PROPAGATION OF THE SPECIES
By Raksha
It was late, but Megatron had lost track of the hours. Here in the engineering lab of Darkmount, he indulged himself in one of his great pleasures - the pursuit of an inspiration, the implementation of a new design, the honing of a new weapon or a force of dominance over his enemies. To one side, a large blue-lit computer screen displayed the blueprint of his task; directly before him, the holographic model rotated slowly as though already supported by the silent vacuum of space. With a touch, Megatron could zoom in, strip away the outer hull, bring the engine systems and weapons banks into sharp relief - and then, with a few taps of the keyboard to his left, he could incorporate the desired changes into the blueprint. The holographic model shifted obligingly to reflect the update.
He glanced up, over the miniature virtual hull of the vast starship, to note Soundwave working quietly at a table directly opposite. His old friend, too, was engaged in the process of creation - though his task was more personal, some might say less significant; some might say, more so. An arrangement of silvery neurofilaments and tiny sensory chips was spread out before the dark-blue Decepticon, and these he carefully assembled, with tools so fine he scarcely seemed to move his hands as only their tips shifted in an endlessly repeating pattern. His red optic band glowed with a steady illumination, the look of intense focus and serene contentment. At this exact moment, nothing gave Soundwave so much satisfaction as his current activity. There was no backlit viewscreen displaying a blueprint. The blueprint was in his mind, and probably had been there for some time, before he finally found the time to make it reality. Megatron's blueprint, by contrast, would have to be passed on to others to finish the job, and so he would have to share it with the world.
They had been here like this, every night for the past several days, during a rare lull in the ongoing war against the Autobots. They seldom spoke, other than to exchange an occasional piece of advice on one another's' projects; truth be told, it was Megatron who requested Soundwave's input every now and again, for Megatron could give no advice on Soundwave's task. But for the most part they worked here in silence, enjoying one another's familiar companionship, enjoying the stillness that descended upon Darkmount in the uncounted hours of the night; enjoying the sense of bringing something to life.
Soundwave must have heard or sensed Megatron's fractional movement, for he too looked up from his work and met his leader's optics across the disarray of laboratory equipment, computer banks, and machinery. "You are progressing well, Commander?" he inquired, his multiharmonic voice sounding not at all out of place amidst the expectant silence of the laboratory.
Megatron smiled. "Indeed. The Stratofortress will be a magnificent ship. It's almost ready to go into construction - just a few more adjustments to the weaponry. This will be a vessel from which to conquer Cybertron and beyond, Soundwave. A flagship worthy of the Decepticon Empire!" He touched a control on the holo-projector and increased the size of the hovering image so Soundwave could get a better look from his vantage point. When complete, it would carry enough warriors to fill several small cities, and enough weaponry to shatter moons and wipe out any resistance from orbit. Flat-black as though to absorb all surrounding light, it sported only a trace of steel-gray accent. A Decepticon symbol the size of a landing field would grace its forward hull, leaving no doubt as to its origin and allegiance. It was a vessel of pure power rather than aerodynamic lines, though it carried a manner of lethal grace - much like Megatron himself.
Soundwave's optic band shaded faintly brighter in a "smile" as he nodded his approval.
Megatron stopped himself from launching into a rhapsody about the vessel's armament. He'd already given that speech. Two nights in a row, in fact. "And your project?" he inquired instead. By no means was he indifferent to his friend's interests, but it was the design of this ship, this monumentally visible emblem of his faction's power, that consumed all his current passions, and Soundwave's work was merely background static, a welcome excuse for company in the lab.
"It proceeds," Soundwave replied, revealing neither impatience nor excitement, but only his usual serenity. It was thus impossible for Megatron to tell how far along he actually was.
The Decepticon leader quirked a smile. "Don't you have enough creations already, you old rustbucket? How many are there by now, anyway? Eight? Nine?"
"Eleven," Soundwave corrected, an undertone of humor unmistakable in the harmonics.
Megatron grinned. It had been long enough since he'd had opportunity to tease Soundwave about his seemingly endless horde of offspring. He knew the Autobots wouldn't lie quiescent for long, knew on some level that violence and fuel-shed and accompanying tragedy would return full-force soon enough - but while the reprieve lasted, he quite enjoyed it. If time worked in his favor, it would be he who would end the lull - by unleashing the Stratofortress against his unsuspecting enemies. A bit more seriously though still with a note of amusement he asked, "But another creation, Soundwave? Whatever for? Why the ongoing need to burden yourself with more childhood traumas, sibling spats, and adolescent crises?"
Soundwave touched a piece of gloss-green sheetmetal that lay stacked alongside the expanse of circuitry, as though it were already the armor coat of whatever mechanical creature he would meld it into. "This one is unique," he said. "I have in my possession a laser core containing the skills and knowledge of one who perished long ago. The personality engrams have long since been destroyed. I wish to provide the new creation with this knowledge, while giving it a new and unique mind. It is a process I have considered for some time. If successful, it may provide a means of passing information directly from one generation to the next."
"An experiment, then?" Megatron asked.
Soundwave nodded. "Of a sort. And..." there was the briefest of pauses as Soundwave considered that he hadn't entirely answered Megatron's question, and chose the words of his reply, "...there is a manner of immortality in it. Something of oneself, that will survive into the future, into a better age. A statement of hope. One day we shall achieve victory and the Decepticon Empire will span the stars. I should like an element of myself to experience that future." He tilted his head and gave Megatron a searching look. "Have you never considered it, Commander?"
Megatron laughed. "What - an offspring?" Soundwave's creations drove him crazy enough sometimes; he hardly needed one of his own.
But Soundwave persisted quite seriously, though always in that calm conversational tone, "An offspring, yes. No one may hope to rule forever, and though that time may lie in the far-flung future, would you not hope to have an element of yourself that will lead the empire to continued glory?"
Megatron sobered. Though Soundwave couched it in the language of an improbable future, it was quite true that he might fall in battle at any time. An unlucky shot, a determined assassin, a stupid accident - any or all of them lay in wait for the commander of the Decepticon forces. And though he had survived much that would have killed an ordinary mech ten times over, he couldn't deny that even his luck might one day expire. And then who would lead the empire? Starscream? He scowled at the thought. More than likely he pictured Thunderwing, Colossus, and Shadowlord simply shoving Starscream aside and battling it out amongst themselves - while the Autobots rubbed their hands in glee and picked off the Decepticons at leisure.
Soundwave suggested mildly, "You would seem to have an appropriate consort."
Megatron shot him a deeper scowl. Soundwave would think so, wouldn't he, given that he'd practically adopted the offworlder female. Another creation amongst the brood, another set of responsibilities and worries. "If you mean Raksha," he snapped, "she's hardly my consort."
"She is the female with whom you have been most associated in recent years," Soundwave replied, unfazed. "Her hunter's instincts, sensory acuity, and enhanced reaction time would complement your mental and psychological imperatives of indomitability and leadership. And truthfully, is there a more suitable choice?"
Megatron felt an unexpected flash of grief, sharp like a splintered blade after all these years. Yes, there was a more suitable choice. But she had disappeared long ago, and for all his efforts, he had never been able to track her down. She had surely died somewhere in enemy hands; she was forever lost to him.
Soundwave could not have failed to guess what went through his leader's mind, for he leaned forward a bit and said gently, "You cannot mourn Nightbird forever, Megatron. She would not wish it."
Megatron felt the flare of his optics as customary anger rose to mask the pain. "I told you never to speak of that again!" he said sharply. "And you're the last one to talk. You've never even looked at another female since Celene died."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Megatron regretted them - but if Soundwave was distressed or offended, he gave no sign. With the same gentle harmonics, the same endless patience with which he might address a frightened child, he countered, "That is because I have had no suitable prospects. That phase of my life is concluded. My energies lie elsewhere now. But you - you, Megatron, are still seeking an equal with whom to share your existence. You have passions that must be expressed, and a duty to Cybertron's future that must be fulfilled. You have a female who is drawn to you as you are to her. It would seem unfortunate, to let such an opportunity slip away."
Soundwave did not add "again," but Megatron heard it none the less. He regarded the blue Decepticon through narrowed scarlet optics. In truth, he knew of many females who might regard Soundwave as a "catch," but his self-assessment was at least partially correct: he did not seem to feel deprived for lack of female companionship, being complete unto himself, content to take the role of a father figure rather than a romantic one. He was correct, also, about Megatron. The Decepticon leader was driven by a restlessness that continually sought the next victory, the greater triumph, the miraculous survival against impossible odds ... and, the thrill of all manner of life's experiences, including that of intimate company. What exactly he sought amongst the female population of the Decepticon forces, he hadn't been entirely certain since Nightbird - but he knew he wasn't finding it. And yet, there was Raksha. The alien mechanoid to whom he was drawn back, again and again. Fascinating and infuriating. Devoted and independent. As likely to arouse his ire as his affections, though he knew she made an effort to fit in among a species not her own. She was simultaneously unpredictable in her alien responses, and unwavering in her loyalty.
Soundwave watched him quietly from across the gulf of laboratory tables. "Merely consider," he finally urged. "I shall not speak of it again." As though there had been no interruption, he went back to the painstaking task of assembling the delicate neurocircuitry, each tiny filament to be strung upon the next with micrometer precision.
Megatron too turned back to his work. The holographic model of the Stratofortress still rotated slowly before him, revealing itself from all sides in such detail that he could make out the individual rivets in the hull. He forced his attention back to the blueprint screen and resumed his adjustments, but the mood of the evening was broken.
* * *
Megatron walked along the assembly line in the deep caverns below Polyhex, taking in the hive-like activity, the roar of blowtorches, the clash of metal and the scent of soldering steel. The Stratofortress was being constructed in place, for it was far too large to fit in any hangar. Assembled on the planet's surface, it would span the length of several cities; assembled in orbit, it would be an obvious target for sabotage. So the only solution was to build downward, into the layers leading toward the planet's core. Multiple levels had already been collapsed to create sufficient vertical space; as assembly progressed, more layers would be perforated to make room for the growing vessel.
Although Scrapper and his Constructicons coordinated the activity, Megatron made his presence known by an almost daily supervision. At times he even joined in, lending his considerable strength to whatever task needed doing - fitting girders into place, welding, riveting, directing the movements of lumbering construction drones. His magnificent flagship was as yet not even a skeletal outline, but already he could picture it filling the cavern, the forward hull scraping against a ceiling so high above that it was lost from sight, the mid and aft sections plunging vertically downward for many layers below - poised to rise like a gargantuan monolith from the depths of the world.
On the circular raised dais that served as a command center and overview point, a series of computer screens had been set up that showed by turns the detailed blueprints of the vessel, the individual assignments of each Decepticon, the list of needed supplies, and notes and commentary from the Constructicons and from Megatron himself. As often as he left notice to "Pick up the pace," he also left notes of "Well done," and "Good progress today." Shockwave was doing his utmost to procure all the necessary supplies from across the planet - hopefully without alerting the Autobots that something major was underway - but Megatron knew even as he looked over the worksite, that his dream project was sucking the empire dry of every available resource. He was putting everything he had into this, taking a gamble, and under no circumstances would he allow it to fail.
Behind him, the holographic image of the completed Stratofortress rotated serenely over empty space, lit by the blue glow of the computer screens. It was the inspiration to keep going - the promise of glory to come. As Megatron had so often inspired his troops throughout his life.
But in the midst of anticipation, something nagged at the back of his mind. Try as he might to cast it aside, the mad notion that Soundwave had placed in his audial sensor refused to leave him alone. Who would fly this ship, who would cast ruin and desolation upon the Autobots, who would safeguard the Decepticons, if an untimely fate were to befall Megatron? What might it be like, to have a successor to train - one possessed of all the command instincts necessary to rule Cybertron, with the added advantage of a certain alien physiology? One who could fight like Megatron, in the application of pure brute power, and one who could fight like Raksha, in the deadly serpent's strike that withdrew as quickly as it came? Megatron had once thought Starscream might be that successor, a young warrior to train and groom for command, but.... He sighed. That certainly hadn't worked out.
He turned toward the floating image of the Stratofortress. As clearly as the vision of this flagship had jumped into his mind not long ago, an image superimposed itself on his mind's optic. It was a Decepticon, a creature of fluid power, blue like Raksha's diamond scales and silver like Megatron's armor, with fiery optics and long wings draped dramatically from his shoulders. Yes, Megatron thought with a faint smile. If he were to have an offspring built, that is what the body would look like. The alt mode was less distinct, but ... something reptilian, definitely. Something that could tear the throat out of Superion and pick its teeth with the remains. Megatron's smile turned to a scowl as the image became more distinct in his thoughts, and took up residence alongside the rotating Stratofortress.
* * *
"Here," Megatron said, calling up the file on Soundwave's workstation. "If I were to have a creation - if, mind you - that's what it would look like." The image on screen shifted from robot to alt mode of its own accord, the long wings folding into place in both forms. He had worked out the steps of the transformation sequence easily enough - he had learned plenty from Soundwave when they built the Stunticons together - but the details would still have to be filled in by an expert. "What do you think?"
Soundwave peered at the screen with interest, let the image shift through its transform sequence a few more times, then tapped in a few quick commands on the keyboard. There was a slight adjustment to the picture, barely discernible to Megatron.
"I think," Soundwave said finally, "that you had best mention this to Raksha."
* * *
Megatron's quarters in Darkmount at the heart of Polyhex were not unlike his Earthbase quarters where he had spent a number of years - dark-walled and spartan, almost barren save for the barest necessities and the single decoration that adorned the wall, the heavy old scimitar from Megatron's gladiatorial days. They were quarters more worthy of a warlord who seldom took a moment's rest in the midst of an ongoing struggle for survival, than of the rightful ruler of Cybertron and the future head of a galactic empire. But that too would come in time, Megatron told himself. These quarters were at least more spacious than what he'd had on Earth, and they offered a more pleasing view. The whole of the Decepticon-controlled territory spread out before him in the vista of the transparent-steel window. Eternal night shrouded the planet, the erratic lights of Polyhex City giving way abruptly to the wastelands beyond. Shockwave's mate Whiplash prowled those deadland expanses, Megatron knew, and on a number of occasions Raksha hunted with her. What did the females talk about, he wondered, when they were beyond the confines of military protocol? Did they exchange snickering commentary on the males of the Decepticon species, or were such thoughts less than trivial to them, out there in the razorwire wilderness?
A soft sound from the door announced the arrival of one of the objects of his musings. It was only to Raksha to whom he had given the access code to his personal quarters - and Soundwave knew, of course, for security purposes, and he had passed this on to one of his innumerable creations during Megatron's 4-million-year absence. And Nightbird ... Nightbird had been able to bypass the lock entirely on her own. He'd nearly fired upon her by reflex, the first time she came to him so unexpectedly....
The present dispelled the past as Raksha slipped through the door, her clawed feet clicking softly against the metal floor and the faint light from the window reflecting back from her optics in mirrored green. Even in biped mode, her movements had a serpentine quality - her limbs and long neck moving with a sinuous grace, the tapered tail swishing softly in her wake. Megatron traced the curves of her form with his optics, the gloss of her metal scales, the lay of her iridescent plumes over the crest of her neck. He smiled. "Well. Good hunting today?"
She smiled in response, showing the tips of her quadruple poison fangs, and crossed the distance between them to join him at the window. She raised a four-fingered clawed hand and opened it to reveal a bit of serrated armor plate, stained dark by dried fuel but still recognizably painted with a nearly-intact Autobot symbol. "Acceptable hunting," she said, the dim light catching again in her optic lenses. When Megatron made no move toward the metal shred, she raised it a bit higher and explained, as though it should have been beyond obvious, "For you."
"Ah. ... Thanks," he said as he picked the piece up in two fingers and held it aloft, making a passing show of admiring it before placing it on a nearby shelf. He wondered briefly whether Shockwave had to deal with an accumulation of hunting trophies, then shrugged and slipped an arm around Raksha's waist, drawing her close to him. The cool smooth texture of her torso armor contrasted with the beaded scales as she slid her arms around him, her lightless optics shifted into pools of darkness as her head tilted away from the light. Megatron lowered his head and let his lips brush the sinuous curve of her neck as one hand came up to stroke her razor-edged plumes. Yes, perhaps ... perhaps Soundwave had been right....
The thought of Soundwave brought him up short. There was, after all, something he wanted to discuss with Raksha, and who knew when there would be opportunity again?
She looked at him, puzzled, then amused. "What - my token from the hunt wasn't grand enough to buy your affections?" she chided.
Megatron chuckled. "Your token was just fine," he said. "But listen, Steel Huntress. I have an offer for you. A ... proposal."
She tilted her head, a quick, nearly birdlike motion, a question.
"Soundwave is of the opinion—" That's right, foist it off on Soundwave. He began again. "We're on the verge of defeating the Autobots. Cybertron will soon lie at the heart of a stellar empire. And it's come to my attention that it might not be a bad idea to create an heir. Someone to lead in my place, one day in the far future. And I want you, Raksha, to join me in the creation."
She looked at him for a few long moments of silence, as she translated the language of his kind into the terminology of hers, and finally the plumes on her crest flickered upwards and then smoothed again in that gesture that Megatron had come to recognize as equivalent to a Cybertronian's optic "blink." "A hatchling," she said. "You want me to bear a hatchling?"
That didn't sound quite right to Megatron's audials, but at least it was close to the general idea. "Er ... yes. A hatchling," he confirmed. For a moment he felt a flicker of doubt and wondered if the whole scheme were crazy - but the image of the blue-and-silver Decepticon burned in his mind's optic. It wanted to come to life. It was insistent. Just like the Stratofortress.
Raksha dropped her head, the curve of her neck ruffling her plumes into disarray. One hand came up against Megatron's chest as though to push him away, or to push herself away from him. "I can't," she said softly. "Didn't you know that by now?"
Megatron's response was tinged unexpectedly with annoyance. "What do you mean you can't?" he demanded. "Soundwave would never have suggested it if he didn't think our energy signatures were compatible. Our species are similar enough where it matters."
Raksha shook her head vehemently, her own irritation rising in response to Megatron's. "I've been through three mating cycles with you, and I've never become gravid. Either our species can't hybridize, or I'm simply not fertile. Else you would have had your hatchling long before now."
Now it was Megatron's turn to stare at her in silence and try to puzzle out what she had said. "But we've never once tried to create..." he began, and then a bit of esoteric knowledge flickered on in his mind. There were species, he recalled, who combined the act of physical union, the sharing of pleasure and affection, with the procreation of offspring. The thought was strange to Megatron, as one process clearly had little to do with the other - but, could it be that Raksha's species had been one of these?
"I think there are still some things you don't quite understand about Cybertronians," he decided.
Raksha's plumes bristled. "There's plenty about Cybertronians I don't understand," she retorted. "If I'm missing something important here, why don't you enlighten me?"
Great Cybertron. Was this what he was in for, with a creation?
Megatron decided he would leave it to Soundwave to inform Raksha of the facts of life.
* * *
Raksha's puzzlement had quickly given way to fascinated amazement under Soundwave's patient explanations, and she came to spend long hours with him in the laboratory as he constructed the body that would house the new Decepticon. He'd put aside his own creation project for this one - a task in its way every bit as complicated as the one he'd been attempting, for it involved the commingling of two species who had, to his knowledge, never produced viable offspring before. That in and of itself made it a fascinating challenge.
Megatron came in and out to look things over and express his approval, but he had other demands on his time, not the least of which was the continued progress of the Stratofortress. It was Raksha who had become a fixture in the lab.
She crouched at the edge of the workbench, occasionally reaching out to caress the curve of a wing with her talon-tips. The process was wondrous to her - that she could sit here and watch Soundwave assemble her offspring, as though he were something entirely outside of herself. And yet Soundwave assured her, he would indeed be born from her essence, hers and Megatron's.
"There's one thing I still don't understand," she said as she watched Soundwave fit a length of fuel-line tubing into place. The new creation was a sizeable form, every bit as tall as Megatron, and required quite a bit of material. Soundwave did not answer, but she knew he was listening, so she continued, "How will he get my metallocytes? In this ... energy-transfer process that you describe, there seems to be no way for the metallocytes to cross over."
Soundwave did look up now. Simply from studying Raksha, he probably knew more than anyone about Plumed Serpent physiology, but this he hadn't considered. It was the metallocytes - tiny liquid-metal cells that coursed through a Plumed Serpent's fuel lines - which allowed Raksha her fluid transformational ability, which allowed her to heal wounds far beyond the limited self-repair ability of the average Cybertonian - and which, he knew, were said by her species to carry the genetic code of the parent. Plumed Serpents traced their family connections back in a matrilineal progression through the metallocytes inherited from the female parent, and no matter how carefully he explained the energy-transfer process that would provide new life, he knew Raksha would never entirely believe the creation was truly hers, unless he had some of her metallocytes in addition to her personality engrams.
"We will transfer them to his fuel lines directly," he decided. Whether they would have any effect at all, he didn't know, and rather doubted; this form was, after all, built on a purely Cybertonian design. But it would be most interesting to find out.
* * *
Megatron guided Raksha through the vast, empty network of corridors as wide as city streets. Their footfalls echoed back to them, for without the sound of the engines to pervade the metal and bring the vessel to life, it was hollow and silent. Faintly, from a great distance away, came the sound of machinery and construction as work continued in other sections. The ship was not finished, but it was getting very close.
It wasn't long before the slope of the floor tilted toward the vertical, as the ship lay positioned to rise skyward, and the artificial gravity was not yet engaged. So they flew - Megatron in robot mode, and Raksha in serpent mode, her wingspan having no trouble clearing the walls. Megatron knew every turn and passage, and easily led them to his intended destination. They emerged onto the bridge by rising out of an accessway which would, during normal operations, lie horizontal, and there they hovered, in the center of a polygonal space the width of a combat arena. Rising in a vertical arc around them, the workstations ringed the bridge; in the center, on a raised pedestal, was the commander's throne; and directly above their heads, the wall-sized viewscreen turned a blind gray optic band inward.
It bothered Megatron not in the least that there was no dramatic vista of space to share with his mate at such a significant moment. He hovered in place and held out his arms to her, urging her to come to him - and she did so, all rippling coils and razor-edged wings, winding herself around him and taking pleasure in his nearness as he did in hers. "We will rule Cybertron together, Steel Huntress," he vowed, stroking her textured scales. "This is only the beginning!" It was time, he realized - time to put the past behind him and begin anew.
His elation remained unabated as they left the ship and made their way to Soundwave's laboratory, where the completed form of their creation lay in wait. He felt on the verge of a turning point in history, as he had so many times before. With Raksha at his side in biped mode, he stepped into Soundwave's laboratory and carefully sealed the door behind them. Soundwave was there, waiting. His optic band shaded slightly brighter to a warm red, a "smile," as he nodded to them. Everything was prepared.
The newly built body rested on one of the tables, the wings spread out under its back, the optics dark. Energon was flowing freely in its fuel lines, filtration and self-repair systems were online, the fuel pump was beating steadily - but these were all artificially-induced functions, for the body yet lacked the vital essence of life.
Soundwave began by withdrawing a small bit of fuel from Raksha's lines with the help of a steel-tipped syringe. A quick check under the microscope confirmed that the sample did indeed contain the strange little liquid-metal globules that shimmered like mercury and drew apart like amoebae in cell division. These he injected into the new body's fuel tank.
Leading directly from its core, were a pair of transfer connections. Soundwave affixed them to Megatron first, through an access port in his helmet, while Raksha watched in fascination. When her turn came, Soundwave had to make an adjustment - a small incision in the hollow of her throat, a tiny wound that sealed itself around the transfer cable. It was assured already that the new Decepticon would be most unique in all the galaxies.
Soundwave activated the transfer equipment, and a faint hum of power sprang up and filled the room. Megatron and Raksha instinctively drew toward one another. She glanced at the silver Decepticon, then to Soundwave, as though questioning if all was well. Megatron smiled, and Soundwave only nodded to her, keeping watch on the energy readings.
Then it happened. Soundwave's telepathic senses caught the unmistakable power surge even before his medical equipment picked it up ... the signature energy reading of a transfer of life-essence, an activation of the laser core like a slow fire warming to life. Soundwave actually heard the infinitesimal sound of the core powering up, the subtle change in the rhythm of the fuel pump as it ceded control from the life-support machinery to a living being. The optics flickered for a moment, pulsed to their full intensity in the same shade as Megatron's, and then softly, peacefully faded back into the darkness of sleep.
Raksha gave Soundwave a startled look, but then relaxed as the indigo Decepticon did not respond in alarm. Apparently all was as it should be. She reached out and brushed her fingertips lightly down the side of the new Decepticon's face. She would not be able to touch him again for some time. The new creation was far too large and powerful, far too well-armed and perhaps unpredictable, to activate to full consciousness right away. Furthermore, Megatron had insisted he have a working knowledge of the world and a mature personality before he be allowed to join the ranks - a requirement not easily met through this creation method, which normally resulted in childlike minds that matured through time and experience. So, Megatron had borrowed a technique from the Valckastan lineage that had spawned Thunderwing. His and Raksha's creation, he decreed, would be kept in a state of semi-sensory stasis and receive instruction and knowledge directly into his cerebral circuits, until Soundwave could telepathically determine that he was mature. Megatron had at first been worried that Raksha would object - her anticipation of this event had perhaps even exceeded his own - but in fact, she raised no dissent. The passage of time meant little to a Plumed Serpent - ten months, ten years, it was all the same. She would simply wait nearby until the moment of "hatching" arrived.
* * *
He had transformed to his reptilian mode, the long curved wings cradling his body as he drifted in the sensory chamber - not asleep and not awake, but dreaming and learning and assimilating, even as he floated amidst a liquid sea of stars. He had changed - not much, but he had changed, as the metallocytes proliferated through his body and brought with them the genetic code of his mother's species. His wings had flared outward and streamlined their shape; his claws had grown curved and sharp in both modes. A crest of nascent plumes had sprouted down the nape of his reptilian mode, though they formed spine-like structures rather than true metallic feathers. And in his timeless dream, he circled in upon himself and shifted toward the sound of a voice that sang of ancient jungles and lost continents.
* * *
Megatron found her, as so often, down in the bunker where their creation's sensory chamber had been secured. When the Stratofortress pounded the Autobot-held territories to metal shavings, this reinforced chamber would stand up to any collapse from above. It could also be sealed completely, if it should need to be shielded from enemies - provided such enemies could find it in the first place. It was an ancient section of Polyhex's underground, long abandoned, and brought back to life only recently for this expressed purpose.
A faint blue light spilled from the chamber, the product of stasis equipment and cerebral stimulation units that were piping knowledge directly into the newly-formed mind. Within the chamber itself, a curled form floated in a kind of insensate serenity, wreathed in his great wings, turning by tiny increments round and round as though in time to some slow pulse of the universe. On occasion the tail twitched, or the jaw would gape a little, revealing rows upon rows of dagger-edged teeth.
Raksha was in biped mode, one hand resting lightly against the transparent barrier, her plumage smoothed back as she spoke to her offspring in a language Megatron could not translate. The head in the chamber tilted slightly, the jaw opened a bit as though he wished to answer his mother from across the landscape of an eternal dream. Raksha's spoken words, for such Megatron assumed they were, shifted into a soft serpent-song, a haunting rise and fall.
Megatron stepped fully into the blue-lit darkness of the bunker and allowed one footfall to strike perhaps a bit heavier than most, to draw attention to himself. Raksha flickered a glance toward him, a fractional nod of acknowledgement - oh, she had known he was there all along, no doubt - but continued her quiet song.
Megatron shifted his grip on the object he held in his right hand, and stepped up beside Raksha, curling his left around her shoulders. Perhaps she would stop with the infernal singing, he thought. Their creation seemed to respond to it well enough, but Megatron hated that sound. Even when sung softly, it seemed to give voice to all the heartbreak in the universe. Reflexively his fingers tightened just a bit on her shoulder.
Raksha stilled finally, one clawed hand still poised against the clear barrier. She looked up at Megatron, smiled, then noticed he carried something with him, half-hidden from view by his body. "What did you bring?" she asked.
Megatron lifted the object into view. It was his old scimitar from the State Games, all these millions of years past. It was the one object that had traveled to Earthbase and back with him, the one object among his possessions here on Cybertron that he had been most pleased to reclaim. If Raksha could bestow upon their creation her metallocytes, her history and her heritage, then this scimitar was Megatron's heritage - as nearly, in any case, as it could be embodied in any one object. He nodded toward the dreaming form in the chamber. His creation. His son. "I want him to have this," he explained.
There was an access hatch near the top of the enclosure where the stasis fluid did not reach. This, Megatron opened, and carefully let the heavy, curved scimitar sink down through the viscous liquid to come to rest against the bottom of the chamber.
The dreamer shifted his body ever so slightly and oriented toward the blade.
* * *
It was finished.
The Stratofortress lay in its berth, a vast behemoth stretching across twenty-three subsurface layers. It had taken every scrap of available resource the Decepticon faction possessed. Entire cities were razed to incorporate building material. The Autobots had caught wind that something was in the works, but they where thinking too small. A massive assault, perhaps. An army of drone walkers. A new combiner team. They couldn't have begun to imagine the truth.
After giving his highest commendations to the Constructicons and all who had labored to bring the flagship to life, Megatron dismissed them all from the construction chamber. This was his moment to savor, and his alone. Not even Soundwave, not even Raksha, could share it with him.
The flat-black wall of the Stratofortress' hull rose before him, plunging far, far into the depths at his feet, and rising like a spacescraper toward the unseen reaches of the chamber ceiling. Megatron regarded the featureless expanse, and smiled.
And presently, something caught his attention. He wasn't certain what. A sound, perhaps, but too soft to be a sound; a presence, perhaps, but he had ordered the area cleared, and none would dare disobey him. Assassin, was his next thought, an Autobot who had somehow made it alive through the Polyhex defenses and the guardian of the wastelands, and now meant to scuttle his victory before it had begun.
He powered up the fusion cannon on his arm, the low whine of the energy spike sounding inordinately loud in the dim silence of the construction chamber. Even as he did so he was on the move, presenting a mobile rather than a stationary target and scanning for any hint of a target of his own. There--! Just beyond the circle of light cast by the command center, the holograph of the Stratofortress still turning about its own axis in an endless slow-motion dance - there, something had moved, and he snapped up his right arm to aim the cannon.
And then it was beside him, the movement, and with it came a voice like a murmur: "Megatron."
Even as a shock of recognition shot through him, he reflexively spun toward the sound, the cannon still outstretched, but his target was no longer there. She had stepped out into the light, such as there was of it, though her satiny black-and-gray plating seemed to repel all illumination. Her almond-shaped optics glowed a steady amber in amusement. "Still trying to shoot at me in the dark, Megatron?" she asked, her voice a soothing murmur, a note of music in the undertones.
He froze completely then and stared at her, until he realized he was still standing there with his arm outstretched in firing position, and slowly lowered the cannon to his side. It was impossible. It couldn't be.
It was.
"Nightbird."
He spoke her name in a whisper, and then the stasis was broken; they were together as though they had never been apart, clinging to one another with an incredulous abandon. Megatron ran his hands over her face, down her arms, down her sides, over and over, as though to assure himself she was solid, she was real. She was just as he remembered. Through a rush of emotion too intense to name, let alone scrutinize, the obvious questions receded to insignificance: Where had she been? How had she escaped? How had she made it to Cybertron? It didn't matter. It only mattered that she was here.
* * *
At some point later that night, still holding Nightbird to him tightly, Megatron was startled out of his intoxication by a cold jolt of reality. There was that little matter of the dreamer in the stasis chamber. And, what on Cybertron was he going to say to Raksha?
END
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