytime soon. He’d never had the kind of cruel owner rumors whispered about whenever someone was sold or repossessed. He was, he told himself, content with his lot, though of course he dreamed of one day winning his freedom.
Then the monster attacked, and everything changed.
It took him six horrible, wretched planetary rotations to kill the tentacled beast that attacked his arena. He had help at first - first the pair of split-spark twins he’d been tasked to fight, then the wardens had released the rest of the gladiators to join in - but one by one they’d fallen, and Orion was the only one left. The wardens roared at him to retreat. Grimly, Orion ignored their commands and kept fighting, bearing the pain of his injuries and the sick worry for his friends and fellow gladiators until - at last! - the monster crumpled to the ground, never to rise again.
Orion staggered to one knee, leaning heavily on his axe. Even now the arena was not empty of spectators, and he was getting a spare but enthusiastic round of cheering and applause, but he could barely lift a hand to acknowledge it. Everything ached, and he was so low on fuel his HUD was flashing critical. He’d given everything he had to beat this - whatever it was. It almost hadn’t been enough.
Someone shouted across the arena at him - the roar of affronted entitlement was so similar to that of the arena masters that he couldn’t help but respond. “You!” they roared, and he lifted his head dully - just in time to catch a flying datapad right between the optics. In his weakened and exhausted state, it was just enough to send him sprawling on his aft.
By the time he regained some sort of equilibrium, the arena manager was standing over him, arguing with someone - someone Orion didn’t know. He was huge, big and well-armored enough to be a gladiator himself, but the way he spoke as he snarled and disdained the arena manager spoke of a more high-class upbringing. Orion squinted, his poor aching processor trying to make sense of the words. “-know how long it took me to summon that creature from the Underdark!” he snarled, in the same voice that had shouted at him before the datapad had hit him. He must have been the one who threw it. “And this scrap-heap of a mid-tier gladiator DISMANTLES it!”
“You SUMMONED that?” the arena manager blurted. “And set it loose on an arena full of spectators? Do you have any idea how many regulations you’ve broken-“
“I’m an archivist, not a lawyer,” the stranger retorted, head flung up proudly. “And my next one will be even more fearsome.”
The arena manager opened zir mouth, then closed it, a shrewd look stealing over zir face. “…so, would you be willing to do that summoning thing in a more - say, controlled environment? With an audience who knows what to expect? I’m seeing a multi-tier exhibition match-”
Orion wanted to groan. Typical. This thing kills who knows how many innocents and all zie can think of is how to profit from it! He was just irritated enough to be ready to protest aloud before the stranger - the summoner, it seemed - beat him to it.
“Is THAT why you think I did it?” the archivist growled dangerously. “Profit? Fame? For the petty entertainment of the mindless, comfortable masses?” A dangerous smirk, an expression that chilled Orion down to his struts, stole across the archivist’s face. “No, my good mech. This has been the opening salvo. A wakeup call to Cybertron. I have traversed our world’s distant past, and within it found the means to direct her future!” Silver fists clenched; that baleful red glare turned to Orion next. “You,” he growled, “fought well, but if you interfere again you will be destroyed - Orion Pax, the Red Storm.”
He turned away. Orion surged to his pedes, instinct screaming that that was a challenge, one that he couldn’t help but answer even as the arena manager caught his arm to hold him back. “Wait!” he called after the archivist’s retreating back. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The stranger’s steps paused. “You will learn my name soon enough, contract-slave.”
“Arena protocol insists you give your name,” Orion shot back, trying not to let on that it was the manager’s firm grip keeping him upright. “I may be a contract-slave, but I have the right to know whom I face.”
The stranger turned back, just far enough to fix Orion with a single glaring red optic. “Very well,” he said slowly, and was that almost a smile on his face? “Forgive me for my breach of protocol. My name is Megatronus.”
“Megatronus,” Orion repeated in a low hiss. “May we meet again on the field of battle.”
Megatronus turned away again, deliberately dismissing him, and Orion remained on his feet until he disappeared. Then the arena manager, no longer distracted by the archivist, decided zie was tired of holding Orion up and stepped away, letting him fall hard to his knees.
Megatronus, he repeated to himself as the manager commed for medical transport. We will meet again.
*
Aaaaand now you're picturing Megatron cosplaying as Yuna. You're welcome. :D