Chapter Text
They called it shadowplay.
Now he knew why. Resisting was like trying to fight a shadow.
And throughout, throughout everything, the pain, the fear, the wrongness, was Trepan’s thin, taunting voice.
“You don’t know what to think,” the mnemosurgeon said, and with the words, Megatron felt something of himself peeled off, flake away. He whined low in his throat, past even screaming. “We can fix that…” And then a pause, the invading touch settled and did not move further, and the golden optics above his widened with surprise. “Oho, what’s this?”
He did not want to look up at his attacker. He did not want to give him any acknowledgement. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything to defend himself. All he could do was stare upward, helpless, at the mech who held everything he was in his hands.
And see him start to smile.
“Higher aspirations, is it?” the mnemosurgeon said. “They tell me you fancied yourself a poet. Well, how about some poetic justice today?”
The light, invasive touch became acid, ripping through his processor. Megatron screamed in raw agony.
“Full reprogramming does take a little longer,” said Trepan. “But I have a feeling you’ll find it worthwhile. You always did want to be a medic, didn’t you?”
Things he had known his entire life slipped away, knowledge, understanding, and cold new things forced their way into their places. The stream of words, of descriptions, he’d always had sputtered to a stop. New words came in their place: fistulas, subdermal corrosion, debridement, rate of reproduction. His hands flared with pain, their sensitivity increased a thousandfold.
“A medic you shall be,” said Trepan.
I don’t understand! I don’t understand! Stop!
“Remember,” said Trepan above him and Megatron arched in the restraints, screaming, the world falling in on him in, suffocating. “Remember that you wanted this.”
This was such a clever plan.
Well, not standard, but they’d appreciate someone making an example of Megatron of Tarn. Trepan smiled to himself. He wasn’t the Council’s favored mnemosurgon just because of his skill. Political acuity, loyalty to the right people, and a certain creativeness were all contributing factors. Not only could he perform the surgeries, but he could do them in the most advantageous way possible to his patrons.
Who were, to a mechanism, outraged about the mech before him. The foolish little miner had been making such a nuisance of himself. Worse yet, he was intelligent. He could write, and write well, and even though they might stop his tracts at the source, copies would likely continue to be made. Primus, what a mess that would be.
They needed an example. A demonstration to the people that form always dictated function, no matter the mech’s aspirations. Or delusions. Delusions, more likely. Someone needed to fail. Someone needed to fail spectacularly.
And why not use the writer of those very same tracts? Trepan laughed softly to himself as he worked. The unfortunate miner had fallen unconscious, pain, terror, the effects of ill-judged defiance. His dreaming brain was putty in Trepan’s hands.
He loved this, wending through a processor, seeing a mech’s every secret, hope, fear, fantasy, tweaking and changing his victims as he went. This miner wouldn’t know what had happened to him. He’d wake with all his dreams fulfilled, a different life, and fall further than he’d ever imagined. Mining was a kinder life than that of a guttermech—the fate that awaited such failures. Hard to write in between selling yourself for fuel, for one thing.
Megatron, who had aspired so high, would be given all he wished by the unwise kindness of the Functionist Council, and fall. This would remind the rest of his ilk that staying within their function was in their best interests. No one would want to emulate him. The name Megatron would become synonymous with misfortune, hubris, humiliation.
He chuckled. He was giving Megatron a medic’s processor. But there were errors. Perfectly natural errors, of course, they wouldn’t look created to an outside eye, but enough to doom him. Just in case his own foolishness didn’t do that first.
“Oh my dear little Megatron,” he said aloud. “What an interesting life you’re going to have. What’s left of it, at least.”
“The idealist is dealt with,” said Trepan.
And so you mean to kill me, thought Terminus. He closed his optics. What happened now did not matter. Megatron had been such a bright thing, such a kind spark, and in losing him, they had lost their fight before it had even begun. He did not know if there was more he could have done. It didn’t matter now, not with everything lost. Maybe someone would take up Megatron’s writings. Maybe.
“I will require someone to keep an eye on him,” said Trepan, and Terminus jolted as needles slid into his brain. He hissed through his vents, soft anger and pain. “You will be perfect. He trusts you. And you…well, of the two of you, I do believe you are the bigger problem. Megatron may have written those things, but you were the one who knew how to change them into the fuel for a revolution.”
One I hope has caught, thought Terminus. If we die, it will not die with us.
“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of your hopes,” said Trepan. After a moment, he chuckled. “Yes, this was an even better idea than I thought. You get to watch your little protegé get everything he ever wanted, and destroy your precious revolution in the process. Better yet, he won’t even know that he’s undoing his life’s work. But you—you will. And you will tell us how well it’s going.”
Confusion. Why so much effort? They could simply be shadowplayed, sent back to the mines to rot in obscurity.
“The mines offer too much autonomy, my dear Terminus. Who knows, Megatron might get it into his dear little processor to try his hand at something else damaging. No, much better to keep you two where we can watch you.” He chuckled. “Much better to give Megatron everything he ever wanted and let him fail spectacularly. He’ll have only himself to blame.”
He didn’t understand. All he knew was that it was bad. Something like Trepan wouldn’t be happy otherwise.
Megatron did not deserve this.
Protective rage surged through him, hatred of the thought of this foul little creature touching Megatron, hurting him, violating his mind as casually as—
A snicker. “You really do care about him, don’t you,” purred Trepan. “Primus, but you’re a fool. I suppose he’s fond of you, too. He trusts you. You know that.”
Pain. Violation. Something changing.
“So very much, the innocent thing that he is. I think you should know—he can’t imagine you betraying him.”
I won’t betray him!
Trepan laughed. “We’ll see about that. Enough talking. Time to get to work.”
Terminus snarled under the gag. One day, he thought at the invasive touch through his mind, one day, Trepan, you and yours will die for this.
Trepan ignored him.