Chapter Text
Megatron is surprised to find that he adjusts to peace-time life far more easily than Optimus does. He'd always imagined - and was certain everyone else did the same- that Optimus would thrive in a post-war society and he, an old warlord, would rust himself into oblivion. Maybe it’s because Optimus Prime has spent the last few millennia attempting to embody peace, a stark contrast to Megatron's imposing frame and harsh history. Or maybe it’s because of all that Autobot propaganda proclaiming Optimus as the better one, the better person, the better leader. And somewhere along the line, Megatron realizes, he had started to believe it. And so that is what he blames his shock and unpreparedness on, when Rung asks about it a week after Optimus gets hauled in on a Cybertronian Watch sting operation.
Megatron gets the transmission while preparing dinner- a single cube of warmed mid grade with two jellies from the pack he hid above the counter and has been slowly making his way through for several months. It's not a fancy dinner, doesn't involve much effort (it's just him tonight, so what's the point of making anything above edible quality) so he's listening to the only Cybertronian news channel and rereading a report he didn't quite understand the first time, when an anonymous comm interrupts all three of his activities.
It's Optimus.
"Hey, you're still a registered representative, right?" Optimus asks, in lieu of a hello. Megatron isn't immediately suspicious at the question -though perhaps he ought to be. But he’s come to expect these sorts of unpredictable greetings. Optimus’s life is his own, and Megatron has long since given up attempting to understand the issues the Prime grapples with- they change on a whim. Anyway, Megatron is a qualified representative; there are only two experienced lawyers on Cybertron, so for the time being all those that helped construct Cybertron’s laws have been given the authority to do preliminary work. Optimus could need his advice, or his help on some possible law. He is a political leader (and perhaps future Lord High Protector, if he plays his cards right) after all; such a use of his representative power would be routine. That’s the excuse he gives himself for not recognizing the maybe-not-end-of-the-world right away, anyway.
“Yes, I’m still registered.”
“Great. That’s great.” Optimus says, and does not elaborate. Megatron takes a long drag from his cube and waits patiently for the rest of the story. There’s some restless shifting on the other side of the line (discernible by the slight scraping of metal) and an odd clanking noise. Finally, Optimus continues.
"I'm in holding room 13 at Cybertronian Watch. Can you please come get me out?”
Which is how Megatron finds himself in the middle of the Cybertronian Watch entrance room during what he can only describe as a hurricane meeting a trainwreck. The main room is large, with desks spaced in clusters of 4 in the middle. Doorways around the edges lead to what Megatron can only assume are holding cells. The floor is, to put it mildly, packed with people. He pauses for a moment in the entrance and watches as one femme leads a seeker in cuffs towards a door labelled 6. She opens it and must see that it's already currently occupied, because she backs out and she moves onto the next. Number 5, too, appears occupied, from the annoyed hiss and quick retreat. She is not the only Watch officer attempting to deposit a detainee- to Megatron’s left, a Tarnian (Megatron can always identify a Southerner) leads a high-caster from door to door, peeking through the windows.
Every desk in the middle of the room is packed, one officer to 2-3 mecha, cuffed and seated. Other workers buzz around, collecting datapads and chattering excitedly with officers and prisoners alike. When Megatron recovers his wherewithal, he stops one with a hand to her shoulder.
“Where is Optimus Prime,” he asks. She looks up at him and her optics widen in recognition.
“Room 13,” she squeaks. “Were you also part of the warehouse fight club?”
....
“What the absolute Pit?” Megatron asks calmly and with great patience. The holding room is a gray box with a gray table and gray handcuffs. The reds of Optimus’s plating provide the only splash of color, which is why Megtron’s optic is immediately drawn to the numerous scrapes in his paint that reveal the metal underneath. “What the fuck?” he reiterates.
“I didn’t do anything illegal.” It’s a blatant lie, and a bold choice for an opener. Megatron can respect that, at least.
“No?” Megatron asks, stalking forward in the way that usually elicits nervousness from his more idiotic ex-subordinates. “You were running a perfectly legal illicit fight club?”
“I wasn’t running anything. I was maybe a starring fighter-” Optimus attempts to raise his hands in what is possibly an ‘oh well’ gesture, but is stopped by the short chain between his cuffs and the table. But the sentiment gets through, and it's enough to make Megatron’s energon boil. His processor has a hundred retorts lined up, each one more accusatory than the last. Rung would call it a 'runaway emotional response', he remembers. Rung would say to take a step back, so he does. Figuratively and literally. Optimus frowns at the movement, but says nothing when Megatron leans heavily on the wall and sighs. He takes the moment of silence to think.
As Optimus’s representative, it may be best to spin this as a sparring session. A public sparring session. A public sparring session in which several fighters beat the living slag out of each other while an audience cheered. Megatron graciously lets his processor fret and spiral down memories of the Pits, then pulls it back together with sheer will and his oft-repeated, personal mantra of calm down, we are building a post-war utopia. Calm down, Optimus Prime is Pit-fighting in my post-war Utopia.
Megatron pulls himself from the wall and slowly makes his way to the seat across from Optimus. “Why?”
Optimus doesn’t respond immediately. His optics flick about the room, as if searching for another bullshit answer. Megatron bites back the desire to reach over and shake some sense into him.
“It just feels…I don’t know. I guess it’s just enjoyable.”
Calm down, calm do- frag that.
Megatron snorts derisively, then pitches his voice just high enough to be annoying. “Oh Megatron, peace time would be so wonderful. Oh Megatron, if only we could end this war so we would never have to fight again. Oh Megatron, I do so hate violence - ”
“I don’t sound like that!”
“Whatever happened to peacetime, Optimus? You really want to get back on that horse? I can always restart the war for you, let you get some good punches in.” And maybe Megatron is over-reacting. No, he’s definitely over-reacting. Contrary to popular belief, he understands that he can get rather emotional and irrationally angry, he’s working on it. But of all the reckless, stupid, politically incriminating stunts Optimus had pulled in the last year alone, this one grinds his gears the most. Maybe it's because this is something he could have prevented.
It’s not like Megatron hasn’t noticed Optimus’s more erratic behavior. He still…cares for the mech, even if they aren’t…coupled. Megatron is a grown mech, he understands that relationships and people aren’t simple. He’s survived the mines, the Pits of Kaon, and a war - he knows how that can fuck mecha up. Everyone Megatron knows has changed since the war ended- Soundwave spends meetings absentmindedly taking notes while most of his processor runs down transmissions from where his Cassettes may be, Starscream keeps interrupting his own plans for his political career by inventing dangerous weaponry, and Optimus hasn’t followed through on a commitment in vorns.
Ultra Magnus shows up at Megatron’s door sometimes, asking if he’s seen Optimus. Asking if Optimus might be willing to change his mind, to run for President once the (Workers and Soldiers') Representative Council is dismissed. And Megatron has nothing to say except ‘no, I haven’t seen Optimus in a week. No, I can’t change his mind.’ If he had just found Optimus, run him down to deliver the messages instead of waiting for him to come knocking, maybe he could have seen this mess coming.
Optimus sighs, dropping his helm into his cuffed hands and scrubbing at his optics. Both actions do nothing to soothe Megatron’s irritability. “I don’t want to restart the war, Megatron. I just want-”
“You want to spar? You want a good fight? Why didn’t you come to me? You know I’m always willing to toss you around.” And now that he thinks about it, Megatron finds that he’s rather offended. How long has Optimus been ducking him to beat up some random mech in a warehouse?
“I don’t want that,” Optimus says.
“Clearly you do want to fight-”
“Yes, yes. I don’t know. I enjoy fighting you. It’s just different.” And what the slag is that supposed to mean?
“Different?”
Optimus abruptly lifts his helm, faceplate pinched. “And how was I supposed to know that consensual fighting is illegal anyway? Is it even illegal? I don’t ever remember agreeing to that.”
“Consensual fighting? Are you fragging with me?”
“We had a medic.” Megatron files that information away. He may be berating his client, but he still has a job to do.
“Oh, you had a medic? Well that changes everything.” Megatron pinches between his optics and waves away Optimus’s response. “You know what,” he says, “it doesn’t matter. Let’s just get you out of here.” They can do this at home. Or tomorrow. He’s so tired. And hungry, having failed to finish his dinner cube.
Optimus slumps back against the uncomfortable-looking chair. “I would greatly appreciate that,” he says, then “thank you for coming.” And it’s so annoyingly sincere - and Megatron’s always been weak to Optimus Prime’s dubious and yet sincere apologies - that he can physically feel his spark calming and his processor forgiving -
He leaves the room quickly, mustering up a half-sparked glare over his shoulder, but Optimus only smiles.
—
“It wasn’t a sting.” Slipstream ambushes Megatron outside the holding room door, twitching in the anxious ways of most mechs when they meet Megatron. But Slipstream has been a comrade for long enough to have surpassed such reactions, making Megatron rather nervous at its reappearance.
“It wasn’t like we wanted this,” she continues, sweeping a servo towards the increasingly crowded station. “We had no intention of arresting Optimus Prime tonight.” Which is a rather odd thing to be telling Optimus’s representative, Megatron thinks.
Megatron frowns. “If you had intended on arresting him, it would have been within your rights.” Slipstream blinks.
“Yes…”
“What do you mean, this was unintentional?”
“We - ” Slipstream pauses, possibly rethinking what ammunition to be providing the defense, then clearly decides she might as well. The urge to gossip may have been the final decider, Megatron thinks. “We weren’t investigating a fighting ring. We had no idea what was taking place, and I don’t think the higher ups even really care about it.” This makes sense - Optimus was correct about one thing, fighting amongst veterans isn’t really a Watch priority.
“And yet -” he gestures at the bustling room.
“We stumbled on it. We had four people on duty! Had to call in the rest of the squad for overtime.” Slipstream places a hand on her hip and huffs, as if annoyed that their detainees had the audacity to commit crimes whilst the station was on minimal staffing.
“You…stumbled into it.” Megatron is of the opinion - one gained through millennia of wartime mishaps and, before that, the loss of many allies through ‘tunnel collapses’ - that accidents are inherently suspicious. Accidents that involve a police force even more so.
“Yes, we were attempting a… well, a different sting I suppose. We had - oh!” Slipstream slaps a palm to her helm. “Bumblebee wants to talk to you.”
“Bumblebee got caught?” Megatron feels that Optimus would have mentioned that. He also feels that Bumblebee, always a sensible - albeit young - mech, would have known better than to get mixed up in all this.
“No, no,” Slipstream raises her hands in a placating gesture. “He’s in the disclosure room with his charge. He was leading him through the whole operation - we were trying to get a suspect to admit - oh, just go talk to him about it, is what I was supposed to tell you.” It is, simultaneously, a lot of information and no information at all. In the past, Megatron would have reacted rather impatiently to such a report, but he’s had the privilege of nearly 2 decades of babbling citizen reports and Optimus’s spark-deep need to over-elaborate for practice, so instead he nods and says:
“Alright, Slipstream. Thank you for letting me know.” Slipstream returns the nod, and then is promptly swallowed by the vibrating mass that is the stationhouse.
Megatron has been in the disclosure room many times as a representative. He’s not actually a qualified victim advocate, unlike Bumblebee, but there have been a depressingly large number of assassination attempts on his peers and an equally depressing number of Decepticons who have no-one but Megatron himself that they trust in such situations. It’s a secure room, larger than the holding cells but equally as insulated, and the steady hammering of the stationroom is abruptly cut off as the door closes behind him.
“What the frag is happening?” Bumblebee asks. It is, in Megatron’s opinion, a wonderful question. He’s not entirely sure he knows the answer, so instead he directs his attention towards the mech sitting to Bumblebee’s right. If Megatron had to guess, the mech is a neutral; sky blue, probably a middle-caster pre-war. He might be a bit taller than Bumblebee, if he unfolded himself from the large sunken seat. Megatron steps forward.
“Hello,” he extends his servo in a handshake, then realizes the mech probably hasn’t been to Earth and pulls it back awkwardly. “I’m Megatron.”
The mech raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he says, not unkindly. “I’m Broadsheet. I also have no idea what’s going on.” So much for learning more, Megatron thinks, then chastises himself for the pessimism. They might not all have good clues, but they may have different ones.
“Yes…I can tell you all I know, but I admit that the station appears to be in…quite a ruckus,” Megatron says, fighting the urge to awkwardly fidget. He scans the room instead, finding a large, empty chair in the corner. He pulls it closer and sits, silently grateful to no longer be looming over the other two mechs.
“Yeah, they hustled us in here pretty quick a couple hours ago…” Bumblebee trails off.
“...because of the fighting ring. We know there was a fighting ring,” Broadsheet adds.
Megatron nods- he can confirm this, at least. “Yes, in a warehouse. You were there?” he asks, remembering Slipstream’s admission of an accidental bust.
“Bumblebee was escorting me on a…on a meetup,” Broadsheet says.
“A sting, I heard.” It’s less of a declaration and more of a silent question on Megatron’s part. From what he can gather, Bumblebee was… acting as support on an information gathering mission?
Bumblebee nods, then catches Megatron’s optic as if trying to convey some unspoken message. “I was a friend of Broadsheet here, going with him as support through what would have been an emotionally draining conversation with a suspect in a crime which may or may not be currently under investigation by Cybertronian Watch,” he says. Ahh.
Broadsheet jumps to his pedes, whirling to face Bumblebee. “Muffler! Did they arrest Muffler?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been in here with you.” Bumblebee turns to Megatron. “Did they arrest a mech named Muffler?”
“Who is Muffler? The suspect, I’d assume?”
“He’s the slagger that attacked me, told the Watch he’s never seen my face, then invited me to a what turned out to be a slagging Pit Fight.” Broadsheet crosses his arms and glowers at the floor. “To a slagging Pit Fight.”
Bumblebee reaches forward and grabs Broadsheet’s servo, gently rubbing a thumb in circles along its back. “A Pit Fight where he was caught participating, Broadsheet. They’ve got him on something,” he consoles, gently guiding Broadsheet back into the chair.
Megatron hums. “So it was this mech that led you and the Watch to the warehouse. Was he aware of Watch involvement?” The mech that got them all into this mess. The person Megatron can blame for interrupting dinner, when he is inevitably forced to forgive Optimus.
“I don’t see how he could have been,” Bumblebee taps the chair in a repetitive pattern for a moment, then adds “He could have guessed that Broadsheet wanted to talk to him for something other than personal reasons.”
“Do you think he might have had another reason to bring you to a fighting club?” Megatron asks, though his spark has already settled on the first option. Broadsheet has too, apparently, from the sudden curse.
“That aft! I knew this was a trap! Broadside knew this was a trap. He told me -”
Bumblebee turns fully in his own chair to face Broadsheet, reaching out with a comforting servo. Megatron has always been amazed at the mech’s ability to connect and calm - Megatron may have been teaching Bumblebee the politicking, but he would be remiss if he said he hadn’t been learning a thing or two from the young Autobot himself. “
It wasn’t a trap, Broadsheet,” Bumblebee says. “Or at least not a successful one. Because you had us with you. Your brother was right to be cautious, but we were with you and you’re ok.”
“He pretended - you remember the first time he got brought in, and he said I looked like a liar? He would have - he lured me to an illegal Pit FIght and he would have taken a picture of me there and used it as proof. He would have, Bee.”
Bumblebee looks at Megatron and shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Megatron nods. “What would you like me to do?” he asks Broadsheet, who immediately looks to Bumblebee.
“Let’s get a fix on his location.” Bee says. “Maybe ask the Watch. If you could advise them not to let Muffler go, it might go a long way.”
“I can do that. I’ll talk to the prosecutor.” He has to do so anyway, to get Optimus out of his holding cell.
“And I want to leave here,” Broadsheet adds.
Bumblebee nods. “Ok, do you want to go home?”
“No, they might let him go, and Primus knows Muffler is going to blame me for all of this.”
“Ok, you can come home with me then. Do you want me to call Broadside?”
“He’s going to blame me too.” Broadsheet sighs. “He’s staying over at his ‘friends’.”
“Alright.” Bee turns to Megatron “Will you please keep me updated?”
“Of course. Broadsheet, I wish you the best of luck.” Megatron rises from his seat, performs a quick bow, then turns towards the exit, only to be stopped by a servo on his arm.
Bumblebee pulls him aside, pitching his voice low. “Optimus was there.” It’s not a question.
“I know. It was my first call.”
“Are they going to charge him?” Bee’s tone - or beeping pitch, Megatron supposes - remains neutral.
“I’m unsure at this point.” Though Megatron’s going to try and keep this out of the court - it's a public relations disaster in the making.
Bumblebee crosses his arms and quirks an eyebrow. “Tell him that if he goes to jail I’m going to laugh at him.”
“I will definitely let him know.”
“Ok.” Bee looks back to Broadsheet, then catches Megatron’s optics once more. “Thank you,” he says, voice sincere. “I really appreciate this.” Megatron isn’t sure whether he’s referring to speaking with the prosecutor or handling Optimus. It’s probably both.
“Of course, Bumblebee.” Megatron twists his arm to squeeze Bee’s wrist. “Please stay safe.”
Bumblebee smiles. “I’m certainly going to try,” he says.
The utter chaos of the main room has not faded, and it provides the cover Megatron needs to snoop through an empty desk. Empty of a person, that is, not of the nice stack of possibly confidential datapads lying right next to the keyboard. It’s a promising find and one that means that Megatron won’t have to call Soundwave, who is certainly far too busy holding up Cybertron’s political and economic sky to be dealing with Optimus Prime’s nonsense. Megatron sneaks a glance around the room and, certain nobody has any attention left to give him, thumbs the first datapad from the stack.
It opens to the civil procedure code, which Megatron identifies immediately, considering he both wrote most of it and chose the font for the official release. The font was…well, Bumblebee had managed to convince Ultra Magnus that as a victim advocate he ought to see the final copy before it was released, which Megatron believes was really a ruse to then talk Ultra Magnus into switching the font to comic sans. So Megatron had to step in and well, he doesn’t really like the official font Ultra Magnus usually uses either, so the code of civil procedures now has a different (and better, in Megatron’s ‘had to teach himself to read without a literacy download’ opinion) font than every other published decision (and not a single mech has commented on it, despite Ultra Magnus’s fears.) Anyway, it opens to the fourteenth page of the code of civil procedures, to the section on waiving one’s rights to an official attorney, which is a rather concerning page for a Watch official to be re-reading. He moves to the datapads home screen and checks the contents, but this datapad appears to be for study - filled only with legal code and a hundred theses on law from the Golden Age. He carefully puts it aside.
The second of the three datapads is the goldmine he’s been looking for. It’s a standard pad, probably the desk owner’s personal communication device. It opens to a note section, sectioned into two columns: a number 1-15, and a name. Megatron sends a thank you to whoever trained this particular officer for their organizational skills, returns the other two datapads in a nice stack, and finds a corner to nonchalantly read his stolen goods.
Megatron searches out the thirteenth row. 13, it reads, Optimus Prime. Having confirmed that theory, he scans the list of names. 11, Muffler. Megatron comms Bumblebee.
::He’s in room 11::
::Not released?::
::I don’t believe so, but I can’t be certain. Let me talk to the prosecutor::
Megatron gives the list another once-over, this time looking for anyone he can identify. He’s not sure if it's to find useful information or out of simple curiosity, but either way it pays off. Room 4, Scalpel. The medic. What do you know, Optimus wasn’t talking out of his tailpipe.
The next row, Room 5, has two names. Written next to the first (whom Megatron assumes to be the detainee), is another name, Anglex, the public defender. Megatron scans the stationhouse for the door marked 5. It’s by the entrance, meaning he has to weave through two officer huddles and around three sitting detainees simply to peer through the small one-way glass window. A red mech, short and wiry in stature, sits cuffed to the table. Across from him is Anglex, identifiable by his white-wall tires and high-caste, unarmoured data cables. The un-named officer from whom Megatron had liberated his datapad is nowhere to be seen, meaning some other, attorney-less mech is receiving the third-degree. Megatron sighs and once again shoves his concern over the open civil procedures bill to the back of his processor.
He’s about to safely return the datapad to its appropriate home when another name catches his optic- Blurr, Room 7, the Autobot information gatherer turned fast-talking news reporter. Megatron never bothered to learn much about the mech but he did read reports from Shockwave during the war, enough to know that Blurr shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have been caught up in a darkened warehouse fight in the first place. He’s a shy mech, that’s what Shockwave would report, timid in everything but the spoken word. Certainly not a fighter, or a fan of violence. Of course, that’s what Megatron once thought of Optimus.
The revelation of Blurr’s presence has Megatron double-checking the names on the list with citizen records, just in case. Room 8 houses a vehicon construction worker, Room 9 an eradicon chef, Room 10 a neutral electrician. 11, of course, houses Muffler, and in 12… Room 12 holds the primary writer for the New Cybertronian Times. Megatron joyously rethinks the concept of a benevolent god, preferably one bigger and more interesting than Primus. Then, after resolving himself to further philosophical debate over the existence of a universal deity, calculates the probability of the New Cybertronian Times writing an article about an illegal fight club that two of their top journalists were involved in. It’s low, very low, unless they can implicate someone really big that draws media attention away from their own. Someone like Optimus. Megatron opens his comms.
::Slipstream::
::Yes::
::Have all of your guests been stripped of all footage of tonight?::
::Yes. Why? Does Optimus want his stuff back?::
::Oh no, just curious. Do me a favor and never return Optimus’s things.:: Primus knows what Optimus had in his subspace, but Megatron doubts it was all legal and non-compromising. Although, he didn’t see ‘possession of illicit substances' on the charge chart…
::He really only had some rust sticks and some romance novels in his subspace.:: Slipstream says, which is instantly suspicious. But he's getting off topic.
::I assume all footage will be held indefinitely.::
::Or until trial, I suppose. Some of it will be evidence. You want to know if footage of Ol’ Prime will fall into the wrong servos?::
::Something like that.::
::I can’t say it won’t happen, but it won’t be any time soon. Not sure they’ll need it to run a story though, you might need your guys to start playing damage control.::
::I’m not too worried about the press acting without video:: Megatron absentmindedly traces Blurr’s name. ::But with it…::
::I’ll keep an optic out, let you know if we release anything.::
::Thank you, Slipstream.::
::Right on, sir.::
Megatron drops the commline and mentally catalogs his to-do list. It takes a worrisomely long amount of time - he ought to have finished dinner and it has to be the middle of the night by now. He reprioritizes his end goal to ‘go home and sleep’, which allows him to shove the paperwork still sitting on his desk to a tomorrow task. He briefly considers pushing ‘get Optimus out of holding room 13’ to a tomorrow task as well, but Optimus will blab if the Watch holds a nice dinner over his head, Megatron just knows it. And so, step 1 of ‘go home to sleep’ is getting Optimus Prime out of the station house until at least tomorrow.
Step 1a is to find the prosecutor who can make that happen. He finds him (after an exhausting search in which he accidentally steps on two different mechs’ pedes), exiting room 14, next to the vending machine.
“Contrail!” Megatron calls. Contrail, the only prosecutor on Cybertron (Anglex, the only other registered lawyer, won the shanix toss to become the public defender), stops short, the door to holding room 14 nearly clipping his wings as it shuts.
“Lord Megatron,” Contrail greets, waving with the arm not hugging a dozen datapads.
“Best not to call me that, Counselor. I’m about to become your opponent.”
“Ahh, I assume you are here for Optimus Prime.” As he speaks, the towering stack of datapads begins to lean. Megatron steps forward and gently pushes the stack backwards and to the side, which has the added benefit of revealing the other half of Contrail’s face.
Contrail smiles appreciatively, then grimaces when a datapad slides into his cheek. “They insist on giving me a new datapad for each defendant. Something about clarity and preventing misfilings,” he explains.
“Speaking of,” Megatron says, attempting casual and knowing he fails, “What is the plan for filing? You have… quite a crowd tonight.”
“Yeah,” Contrail waves his free servo as if to say ‘what can I do? “We’re going to put everyone in the database as quickly as possible.”
“That feels rather rash,” Megatron says, schooling his features and keeping his tone neutral.
Contrail sweeps a servo towards the rest of the room and sighs. “Look around you, this place is a mess. We can’t let anyone go until we have a record of them, or else we’ll have to chase ‘em down all over again. The Watch gets cranky when I set their perps loose before getting all the info.”
Megatron nods towards the stack of datapads in Contrails’s arms. “How many of them have you got to already?”
“It’s slow going,” Contrail admits.
“Mhm. And have any of them talked?”
“Why? You wanna play ‘let’s make a deal’?” Contrail asks. Megatron does, in fact, want to make a deal. But desperation is a foolish mech’s giveaway.
“I think it would be best if we discuss options.”
“I’d be perfectly happy to talk with counsel.” Contrail says, then adds, “Tomorrow, when everyone has been cataloged and the room isn’t filled with mechs on overtime pay.” It’s not exactly the response Megatron wanted. He figures he’ll have to take a page out of Optimus’s book.
“Counselor, what would you even be booking him under?”
Contrail blinks rather dumbfoundedly, as if trying to process the question, then straightens himself out and asks “Do you mean what statute I’ll be booking your client under?”
“Yes. What law are you claiming he has broken, exactly?”
Contrail rolls his optics and begins to recite. “Section 22 of the Preliminary Law of New Cybertron, enforceable until the date it is superseded by the first elected House of Commons: inciting violence is prohibited, punishable by a set length in a rehabilitation facility-”
Megatron interrupts Contrail with a wave of his servo. “What violence did my client incite?”
“Are you kidding me?”
Megatron is suddenly grateful the Autobots forced him to reread every portion of the Preliminary Law (they argued about each section for weeks. Over semantics). “Violence, as defined by section 22 subsection 2: harm to or a threat of harm to a person, a violation of a mech’s right to personal safety.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’d generally call punching a mech straight across an energon-soaked ring to be rather harmful.” A traitorous part of Megatron's processor is incredibly intrigued, but he quickly tamps that down.
“I believe,” Megatron drawls, attempting his best impression of Starscream gloating about poisoning Megatron’s best highgrade, “that the key issue here is whether or not a person immediately waives their right to personal safety when knowingly entering a dangerous situation. The floor of a fighting ring, for instance.”
“Section 23, public safety-”
“Is a darkened and remote warehouse considered a public space now?”
“Don’t be pedantic, Megatron. It’s the spirit of the law. No judge is going to condone street fights.” Megatron knows several judges who would, in fact, be incredibly supportive of street fights. Technically, Starscream (being the temporary Decepticon judicial officer) is a registered judge, a thought that once filled Megatron with fear and now seems rather entertaining.
“Is sparring illegal?” Megatron asks. He finds the debate thrilling - having an end goal, cornering his opponent, waiting to lay the final trap. It’s much more enjoyable than his usual council debates.
“This wasn’t sparring. Sparring has safeguards. This is a safety issue.”
“There was a medic present, in compliance with regulation around sparring gyms.”
Contrail's wings flick out in surprise. “There was a medic present?”
“Room 4,” Megatron nods in the right general direction.
Contrail’s frown deepens. “How do you know that?” Megatron flashes the stolen datapad. “Oh for the love of - give me that!” In what Megatron feels is a rather bold move for an ex-Decepticon, Contrail reaches forward and snatches the datapad from Megatron’s servo, carefully sliding it on top of his unstable stack. “Don’t steal Watch property. It’s a data risk.”
“There are issues with your case, is all I’m saying. Complicated, Council-level, legal issues,” Megatron says, stressing the word ‘Council’ in a show of a semi-threat so obvious Soundwave would kill him out of embarrassment.
Contrail's wings hike taut. “Really? You want to take this up to the Council?”
“Sure, why not? It appears to be necessary, considering all the debatable semantics.” Megatron is both proud and ashamed of this ploy. Another thing to blame on Optimus, he supposes.
“Why not?! Megatron, both you and your client are on that Council. It’s a conflict of interest.”
“Well then, you can see the problem with your case.”
“For Primus’s sake,” Contrail mutters, glaring daggers at the floor. In Megatron’s experience, mech’s tend to glare at his pedes when they are too respectful to glare at him but they really need to. It’s lateral aggression.
Eventually, Contrail rubs his optics and looks up. “What do you want?” he asks. “A deal? I can’t let him go, it would be political favoritism.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Megatron, like Bumblebee, would like to laugh at Optimus for a little while longer, at least. He’d just rather it not rain pit-fire over their political goals. “I want you to not put him in the database tonight.”
Contrail's frown makes a triumphant return. “I have to put him in there sometime.”
“Yes, tomorrow,” Megatron says, mentally readjusting his calendar.
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes. I’ll bring him in through the back door.” So to speak. Or literally, if they have one. He’ll have to ask Bumblebee.
Contrail shifts his stack of datapads just a bit to the left. “Why?” he asks. “Will the law be different tomorrow?”
“I’m not finished. The press bots - room 7 and 12,” Megatron waves at Contrail's pile, “you’ll get to them soon. I want them in the database and their representatives contacted first.” He pauses. “And their bosses contacted as well,” he adds as an afterthought.
Contrail's optics widen in understanding. “Ahh, I see.”
“And no trial for Optimus Prime. We’ll plead out.”
“He’ll plead? Not planning on actually getting him off with the… Council issue?”
“What would be the fun in that… I will if you don’t agree to the plea deal, of course. I’m thinking a decacycle.”
Contrail crosses his arms. “Oh sure, and I’ll give him a lollipop while I’m at it.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Counselor, just tell me your counter offer."
“5 decacycles”
“1”
“4”
“3”
“Fine."
Megatron smiles, victorious. “And would you do me a favor? The owner of that datapad right there is interested in someone here waiving attorney rights. But Anglex is in room 5 and there’s no officer hovering around his client. I’m worried someone is being coaxed into waiving legal representation without an attorney present. When you find out who it is, would you let me know? I’ll be having everything they say be thrown out, but if you tell me before I find out myself it’ll save me so much energy.”
Contrail sighs. “Great, that’s just great,” he says. “I’ll let you know if the defendant actually goes for it.”
“Thank you, I appreciate your cooperation.” Megatron waves a servo at Contrail’s stack of datapads. “If you don’t mind another suggestion - I would save room 11 for last. You’re not going to want to release him.”
“Oh. Is he the… the guy that started this whole mess?” Contrail asks quite unhappily. His tone fills Megatron with at least a minor confidence in state cooperation. It may be in his best interest to add fuel to Contrail’s misgivings.
“Yes,” he confirms, “And it may have been a manipulation tactic for another offense.”
Contrail scowls. “Alright,” he says. “Alright. I’ll do what I can. Go get your boy.”
Megatron nods his goodbyes. “I’ll comm you with the time of our arrival tomorrow.”
“You do that,” Contrail mutters, already maneuvering his frame and datapad stack through the nearest holding doorway.
___
“I'm getting you out,” Megatron says, dropping a vending machine quarter-cube of post-war EnerGulp knock-off on the interrogation table. “And I got you breakfast. I’ll be adding that to the bill.”
“Wonderful.” Optimus wiggles his servos. “So I can ditch the cuffs? These aren’t my favorite brand.”
“You have a favorite brand of handcuffs?” Slipstream asks, sidling up from behind Megatron.
“I think the ones you used to have in the Decepticon dungeons were rather nice. Not too tight, but definitely tight enough. Made the stays very…exciting.” Optimus winks, as if the emphasis placed on ‘tight enough’ wasn’t sufficiently egregious.
“Thank you for the wonderful review,” Slipstream says. “I will now attempt to forget every word that you just said.” She dutifully and professionally unlocks the cuffs, then pulls an unprofessional and disgusted face at them.
“So what's the damage?” Optimus asks.
“3 decacycles in PanIacon.”
Optimus nods, a satisfied not-quite-a-frown on his face. “That’s not bad.”
“No, that’s not bad at all,” Slipstream mutters.
“I rather like PanIacon, anyway,” Optimus says. “3 decacycles there will be like a vacation.”
“That’s exactly what it’s going to be- a vacation. No-one can reach you, your office will be run by your assistants, and you will be happily drinking Engex on 'random planet X’.” Megatron is going to get an incredible amount of flak from the Autobots for this, but he’s sure as slag not going to let Optimus try and lie his way out of this one. No, all the lies will be coming from an already disreputable source - Megatron’s office.
“You know Prime, I wouldn't get too excited. PanIacon isn’t a pleasure resort of any kind. It’s all…” Slipstream waves her servo around in an encompassing gesture “It’s all therapy and a single shared wash racks. And some of the people aren’t pleasant.”
"I’m not worried. PanIacon loves me. I have so many ex-boyfriends there…” Optimus fades off, optics distant. Megatron has no idea which ‘boyfriends’ Optimus is referring to, and frankly he doesn’t want to know. What he does want is to get out of here and complete his prime directive: sleep.
"Do me a favor and tell Ratchet exactly that when he comes to laugh at you,” Megatron taunts, reaching over the table to pull Optimus to standing by the scruff of his neck. “Up and at ‘em, Prime,” he commands.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?” Slipstream asks. Megatron nods.
"Tomorrow?" Optimus asks. Megatron ignores him.
“I’ll comm you.” He tugs Optimus around the table, earning a huff and a gentle swipe. He doesn’t bother to return the cuff. “Thanks for everything, Slipstream.”
“You got it,” she replies.
“Tomorrow?” Optimus asks again. Megatron gently shoves him through the doorway, nods a second goodbye to Slipstream, and follows after.
—
“Hey, as for that representative’s fee you were talking about. How much did you want?” Optimus asks once the door to the stationhouse has slammed shut behind them.
“I’m not charging you, Optimus. You have no shanix and I wouldn’t know what to do with it even if you did.” He realizes faintly that he’s succeeded at creating a world where credits are only needed for luxuries just in time for him to be a jaded, stably-employed old mech. The irony is not lost on him, but it is promptly ignored.
“You can buy even more takeout,” Optimus argues, which is - Megatron does get takeout too often, mostly because it shortens his breaks by a solid half joor if he doesn’t return to his habsuite and cook. “ And I do have shanix,” Optimus continues.
“Actual shanix or paycheck credits?”
Optimus leans forward in an odd and uncomfortable position, then snakes a servo into his subspace and smugly quirks an eyebrow..
“I have shanix,” he says again, then pulls out a servo full of c-shaped silver rings. Optimus hooks them around his left servo and reaches back into his subspace with his right, producing another servo full of platinum.
Megatron shakes the shock out of his processor. “That’s physical shanix.”
“Yeah.” Optimus rattles his servos like a maraca.
“Do we even still have physical shanix?” Megatron had thought the low-ratio against the galactic market during the war had destroyed shanix trading. Decepticons had melted theirs down for weapons components a long time ago.
“Apparently,” Optimus replies, again shaking the shanix in Full View of The Stationhouse. Megatron slaps his servos down and glares.
“Why do you have shanix?” he asks with the sinking feeling of someone who already knows the answer.
“It’s easy to get caught betting with account transactions, Megatron,” Optimus says sarcastically, as if Megatron was the one being daft here.
“You Were Betting?! At the slagging Warehouse Fights?” And all at once, that feeling from earlier, that anger, hits him like a train in a wind tunnel. “Are you Fragging kidding me?”
“Well, go shout it everywhere, if you must,” Optimus says, waving his shanix filled servos around like an air traffic controller. Megatron slaps Optimus’s servos down again and lowers his voice into his best threatening whisper.
“Let me get this straight,” he starts, “You went to an illegal, dangerous fighting ring and Bet on the Fighters?”
At this point, it seems to cross Optimus’s mind that his representative is, in fact, an ex-gladiator.
“I wasn’t betting on anyone’s death, Megatron, or on anyone but myself.” He shoves his servos under his arms like a petulant child. “And I happened to win quite often.”
Megatron wants to scream. He doesn't have anything in particular he wants to say about all this, but he would like to scream. He resolves not to scream directly in front of the Cybertronian Watch.
“Ok,” he says, after giving himself a solid two clics to calm down. “You are not going to have these shanix on your person tomorrow.”
“I am going to be in PanIacon for three decacycles. That’s…” Optimus looks up as he does the mental calculation, “like three Earth months. I have…” he pauses again, this time looking down at his shanix covered digits. “27 platinum shanix. That’s 270 credits. The going rate for cygars at PanIacon is 15 credits, 25 for circuit-boosters, and 10 for smuggled candies. So if I can get these in, that’s 4 cygars, 6 candies, and 6 circuit boosters, or 5 cygars-”
“How the slag do you know the going rate for cygars in PanIacon,” Megatron asks, already resigned to the answer.
“I am a representative too, Megatron. I have clients.” It’s an answer that does throw Megatron off, actually, but is equally as concerning as what Megatron had anticipated.
“Whatever you think representatives do, that’s not it,” he says.
“Are you sure? Because I’m not counting the shanix I have at my apartment, and I can’t smuggle it all in at once. I’m going to need my representative-”
“No. Not happening.”
Optimus looks at his shanix-filled servos mournfully, then back at Megatron.
“Alright then,” he says, “I suppose I ought to put it in a retirement account then. I assume Soundwave can launder it all.”
“You assume wrong. Soundwave isn’t getting involved in your nonsense. He’s busy.”
“Not even for an anonymous donation to a children’s hospital.”
Megatron sighs. “Optimus,” he says, “I’ve changed my mind. I am now charging a until-release hold for my services, to be paid in shanix at exactly-” he pauses to check his chronometer “5 am on whatever the frag day it is. That’s in a joor, enough time for us to get back to your apartment where, as your representative, I advise you to dig out all of your illegally obtained shanix and donate them surreptitiously to the vents in Soundwave’s room.”
“So Soundwave will take it?”
“No, he’s not going to take it. It’s still entirely your problem. But someone might snoop in your room. No one ever searches through Soundwave’s things.”
Optimus nods, then offers his servos to Megatron, as if expecting him to carry the shanix. Megatron puts that notion down quick with a well-directed glare.
“Let’s go home. Let’s just… go home,” Megatron mutters, pulling one pede in front of the other. Optimus moves to follow, shoving the shanix back into his subspace with an odd bend and a hop, which has implications for the concept of space that Megatron does not have the energy to think about.
(Optimus Prime has a lot of shanix. Megatron promises himself that he’ll scream about it later.)
—
The half-downed cube of mid-grade is as cold as the metal table it sits on, when Megatron finally returns to his rooms. He drinks it like that in one quick shot for breakfast, then stares longingly at the door of his berthroom for 30 clics. He supposes, but he isn’t quite sure, that he’s waiting for some voice to speak to him, to tell him to sleep. It doesn’t come. But when he turns to the reports on the table next to the empty mid-grade cube, they are loud. So much for his prime directive.
He glances at his chronometer. He’s supposed to be professionally available for 14 joors, starting 2 joors from now. 16 joors, then he can sleep. No, then he can bring Optimus to the station house. Then he can sleep. He should probably send his ETA to Contrail.
He roots around the kitchen for a bit, but the only thing that catches his optic - the only thing that doesn’t make the cold mid-grade feel nauseating - is an old bottle of oil-based engex. He pours himself a cube.
The report he’d been attempting to read is as comprehensible the third time as it was the first two. It has something to do with the mental health of the Cybertronian populace, but it was clearly written by someone with no interest or knowledge in the subject. A bureaucratic report on something with little data, truly a building block for public policy.
It’s a joor until his shift when he finally gives up on it, primarily because Soundwave must be up by then, even if Vos is 2 joors behind. He comms Soundwave.
::Soundwave. Good Morning::
::...:: Soundwave replies, which means good morning back.
::What do you think “the frustrations of public opinion” means:. 1) PTSD-driven anger issues or 2) genuine frustration over incomprehensible government reporting?::
::Request: Context?::
::There is no understandable context.::
::Megatron: Should ignore that public health report. Megatron: Should read the response by the United Medical Association.::
::Oh thank Primus, the doctors understood it enough to respond.::
Megatron takes great joy in deleting the report from his datapad’s saved files. Tremendous joy, even, until he opens his inbox in search of the doctors’ response and is met with 86 messages. He checks his chronometer. 50 clicks until his shift starts. He throws the datapad onto the couch with extreme prejudice.
::Megatron: Was in Soundwave’s room. With Optimus Prime. And shanix.:: It’s a question, though it certainly isn’t sent as one. Soundwave never asks questions, but Megatron always answers.
::You are now the proud owner of 58 illicit platinum shanix. And I need a favor.::
::Favor: related to shanix?::
::Surprisingly less related than you may expect. There’s this mech, Muffler. We need to keep an optic on him. Make sure he’s not going anywhere near Bumblebee or, uh, this mech Broadsheet. He’s still at the station, for now, and the goal is for him to stay there.::
::Soundwave: Will watch.::
::Thanks. How’s Vos?::
:: :( :: Megatron can certainly understand the sentiment- he would not find reconstructing a dead financial system entertaining either, never mind intergalactic finances. The Cybertronian credit certainly isn’t going to stand up against other major currencies for quite some time- Megatron would almost consider the attempts to facilitate trade pointless, if only Cybertron weren't in desperate need of supplies.
::And how’s the search?:: The plus side of being in the city with intergalactic communication facilities is the ability to use that intergalactic communication for things other than financial standardization. The current messages declaring Cybertronian peace being sent from Earth and Iacon are the equivalent of radio snail mail. Soundwave wants his cassettes back now. Megatron is inclined to agree.
:: :) :: A happy face emoji could mean anything from ‘I’ve found Ravage under a basket on the moon’ to ‘They are still alive, probably!’. Megatron will hear the details later, he assumes.
::Good, I’m glad.::
::Megatron: has been eating properly.::
::I’m eating now, even.:: Megatron replies. It’s a bit of a stretch, seeing as engex does little for proper nutrition, but he is technically consuming something. Beggars can’t be choosers, not that Soundwave has ever begged.
::Sleeping properly.::
Megatron can’t lie outright to Soundwave, and he hasn’t slept tonight. He settles for a half-truth. ::I’m certainly trying to.::
::Soundwave: will return in a cycle. Expectations: a party.:: The threat is clear- I’ll know if you are lying.
::I will make you a homecoming cake.::
::Laserbeak: wants cobalt flavor.::
::Megatron: has a shift. Soundwave: will see you soon.::
::Alright. See you soon. Stay safe.::
::Soundwave: returns the sentiment.:: The comm disconnects. Megatron returns his focus to the datapad, debating the merits of reading the medical association's response now, later, or never. He could just call Ratchet. Slag, he has to call Ratchet. Unless Optimus? No, Optimus definitely hasn’t.
He checks his chronometer. He’s on shift in half a joor. It takes a quarter of a joor to walk to the office, if he's slow about it. Just to be safe- he can’t risk the call going so long he’s late for work. He’ll have to push it until lunch break. Yeah, he’ll call Ratchet during lunch break.
He leaves the cube a quarter full, but he makes it to work with 20 clicks to spare.