Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Rodimus finally came back to consciousness, he was immediately pissed off.

He was face down on the ground, staring at it, trying to make sense of it. First of all, it was way too clean.  Who had turned on every fragging light on the ship?  It was like he was under a spotlight, which, metaphor aside, was just inconsiderate to a mech who had clearly had too much to drink.  

Actually, wait. Had Rodimus been drinking?  Considering how bad he felt, it probably made sense that he didn't remember.  He reset his optics a couple of times, trying to figure out what he saw, which was… white.  Just a LOT of white walls, white floor, white ceiling, blinding, offensive, and weird.  Nowhere on the Lost Light was this clean of a white.  Purple, maybe, but not white.

There was also this weird ringing in his audials that hurt like hell, and then he could have sworn he felt the ground shake under his frame.  He pulled himself up with a groan that he could barely hear over the ringing.

"Frag," he said.  He tried to shake his helm as he pulled himself up on his hands and knees, and, oh boy, that was a mistake.  His helm hurt even more, and he hissed in pain.

"Take it easy there, kid," came a familiar voice.  A gentle servo touched his helm, clearly looking for damage.

"Ratch? How long have I- wait," he said, opening a squinting optic. "Why do you sound so old?"

There was an annoyed huff, which was blessedly familiar. "Because I am old, you brightly painted piece of scrap!"

The bot before him looked like Ratchet in the same way that Megatron looked like an Autobot.  Reminiscent maybe, trying, but just not quite there.  Somebody had broken the side of his chevron on his forehead, and, if it was possible, his frown was even deeper set than usual.  He might have been a little smaller than the last time he saw him.

"Ratchet?" he asked tentatively.  "I mean, you were always old, but you look like you aged a lot.  Was there more time travel fun?"

The bot's blue optics widened back at him. "Uh.  I think you hit your helm harder than I can fix."

Rodimus stared at him for a minute before shaking his helm. "Maybe a weird clone then? You're looking at me like you don't even know me."

"I don't think we've met.”  He huffed again, looking contemplative.   “But you know who I am?"

Rodimus frowned. "You… look like Ratchet.  But you also don't."

"I'm not gonna lie, kid; there's a lot of that going on," he said, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.

Rodimus looked behind him and saw two large mechs that looked like something out of his worst nightmares.

One of them looked like Optimus, but his purple plating, his harsh red optics, his general air of indifference all hinted that he was not Optimus at all.  His strange, purple Autobot symbol emblazoned on his shoulders led more credence to this theory.  He had his arms folded across his chest as the other mech talked to him with a sneer.

This other mech was like the worst Autobot propaganda rendering of Megatron he had ever seen.  He didn't have a nose, and his teeth were like a Sharkicon's- sharp and incredibly menacing.  He had these gruesome scars on his face, and his optics were red but also tinged with a little purple.  His voice was deep but rasping as he was trying to goad the Not-Optimus into a fight.

He was also big .  Like, Megatron was always big, but he had gotten to know Megs over time, and he no longer seemed larger than life.  This Megatron was huge.

Not-Optimus moved his optics to Rodimus and just stared at him for a moment.  He had the same kind of flicker of recognition that eventually became confusion.  But whereas Rodimus was just weirded-out, this Optimus looked annoyed.

"Yeah, no kidding," Rodimus muttered to Ratchet.  “They look like Megatron and Optimus, but they definitely are not.”

Ratchet folded his arms across his chassis. "What's your name, other than 'garishly-painted rude mechling?'"

His gruff attitude was so recognizable; it made Rodimus smile a little. "Name's Rodimus," he said with a smirk.  He noticed the Not-Optimus heard him and glared in response.

Rude.  Rodimus rolled his shoulders, considering going up to the mech and asking him what the frag was his problem.  But when he stood, Ratchet seemed to recognize what Rodimus wanted to do and grabbed his shoulder. "Rodimus, that is a really bad idea.  Whatever you're thinking."

"I'm good at bad ideas," he replied lowly.

"Oh, interesting!" the weird Megatron said. "At least this little Autobot seems to have some spark in him." He turned from Optimus and started stalking towards Rodimus with a terrible smile.

Ratchet beside him backed up nervously, cursing under his breath and his field flaring in fear.  Rodimus narrowed his optics as he saw the giant approach, and then “Megatron” was standing right in front of Rodimus, trying to intimidate with his sheer bulk, but Rodimus stood firm.  He could feel Ratchet's hesitancy, wanting to help Rodimus but clearly wanting nothing to do with this Megatron.

Rodimus put his hands on his hips. "So, we have Rodimus, Ratchet, Megatron and… Optimus? Prime?" Rodimus frowned. "And I don't think any of us actually recognize each other.  Do any of you know where we are?"

Optimus said nothing, still looking irritated. 

Megatron arched an optic ridge but also said nothing.

Rodimus sighed.  This was going to be just absolutely fragging fantastic.  

Suddenly, a booming loud voice interrupted them. "Greetings, children of Cybertron." Rodimus and Ratchet jumped at the sound, but Megatron and Optimus just snapped their helms up to look for the source of the voice.

Rodimus frowned. "Children" was kind of condescending.

"We have plucked you from your universes for the highest of honors; the opportunity to entertain us with your abilities."

The white walls changed to display a giant live feed of a thronging mass of creatures that Rodimus only dimly recognized.

Quintessons.

Thousands upon thousands of Quintessons filled stands as if they were in a giant sports arena.  The Quintessons writhed and cheered as they all yelled at the cameras.  Occasionally the camera would pan to a giant display screen at the head of the stadium, and it showed a live feed of the four of them in their little white room.  Rodimus saw the camera zoom in on his face, and he saw the fear tinging the blue of his optics.

"We will reward you if we deem you worthy," the voice said.  The live feed cut away and was replaced with the white walls again. "But you should know that you are not the only race of our children competing for this honor.  And losing does mean… extermination."

Rodimus flicked his optics to Ratchet, who had the same kind of mute horror on his face that he was showing.

"I’m sure you have questions,” the voice said now, less loud, as a door opened.  In strode a light green Quintesson, his tentacles wound together in the approximation of limbs, wearing a bright purple mask fixed in a wicked grin and a large crack down the middle.  “I’m happy to explain to you about the Games.”

Chapter Text

A tiny Quintesson.

A tiny, unarmed Quintesson.

Primus was smiling at him tonight.

Megatron smirked and stepped forward, looking down at the diminutive creature before him with practiced, sadistic glee.  He had crushed many a Quintesson in his time, and this one looked smaller than some of the ones he had interacted with.

But he knew Quintessons were clever.  They had Megatron and the three Autobots in some kind of a holding pen, probably planning some kind of experiment.

No matter.  Megatron could be patient.

The Quintesson looked up at him and cocked his head.  "Can I help you, D-16?"

Megatron's energon ran cold in his lines as he heard his original designation.  "I'm not sure you can," he growled.  "Because I would like to see you crushed into a bloody pulp under my fists.."

He could feel the stares of the strange Autobots behind him on his back.  The two weaker ones seemed to be nervous at how Megatron was approaching the squid, but he wasn’t about to back down.  The creature was so small it made him laugh.

The Quintesson sighed.  “D-16, that’s not very nice to say to your handler.  I’m here to make sure you succeed in the games!” the Quint whined, making Megatron sneer.  “My name is Artuz and I’m here to help you. Coming over here to posture about how big your spike is will not do you any favors.”

Megatron knit his optic ridges in confusion.  “Awfully crass for a Quint.”

“I think you will find,” Artuz said, examining the ends of his tentacles, “I am not quite the typical Quintesson you have dealt with before.”

Artuz then flicked his wrist, and a powerful electrical current jolted through Megatron’s body, causing him to convulse slightly in pain before landing on his knees.

Oh, but this was familiar.  Forced servitude at the pedes of the unworthy- how wonderful that Megatron had found such an enemy again. He would derive great enjoyment when he tore those appendages limb from limb.

But the current didn’t stop even as he fell forward, and for a brief moment, Megatron felt the helpless touch of fear.  The stinging, painful current didn’t stop, and he thought he detected a slight sadistic bit of glee in the Quintesson.  That… was not good either.

He tried to call upon the strength of the dark energon that coursed through his lines, but it seemed diminished somehow.  Something like how a connection might be severed or sparking after being forcefully torn apart.

Finally, the current stopped, and Megatron realized his vocalizer had been bellowing a pained cry.  He hadn’t remembered shouting, and he was angry that he had given the concession away at all.  Artuz stared at him and then pulled out a datapad.  “D-16, designation ‘Megatronus,’ or ‘Megatron,' former gladiator of Cybertron.  Passed over for the Primacy, he went on a campaign of terror, leading the Decepticons, culminating in the destruction of Cybertron and almost the extinction of his species.  Did I leave anything important out?”

Megatron growled though the sound was weaker than he intended.  “You forgot slayer of millions of turbo-squids,” he said, laughing weakly.  Artuz’s eyes flared angrily behind his mask, and he flicked his wrist again, starting the electrical shock.  Megatron laughed through his pain.

“You are so terribly rude!” Artuz shouted angrily.  “We don’t use slurs here, understand?”

He released Megatron from the pain, and his helm lolled forward even as he continued to chuckle.

Artuz side-stepped him with an air of annoyance and stood before the dark Optimus Prime.  Megatron watched with some interest as the Prime looked down his nose in clear contempt.  This mech was interesting.  Megatron could sense some bloodlust on him.

“And OP-17, designation ‘Optronix’ or ‘Optimus Prime.’  Leader and Prime of the Autobots, warlord of Iacon, and bearer of the Matrix of leadership.” Artuz cocked his helm to the side.  “Or, at least until we took it from you.”

That… sounded interesting.  Megatron would never have ascribed the term “warlord” to even Sentinel Prime at the height of his idiotic rule, but this “Optronix” didn’t flinch at the term.

“You will not hold me long,” Prime said.  Megatron noticed the disdain in his voice.  “You are tiny, worthless things, unfit to even be considered an enemy.”

Artuz curled and uncurled his tentacles.  “I think you will have the most trouble of all, OP-17.  Your universe is very different from the others.”  He made some additional notes on a datapad he pulled from subspace, tapping away.

There was that reference again to universes.  These other Cybertronians did not have the plating shapes or textures that Megatron was used to, and even the Quintesson looked remarkably plain compared to the ones he used to fight.  One look at Optimus could tell him he was not the mild archivist turned defender of the innocent.  Something in the way he carried himself spoke of pride and arrogance.

“And now to you, ‘R-04’ or ‘Ratchet.’  Civilian mechanic and Autobot Medic, stuck in what you thought was going to be a quiet retirement from the war but turned out to be a race for the AllSpark against the Decepticons that weren’t as defeated as you were led to believe.”  Artuz looked up from his datapad and held a tentacle up against his chin in thought.  “I don’t think we’ve ever had a medic in these games.  Do you require additional equipment to repair Cybertronians, or do you come equipped with everything you need on your own frame?”

Ratchet blinked, pushing his glossa against the inside of his cheek.  “I can do most field repairs without additional equipment.  But what kinds of damage are we talking-”

“Thank you, R-04.”  The medic seemed irritated at being cut-off but also wise enough not to press the issue.  Megatron narrowed his optics.  He didn’t look particularly sturdy compared to the rest of them. 

“And finally, HR-77, or ‘Hot Rod’-”

“Rodimus,” the young Autobot said.  “Sir.”

Artuz stared at him through his mask, and Megatron could tell he was reaching the limits of his patience.  “Yes.  Rodimus.  Co-captain of the Lost Light and on a mission to find the Knights of Cybertron.  Or something.  You held the Matrix for a short while and broke it, correct?”

Optimus Prime’s helm swiveled so fast and glared at Rodimus that Megatron thought he was going to snap some struts.  Megatron couldn’t help it; he started laughing again at the ridiculous group of Cybertronians he was stuck with. 

“I am the main captain of the Lost Light-”

Megatron laughed harder.

“D-16, will you be silent!” Artuz shrieked, menacing with his tentacles.  “These are your teammates.”

That sobered him a little, but not by much.  “My teammates?”

“Yes,” Artuz said slowly as if talking to an errant sparkling.  “The four of you will be competing in various challenges and games for our entertainment.  Why are you laughing?”

Megatron couldn’t help it, but the concept was so ridiculous.  “This farce is absurd,” he said after calming down more.  “That I would ever willingly work with an Autobot for entertainment for you?  You are out of your mind.”

“I am in agreement with the idiot,” Prime said.  “I will not be participating.”

“Oh? Are you refusing?”

The two smaller Autobots apparently didn’t like the sinister tone of Artuz’s voice.  Ratchet stepped back, clenching his jaw.  Rodimus furrowed his brow.  “Now, just wait a minute-” he started.

“You will participate.  It’s not optional.”

“I don’t think you have the ability to make us,” Megatron said, his denta flashing. 

“Fragging revolutionaries,” Artuz said under his breath before snapping his wrist again.  All four of them fell to their knees with a cry as they were electrocuted.  It stopped for a moment, and Megatron sneered, opening his mouth to say something more, but there was Artuz again, electrocuting them once more.

When it stopped, Rodimus glared at him.  “Fragging shut up, Megatron!”

Megatron didn’t listen to the mechling because he had commanded him to.  He just decided it would be more prudent to wait.

“As I said.  You will participate, whether we scoop out your internals and install a remote control in you or you participate willingly.  I suppose you do have a minor choice in that,” Artuz said sweetly.  Megatron slowly rose from the ground, glaring at the Quintesson.  He was used to the methods and the abuse, but he wasn’t the same mech he used to be. 

He was stronger.

But a strange look from the dark Prime gave him pause.  He seemed to be asking for patience, and though Megatron was not one to listen to anyone but himself, he found himself curious.

“Good,” Artuz said, taking their silent glowering for acquiescence.  “I’m not surprised you all require more attention than I was expecting, but we all have our struggles to bear.”  He glided across the ground to the far wall where a door appeared.  “I will be back later to discuss your first challenge.  I’m afraid they won’t be going easy on you, but I’m sure you can find a way to win.”  He turned and glided through the door.  “For all our sakes.”

The door closed behind him, and the four Cybertronians regarded each other with wary optics.

“What did he mean your universe is different from ours?” Rodimus asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Megatron was also curious.  The Prime stared back at them and then shrugged.  “Perhaps it is different because my Autobots won our war?”

“Nope,” Ratchet replied.

“Yeah, not exactly different,” Rodimus replied.

Megatron’s jaw dropped slightly, but then he closed it with a snap.  “I think it has less to do with the war and more to do with the role of ‘warlord.’”

“A moniker I wear proudly,” Prime replied. 

“I imagine you do.  And, what, is your Megatron a lowly librarian?”

“A mathematician.”

This stunned both Ratchet and Rodimus into unblinking stares.  Megatron himself was a little taken aback by the reply, but honestly, nothing surprised him at this point. 

There was something distinctly unnerving about this Prime, though.  Megatron knew a Ratchet, and Rodimus looked like any other Prime-worshiping youth, and neither of them instilled in him the same kind of feeling.  It was like squinting at a shadow of someone you knew, but they were different and… wrong.

The door appeared again, and in came four spindly androids with smooth, featureless faces.  A single blue light adorned the middle of their face as they assembled and took up space in front of each of them.  Then as if on cue, they each opened up their abdomen to pull out a cube of energon from the compartment.

Megatron noticed that the energon that was given to him was normal colored- a cyan blue.  The two smaller Autobots were given cubes that were full of energon that was a pinkish-purple hue.  The Prime received energon that was in a cylinder and was a kind of greenish-yellow color.  They all noticed the differences and watched each other with a kind of strange silence.

Megatron took his cube, glanced at it, and then dropped it on the ground.

“So clumsy of me,” he said, glaring down at the android.

The android chirped and produced another cube, unbothered.

Ratchet took the cube before him, transforming a digit and bringing it up to his olfactories.  “Mine’s got quite a heavy sedative in it,” he said, grimacing.

Rodimus had been about to sip and then took it away from his lips.  The Prime looked derisively at his offering and also ignored it.

Megatron had about enough of this slag.

He pulled back his arm and slammed it into the android in front of him.  It gave a satisfying crunch under his servo as its components continued to whir and whine, still trying to perform their function.  The white light of the room clicked to an ominous red, but Megatron didn’t care.  He continued to batter the android into the ground by punching and scraping and pulling out wires as he found them.

Interesting; the android didn’t run on energon.  Its hydraulics were using some kind of synthetic oil, maybe.  The metal inside was unlike anything Megatron had ever seen, and he had two very knowledgeable scientists in his employ in the Decepticon army who had shown him all kinds of interesting things.

He had thought this whole business with alternate universes had been a sham, but now he was starting to believe it.

The other Cybertronians he was apparently saddled with were yelling; he wasn’t really sure what.  He didn’t really care as he continued to forcibly investigate this android that had come to feed him.  The door appeared again, and some bigger creatures that looked like they might be threats appeared.  Megatron ignored them and continued to destroy the android.

He heard the sound of crackling electricity on their axes, and then his optics clouded over.

He could feel the rush of power surging through his lines as he fell into his fighting stance.  Megatron dipped his shoulder to avoid another blow and then twisted to avoid another one down his back.  He punched, roared, kicked, and then Megatron grabbed one around the neck and lifted them off the ground.  Some sirens blared even louder, and then... was that the Prime, yelling at him to stop? Or keep going?  It didn’t really matter.  He felt a connection to something growing in the pit of his spark, and it blossomed and took hold of him, and he let it guide his servo, relishing as he killed a guard. 

Then there was a click of something around his neck.  It was heavy and chafing.  He fell to the ground against his will, like a great string had been pulled taut, and he could not rise from the ground even with all his strength.

Then something was jabbed into his neck, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

Ratchet sighed.

This was a nightmare.  The worst of fluxes.  It was terrible and awful and, unfortunately, too horrible to be dreamed up.

It was real.

He and his other unlucky compatriots were bound up against a wall next to each other.  Ratchet realized his vocalizer had been turned off as a myriad of Quintessons milled about the room, inspecting them.  The room's bright white light had been dimmed to a more relaxed atmosphere, and light, pleasant music played over a speaker.

It was like a fragging dinner party.

The Quintessons unnerved him. They were creepy denizens of a bygone era, banished to stories to scare sparklings, not appear and kidnap them for entertainment. None of it surprised him either, though; the Quintessons he had interacted with were arrogant, creepy creatures, lamenting about their displaced role in the universe.

He supposed it had been wishful thinking on his part to think he'd never meet another Quintesson in his lifetime.

The Quintessons chatted and laughed as they looked over them, making comments about their usefulness and taking bets on who would be the first to die.  He saw them drinking out of fluted glasses, and most of them wore elaborate masks in various colors and expressions. He noticed that the Quintessons also varied in size; some were smaller at about the size of a human, and others were about the size of Rodimus and Optimus.

“I don’t think the big purple one knows how to be a team player,” one in a frowning yellow mask said, as their eyes grazed over Optimus’s frame.  “And that could help him in some games, but in others, I think he’ll be a disadvantage.”

“What about the big silver one?” another one said.  “They didn’t even bring him out of stasis for us to play with!”

Ratchet’s optics drifted over to the slumped form of Megatron, who was indeed still unconscious.  Ratchet had been surprised by this Megatron’s show of anger and the far-off look in his faceplate as he had killed the guards that had appeared to stop him.  The Megatron he knew was cold and calculated in his attacks, but this one seemed wholly unhinged.  When he had finally been taken down, the rest of them drank their energon quickly and succumbed to unconsciousness as apparently they were expected to do.

Ratchet looked over at Rodimus, who was struggling in his bonds.  Ratchet tried to comm him to get him to calm down, but he found his comms completely disconnected.  He shouldn’t have been surprised.  Rodimus met his optics, and Ratchet gave him an attempt at a comforting nod.

Surprisingly, it did something.  Rodimus relaxed slightly even as some masked Quintessons glided closer to him, chittering and pointing at him like they were mechanimals in a zoo.

Ratchet chewed the inside of his cheek. Whether he liked it or not, he was now in charge of these mecha.  He didn’t think they all deserved his help, especially the spiky silver slag that was Megatron and the brooding arrogance that was Optimus… Prime.

That.  That was kind of new.  The Optimus he knew back home on Earth was a young kid and had been kicked out from being a member of the Cybertronian Elite Guard.  He was worthy of some kind of leadership, Ratchet had decided, but he was far too young and inexperienced to do anything bigger.  Ratchet had put his trust in him since it seemed the rest of Cybertron had their helms too far up their exhaust pipes to do anything about the rising number of Decepticon issues they were running into.  But… perhaps he was destined for something more.

The other three hadn’t blinked when the purple mech had been introduced as a Prime.  Like it was expected.

Well.  Ratchet wasn’t really prone to idle thoughts.  He needed to be doing something with the time he had. 

He took to cataloging his new charges.

Rodimus was the least injured.  His plating looked healthy, and his colors vibrant.  Whatever universe he had been plucked from seemed to not suffer from a lack of energon.

But… though physically fine, he looked like he had been through some serious slag.  There were some bags under his optics, a cynical air about him.  He seemed eager to prove himself, but he wasn’t completely an optimist about what that would look like.  He had said the Autobots had won the war, and he was still wearing his brand proudly on his chest.  Ratchet thought he had heard of a Rodimus Prime before back on Cybertron that might have been his version of this mech. 

He looked like the kind of idiot he was going to need to patch up often.

Speaking of idiots, there was Megatron to deal with.  This mech was in bad shape at the moment but wore his injuries like the deep scars of his face as if they were part of him.  The guards that had invaded their cell to stop him had imposed an inhibitor collar around his neck that seemed stronger than the electrical shock they kept bandying about with the rest of them.  His left knee strut was busted, and he had dents and cuts from the fight he had started. 

He was going to wake up and be in pain and angry.  Likely groggy and confused from all the sedatives they pumped into him.  He… was a big threat.  Ratchet stifled a shiver.

His last assessment he hadn’t meant to leave to last, but he knew why.  Optimus Prime unnerved him.  Rodimus he could deal with, and Megatron he could avoid.  But Optimus was like a dark future version of his friend, and it seemed like it didn’t take much to set him down on the path. 

He had a lot of deep-set battle damage that looked like he hadn’t attempted to buff them out.  At the same time, his plating was glossy and shiny.  It was like he both cared about his appearance but didn’t care if his scars showed. 

Optimus was glaring down at the Quintessons like he could scare them away with his optics alone.  It was working on Ratchet, at least.  He wanted nothing to do with the glaring purple mech.

He sighed.  There was no way they were going to get out of this alive.

Eventually, the gaping Quintessons left, their creepy laughter echoing down the hallways and corridors.  Ratchet tried to see out down the hallway but couldn’t see anything from his place on the wall.

When they had all left, the Cybertronian’s bonds opened, and they jumped down from their places on the wall, rubbing their wrists.  Their vocalizers also reengaged.  Megatron slumped forward, falling flat on his face on the ground in a heap.  Ratchet winced for him but also didn’t take it upon himself to go check on the brute.

A doorway opened, and in came Artuz, gliding in with a datapad.

“Excellently done, dear ones,” he warbled, angling around Megatron to get deeper into the room.  “Apologies about him.  We seem to have overdone the sedation.”

“Any way you can make that permanent?” Ratchet snarked.  He hadn’t really meant to say it out loud, but his mouth was just running away with him.

He did that when he was nervous.

He was a little surprised when he sensed amusement from Artuz and a gleam in his eyes behind his mask.  Ratchet again noticed the large scar that went down the center of his mask and wondered distantly how it had gotten there.  Most of the Quintessons had pristine masks, so Artuz’s mask being damaged must mean something.  “Unfortunately, no.  Four members to every team, and it is not negotiable.  You will need him for some challenges down the road.  But… he is certainly more of a loose cannon than I think any of us realized when we picked him.”

“You… picked us?” Rodimus asked.

“Oh yes,” Artuz replied.  “We’ve watched you for some time.”

Well, that was creepy. Ratchet was about done with this.  “Alright.  Okay, so you mentioned games that we have to play?  How many do we have to play before we can go home?” he asked.

Artuz curled his tentacle arms reflexively.  “That will depend on your performance,” he said slowly, looking at each of them in turn.  “If you win, you will be given more perks like better living arrangements.  If you lose, things will be less pleasant.  But if you win enough times, you will have the opportunity to retire from the games.”

“Ah, right,” Rodimus said sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest.  “And how many have retired before?”

“Oh, several!” Artuz said excitedly.  “Over fifty at this point, if my last count was accurate.”

“Out of how many?” Ratchet asked.

Artuz looked at him with amusement again.  “Let’s shift our focus to the next game.  Since it is your first one, I am allowed to give you a little more information than usual to explain how things will go.”

Ratchet and Rodimus exchanged glances.  Optimus leaned against the wall, trying to seem like he wasn’t interested, but Ratchet could see him absorb every word.

Megatron groaned loudly from the floor.

“Get on with it,” Optimus called.

Artuz flicked his wrist, and a hologram appeared in the air in front of him, lighting up the room with sickly green light.  The hologram was of a Sharkicon on a leash, and it snapped its jaws angrily in the floating image.  “This is your Sharkicon.  You are to escort it across the battlefield and cross the finish line.  If you are the first team to cross with an intact Sharkicon, you win.  If you cross the finish line after the initial team wins, you finish at the very least.  If your Skarkicon dies, you lose.”

“There are other teams here?” Rodimus asked.

“Yes.  In this game, there will be ten other teams.” Artuz put his hologram away and thoughtfully stroked the chin of his mask.  “I should warn you; they are here, participating in the games because they want to be.  They are quite skilled and good at what they do.  And they usually don’t like guest teams.  Like you.”

“Guest teams,” Rodimus said flatly.  “You make it sound like an honor.”

Artuz nodded.  “It is a great honor to participate in the games, though I recognize that guest teams such as yourselves do not often see it that way since you don’t have a choice.”

Ratchet frowned.  So, not only were they being forced to participate in some games for the entertainment of fragging Quintessons, but they also had to compete against some bullies who were going to make their lives miserable.

“What happens if we lose?” Ratchet asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Well.  Even a loss can be entertaining, so nothing immediately.  You’re allowed to lose sometimes without any major ramifications.  But your living situation might become less comfortable, and your rations may decrease.  Your performance is directly linked to your continued success here.”  Artuz then tilted his helm.  “But repeated losses will result in your termination.”

Megatron stirred and began to pull himself up off of the ground, his optics moving around the room.  Ratchet tried not to take a step back when he saw his furious expression, but he could feel the burn of his optics strut deep.

"What.  Happened."

Artuz closed the hologram.  "You got put to sleep, you rude overgrown toaster."  He glided towards the door, not waiting for Megatron's reaction.  "I knew we should have grabbed the one that turned into a tank," he muttered.  A door appeared for him, and he went through, calling over his shoulder, "The game starts in four hours.  Try to get to know each other a little.  It might help."

And then the door disappeared behind him.

The four of them regarded each other for a moment in silence.  It was awkward, it was palpable, and it was definitely a sign of doom.

"Right, so.  I don't want to die," Rodimus said, trying to cover his nervousness.  "And as far as I can tell, I'm going to have to rely on you three if I want to go home.  So can we establish an agreement-"

"No-" Megatron snapped.

"-and at least let me finish speaking! Mech, you don't even know what I'm going to suggest!"

"It doesn't matter!" Megatron bellowed, rising to his full height.  "Any agreement that isn't about us breaking free and killing all of the Quintessons will not be made with my participation."

"And you did so well with that earlier," Optimus said.

Great.  Pessimist Prime speaks his words of unending wisdom.

Megatron coldly looked at Optimus.  "And what have you done since you arrived?  Besides talk."

"I've been observing," Optimus sneered under his faceplate.  "Gathering intelligence. Watching and discovering the enemy.  Instead of making a fool out of myself, roaring like some kind of organic in heat."

"I've been making observations too," Megatron replied, looking at his digits.  "The androids are synthetically based, but not using any elements known to my universe.  I believe we are in the Quintesson's home universe and not any of our own."

It was more than a little satisfying to see Optimus's optics widen a fraction in surprise, even if technically it meant a point for Megatron.  But Ratchet didn't hide his smirk, regardless.

"Interesting… theory."  Optimus tilted his helm.  "But all the more reason why your plan of killing and escaping makes no sense.  You need the Quintessons to send you home to your own universe unless you are miraculously a scientist besides an idiot."

Megatron bared his denta but didn't reply.  Point to Optimus, then.

"So we are back to where we started," Rodimus said in a chipper voice.  "Back to where you listen to me, make me your leader, and I get us out of this alive."

Even Ratchet winced at that little declaration. "How about we just get through the first game?" Ratchet said.  "We have to escort a Sharkicon on a leash across a battlefield while other teams are trying to kill us." He folded his arms across his chest.  "I have a feeling the Sharkicon is not going to cooperate."

"Our handler did mention it had to be alive, not necessarily thriving," Optimus said.

Ratchet rolled his optics.  "He also said it had to be intact.  Primus, what is wrong with you?!"

Optimus arched his optic ridge.  "You worship Primus?"

Ratchet wanted to strangle something. 

"Okay, okay, how about this.  What is everyone's best strength and alt mode?" Rodimus said brightly again. 

No one seemed ready to show and tell, so Ratchet sighed.  “I turn into an ambulance, and I’m a medic.  I’ve got electromagnets built in that can help me move metallic objects if they let me use them during the game.  I can’t seem to access them right now, though.”

Rodimus nodded.  “And I turn into a pretty sexy speed car.  No onboard weapons except some flame powers."

Great.  The kid was going to set them on fire.

Megatron folded his arms across his broad chest.  He was actually behaving much more civilly after his forced nap, but Ratchet wasn't sure he would stay that way.  "I turn into a flight-enabled vehicle.  I appear to be missing my Fusion Cannon, but I am best skilled in battle.”

Nothing about this surprised Ratchet, other than he was being helpful. 

And then the three of them turned to Optimus, glowering in the corner.   

“Anything you want to add, Prime?” Ratchet snarked.

“Not particularly, medic.”

Ratchet’s plating ruffled of its own volition.  The way he talked was just so familiar with him, but Ratchet wanted to reject him to the core. 

“I’m guessing you turn into a truck and can punch some things,” Rodimus said, smiling.  “I can work with that.  I think, Ratch, you should stick close to the Sharkicon and use your electromagnets to control it if it doesn’t behave.  I’ll run immediate interference for you with backup from the two tall, big, and uglies here.  We got this, mechs!”

Ratchet’s mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile.  He didn’t even feel the need to correct the kid and his overfamiliar nickname of “Ratch.” But something about it did bother him a little, but he couldn’t quite put his digit on it.

Chapter Text

Optimus didn’t resist when the spindly, multi-appendaged androids arrived in their room and put collars around everyone’s neck. He did experience mild discomfort as his collar rubbed against his throat cabling, but it was manageable. 

The four of them were escorted out of the room, and Optimus stared in stoic concentration ahead. Every hallway looked the same; clean, white, and unremarkable. Hundreds of doors must have led to other cells with other participants.  Everything was too clean, too pristine, too fake to be anything other than an illusion, but he also couldn’t spot a single thing that felt out of place.  Eventually, they were brought to a door that opened to reveal the inside of a shuttle.  This must be how they would be transferred to the arena. 

Optimus figured he should be raging in seething anger; they would probably expect him to. He should be angry like Megatron was at the indignity of the situation, being forced into servitude for the delight and entertainment of their masters.

But no, he wasn’t angry. He was impressed.

Granted, he didn’t want to be here. But he recognized superior power when he saw it, and there was no use in being foolish about it. Especially if he could observe and figure out a way to take the power for himself.

The more Optimus saw the facility, the more he wanted to recreate it. He could have a giant gaming arena to control his population, and people would pay to see it? It was brilliant. 

It must require incredible resources. They would have to have dominion over a large portion of this galaxy just to have the funds, the materials, and the labor to pull this off. He was astounded.

These Quintessons, however, did not seem easy to manipulate. The Quintessons of his universe were zen-blissed beings of light, prone to inaction and championing a philosophy of non-judgmental acceptance of everyone. They were powerful but also not a threat.

The Quintessons here reeked of cruelty and vindictiveness, along with powerful technology that kept their weak forms at the top of the food chain. His curiosity was piqued.

The shuttle that conveyed them lacked any windows, but he could feel them moving at quite a rate of speed. He thought he detected the strange pull of what might be artificial gravity, meaning they were in space. A facility like this in space? It must be the size of a small moon.

Eventually, the shuttle slowed and docked, shuddering slightly with an audible thunk as it arrived at its destination. The doors opened and they were ushered out by the androids.  Then they were greeted with the cacophonous noise of hundreds of other beings standing around waiting for the game to begin.

There were other mechs, but clearly not Cybertronian in origin. There were organics of various sizes, colors, and stench. Creatures from various planets and possibly universes stared back at the four of them as they walked to their starting area.

Optimus thought he sensed… hostility.

“Is it just me, or are they angry with us?” Rodimus said, forever stupidly observant.

“It’s not just you,” Ratchet replied. 

“Didn’t our handler mention something like that? That, uh, they don’t like guest teams?” Rodimus whispered.

Optimus folded his arms across his chest. That would mean they would have targets painted on their backs.

Good. Let them try.

Megatron growled beside him, punching his fist into the palm of his servo like a fragging brutish wrecker barbarian.

Alright, maybe he should try and mitigate that disaster before he started earning more ire than they already had.

“Megatron,” Optimus said smoothly. “I trust that you can take the forward position of our weakling team?”

Megatron’s smile faded to a look of surprise. He seemed shocked that Optimus was directly addressing him.

“You are giving me the front position? How generous of you.” Megatron folded his arms across his broad chest. “I will gladly take it.”

“And I will take up behind,” Optimus said, stretching. “That leaves you two in the middle.”

Rodimus was frowning and looked like he was preparing to argue just for the sake of it, an honestly expected reaction, as his Rodimus back home was similar. But then an android appeared and roughly handed him a leash.

At the end of the leash was a rabid Sharkicon.

“Eugh!” Rodimus said, jumping back as the creature attempted to bite his leg.

“Give it here,” Ratchet said exasperatedly, taking the leash from his servo.  The Sharkicon whined pathetically and then lunged for Ratchet’s legs, but the medic was able to use his magnets to dissuade it and keep it in check.  Optimus was impressed by the old-timer; looking around, it seemed other teams had opted to damage their Sharkicons to unconsciousness rather than deal with them and their gnashing teeth.

Which would make them… vulnerable.

Optimus flicked his optics to the arena.  It was a giant open grassy field that stretched miles in the distance.  In the field were hills, rocks, some trees, and occasionally ruins made of stone.  He wondered if they were just set pieces or actually imported from a dead civilization; nothing would surprise him at this point. 

Over their helms was an artificial sky that glinted orange like the light of a setting yellow star.  There were gently rolling clouds across the giant screen that looked lifelike except for the display overlayed on top of it.

It was a serene place to murder each other.  How quaint.

Among the clouds of the obviously fake sky, each team was listed out in little black boxes with each individual’s picture and name.  He thought he heard more than one murmur of “Optimus Prime” and “strange” ripple through the ranks, along with more hushed whispers about “Megatron.”  Interestingly, they were known.  Optimus smirked at how almost surprised their opponents were reacting to their presence.

A green arrow popped up.  Optimus guessed that was the direction they needed to go.  There was a loud gunshot, and then the throng of teams started to move.

Optimus had expected more instructions or something, but their opponents seemed to know exactly what to do and had already started to attack each other.

He thought he heard fast-paced music pumping out a beat from some of the rocks hidden in the grassy field.  Optimus was suddenly a lot less impressed with these Quintessons and their theatrics.

Megatron bellowed and surged ahead of them.  He started fighting with anything and everything that got remotely close to him, but he had already gone too far away.  Other teams filled in behind his destructive wake, looking at Optimus’s team and Sharkicon with obvious malevolence.

“Damn it, Megatron, get back here!” Rodimus cried, punching into a creature that had rushed him.  There was a satisfying crunch of bone as the beast spun on its feet and crumpled to the ground.

Ratchet was trying to stay behind Rodimus but kept dodging attacks that got around the orange mech.  Optimus rolled his optics, reached down to an unconscious mech, and pulled off his arm.  The mech woke with a howl of pain, but Optimus ignored it, wrenched the arm away, and stepped forward to beat off their would-be attackers.

Wouldn’t this be more fun with weapons?  He supposed he’d have to make do.

The three of them fell into a kind of annoyed synergy.  Optimus’s most trusted mechs had been those he’d been fighting with for millennia in his domination of the galaxy, but this Ratchet and Rodimus kept looking surprised as he tore through their opponents with precision.

A bi-pedal organic creature with a smooth head and bulging orange eyes stepped forward and blocked Optimus from his team.  He was huge and had all kinds of muscles and spikes on him, and just his sheer presence actually made Optimus take a step back.

Rodimus and Ratchet saw that they had been separated and shouted for him, but he ignored them, instead focusing on his new opponent.

Weaknesses? Likely speed.  You couldn’t get that big without sacrificing something.  His optics flicked to the creature’s comrades fighting off their own dangers, but they seemed to be in sync and practiced working with each other.  Optimus thought that maybe they were a weakness too, but he couldn’t get to them in time. 

Being that big usually resulted in diminishing returns on intelligence.  Perhaps he could outwit the brute?

“You seem to think I am an opponent to you,” Optimus called.  “But I will gladly let you kill my comrades if you wish.  I won’t stop you.”

Rodimus and Ratchet had heard him, and their jaws dropped.  Rodimus especially glowered, pulling Ratchet towards an outcropping of rock.  He likely sought the safety of having their backs covered by the rock, which was surprisingly smart.  But that also meant they would be pinned against it.

The creature in front of him snorted.  “You abandon them so easily,” he said through a thick accent.  “That makes me think you are new to this.”

“New to what?” Optimus replied casually.  He slightly shifted his stance, trying to quietly tense as he prepared his attack.

“The games.  You would know that your team is sacred, and you cannot trust anyone else.”

“Let’s say we are new to this.” He took a step to the left, trying to circle the creature.  The creature didn’t move, just watched him with dispassionate eyes.  “Why would you care?”

The creature sighed exasperatedly and then looked to the sky.  He then found what he was looking for and nodded as if confirmed in his thoughts.  “You are a guest team.  I see.  Well, the sooner you trust your team, the more likely you are to survive.  You will be given more challenges than most, and you will feature prominently in their shows, but only if you win.  Lose enough times, and you cease to be of use to them.”

Optimus knit his brow in confusion. “You didn’t answer my question.”

The creature shrugged.  “I really don’t care.  Just an observation.  Your inexperience and attitude color you, and your opponents can see it.  They will win in the end.”

He then walked away without another word.

Optimus frowned under his faceplate.  He swallowed and then ran ahead to try and catch up with Rodimus and Ratchet.

Once he approached, Rodimus picked up a rock and threatened to throw it at him.  “Don’t come any closer.”

He looked ridiculous standing there with a rock that was blasting a deep, throbbing beat of music.  Optimus was unimpressed, yet again.

Optimus sighed and looked up to the sky to check the teams.  So far, over a third of them had been eliminated because their Sharkicon had been killed.  Optimus then looked at their own Sharkicon and noticed to his surprise that it was still in perfect health, still angrily chomping at the air as Rachet held it up, suspended by his magnets.  They had a good chance still.

Except his team looked seriously perturbed at him.

“You don’t think I was actually going to let them kill you, do you?”

Ratchet was pressing his glossa against the inside of his cheek.  “You haven’t exactly inspired confidence, Optimus.”

“You will call me Prime,” he said coolly. 

“Right,” Rodimus said, lowering his rock.  “I’m really sure you earned that title.”

Optimus huffed his vents, about to argue with them, but he decided not to bother.  Mechs had been comparing Optimus to other mechs that they deemed more worthy for his entire life.  This was familiar territory for him.  “It was… intelligent for you to seek shelter under this rock.  I believe our opponents are under the mistaken impression that speed is valued more than the survival of the… creature,” he said distastefully, staring at the Sharkicon’s dead optics.  It blinked lazily at him and then went back to grunting and gnashing its teeth.

“So, you’re saying we just wait them out?” Rodimus asked.  He looked over the meadowed field and winced when he saw an opponent pull apart an organic and kill their Sharkicon.  “Kinda feels like we are just sitting ducks.”

“Sitting what?” Optimus asked but then shook his helm. “Nevermind.  We will just wait here for them to tear themselves apart or for things to slow down.  Then we can walk to the finish line with ease.  Especially given that brute-”

“Did I run too fast for you, Prime?” Megatron interrupted, swaggering towards them.  He was covered in fluids of suspect origin and a myriad of colors.  “Didn’t think you were one to hide behind a rock.”

Optimus narrowed his optics.  “I wasn’t trying to keep up, dear Megatron; I was trying to keep our team in the game.”

Megatron grinned darkly, his rugged denta bared.  “My dear Prime.  How short-sighted of you.”

Optimus stared at Megatron a little closer, and he saw that same manic nothingness behind his optics that he had seen before.  Around the edges, his irises were ringed in a purple glow that rippled the longer Optimus looked.  Megatron had a kind of lazy grace to himself as he stood at full height and stepped closer.

Optimus sensed the other two behind him step back.  He honestly wanted to do the same, but something held him there, transfixed at this puzzle before him.  Something was wrong with him, but Optimus did not know what.

“What were you before becoming a Prime?” Megatron purred.  “An archivist?”

“An enforcer,” he replied. 

“Ah,” Megatron said, nodding slowly as if he had suspected it all along.  “An enforcer of the peace.”

“An enforcer of the law,” Optimus corrected.  Under his faceplate, he was moving his glossa over his denta in thought. 

“As an enforcer then, you clearly do not understand the sadism of our captors.  These games aren’t designed for us to win; they are designed to entertain,” Megatron said with a wicked smile.

Optimus didn’t care to comment on sadism, which he was pretty aware of as a concept.  Still, he heard Megatron’s words but was distracted by his optics' strange, slight movements.  It was as if they were darting around the arena slightly, scanning, observing, taking everything in.  Megatron’s face remained the picture of dark cruelty, but it seemed… performative.

“You think we should be dancing for them or something?” Rodimus asked.

“Only if your dancing kills,” Megatron replied, turning his back on them.  “We were brought here to entertain them.  I am familiar with that realm.”

“I think we should still try and get our Sharkicon across the field,” Ratchet said.  “You can be as entertaining as you want about it.”

Optimus still watched Megatron, and Megatron grinned at him as if he knew that the wheels in his helm were turning.  And it annoyed Optimus even more that the spiky frelling scrap heap was probably right.  They needed to do more things that would make them stand out. 

Megatron must have sensed that he was winning the discussion and huffed, turning on his pede, and began to walk away.  “Wait, Megatron, where are you going?!” Rodimus called.  “We still need your help!”

Megatron laughed and continued to walk away back into the fray of fighting mechs.

“Fragging idiot,” Rodimus muttered.  “Alright, let’s get moving.  We’ve waited long enough.”

Rodimus started stalking off in the general direction of the finish line, without a plan, without discussing anything with the team, and without any awareness of the opponents that just noticed him and were making for him immediately.

Ratchet saw them and swore colorfully.  “Rodimus, get back here-”

Optimus brought his servo up to his face, wiped it across his face.  His team was made up of morons.

Things quickly fell apart.  Rachet surged forward after Rodimus with their Sharkicon in tow.  Combatants came up behind them, and Optimus was distracted with holding them off.  Rodimus hotly fought some mech-like creatures with bright red feather appendages coming out of their backs, and lost track of how far away he was from the rest of them.

Optimus occasionally heard Megatron’s dark laughter echo across the field, but there was no sign of him.

Somebody managed to sock him in the jaw.  He staggered, surprised, and incensed more than anything.  With a quick snarl, he turned and found a spindly creature to eat his fist.

He punched the creature back, angrily jumping upon them.  Teeth flew out as it spat its blood out of its mouth and tried to push him off.  He punched, he scraped, he squeezed, and the screeching was music to his audials.

He saw their initial triumph that had at getting a punch in on him turn quickly to pained fear. 

Their eyes became wide as he pulverized them into a bloody, messy goo on the ground.  Near the end, he saw that look of defeat and acceptance as the creature knew it was over.  Looking up, he locked his optics on the creature’s teammates, who were shocked at Optimus’s brutality.  They ran off, choosing not to engage. 

Optimus rubbed his jaw angrily and stood up from the ground.  His purple plating was now covered in what looked to be the creature’s blood.  He glared at the retreating backs of the team and frowned deeply under his faceplate.

He heard Ratchet call out for help, and just as Optimus turned, he saw an enemy tear apart Ratchet’s Sharkicon.

A chime went off in their helms as their team disappeared from the board.

Optimus sighed heavily, closing his optics.

Chapter Text

Artuz nervously wriggled his tentacles as he glided down the crisp white hallway.

It was not his fault.  Even the most exacting Quintesson Judge could see that?  Most predictions from the analysts had given the Cybertronian team a 60-65% chance of emerging victorious during that last game.  Those odds were not amazing, but they weren’t terrible either.  Those were the kind of odds that an average Quintesson might bet their mother’s house on.

It was a wonder that most Quintessons did not have good relationships with their mothers.

But again, it was not his fault.  He had watched and rewatched the footage from the game and it wasn’t even one mech’s fault.  Okay… maybe it was mostly Megatron’s fault, but Optimus and Rodimus had really given up any kind of teamwork in the end.  Ratchet, to everyone’s surprise, had proven to be the most task oriented. 

It… probably wouldn’t happen again.  Next time they would win.

He reached the door and tapped the intercom.

“It is Artuz, mistress,” he said, trying to keep the warble out of his voice.

“Ah, Artuz.  Just a moment, dear.”

He knew that it was going to be more than just a moment.  Egreata liked to keep everyone waiting as a show of power.

Artuz swallowed and shifted on the tentacles beneath him as two other tentacles were wringing in front of him.  His egg-shaped body felt heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to retreat into his habsuite where he could continue to work in peace and quiet.  He had so many inquiries into the Cybertronian team from news stations and entertainment shows that his message boxes were overflowing.

It had been at least ten minutes that he stood there, waiting.  He tried to keep his breathing even, but his anxiety was running away with him.

The door opened.  He swallowed again and walked in after making sure his purple mask was on straight.

“Ah, there you are,” Egreata said from her giant desk and giant chair, as if the delay had been his fault.  Egreata was a Masterpiece Quintesson, or about the same size as a Quintesson Judge, and she took every opportunity to lord it over Artuz.  He was a Legends Quintesson.  She could practically crush him in her manicured tentacle tips without a second thought.

Speaking of those tips, they looked quite sharp today.  Egreata’s white mask had hollow cheekbones and elongated, slanted eyes.  She leaned back in her chair as her designer metal shell glinted in the soft light of her office.

Behind her was some wall art.  There were framed pictures of her meeting famous judges, posing over famous game participants, and a painted sign with glyphs that read “live, laugh, lobotomy” in cursive, bouncy font.

Artuz sighed.  “How can I help you, mistress?”

She looked at him through her mask, and he could tell she was observing him closely.  She swept out her tenacles on the desk, each of the tips making a clicking noise across the shiny, polished surface.

“Your team, Artuz… was lacking.”

Artuz nodded, trying to hide his tremor in his tentacles by putting them behind his back.  He wanted to sit, but in perfect Egreata fashion, there was no chair for her guests.  They were expected to stand before her like supplicants to a throne.

Even while standing, he had to look up to her.

“I recognize that everyone was a little disappointed with the outcome, but I can assure you-“

“Disappointed is the right genre, but not the right nuance,” she purred.  The tips of her tentacles screeched as they dug into the desk and dragged along the surface.  “That was an embarrassment.”

Artuz’s heart rate picked up and he knew his voice had probably jumped an octave.  “M-mistress, our information gathering unit was stymied by some of the distortions in the other universes.  We used the information we had to draw conclusions for the team makeup.  There were things we could not anticipate."

Egreata made a clicking noise with her tongue.  "Darling, I know you aren't telling me that this team is beyond your ability to manipulate.  You are a Cybertronian expert! Or, at least, that is what you said at your trial."

Artuz swallowed around his dry mouth.  "They are not beyond my ability."

Egreata stared at him for another moment before giving a long-suffering sigh. "I wondered why you chose two powerhouses for the team.  Optimus and Megatron are probably the strongest of their factions."

Artuz nodded.  "Our analysts thought-"

Egreata continued as if he hadn't started to speak.  "You chose two powerhouses, a medic, and I don’t know what HR-77 is.  A brat?"

"The leader.  We chose two powerhouses because we added a medic.  The medic is not as strong in combat, and we were seeking balance."

"But really you chose three leaders and a small medic that can't control them." She started to drum her tentacles on the desk again.  "So, you are trying a very aggressive team."

"Our focus groups reacted favorably, especially to the names of the participants,” Artuz said, trying to keep his voice even.  “Our last Cybertronian team- uhm, my last team had far too many strategists, as you will recall.  The new viewership wanted more violence and unpredictable outcomes."

Egreata nodded indulgently.  "I read the research.  I'm still not impressed."

Artuz bit his lip under his mask.  "But everyone is paying attention! No one expected the Cybertronians to lose like that so early on.  Even losses can be entertaining."

Egreata’s tentacle tips gouged into the desk, her eyes going hard behind her mask.  Artuz shivered and cast his gaze down.

How things had changed so quickly in his fall from grace.  Artuz used to be revered in the greater Quintesson society, especially on his assigned Entertainment Hub.  He mentored many winning teams over the years, able to mold them and shape them into performing brilliantly, giving them the care and understanding they needed to become champions.

That’s why he had been trusted with the first Cybertronian team. 

That’s also why he was punished severely when the rest of the Cybertronians stormed the hub to rescue them.

“Losses can be entertaining, but not from this team.  This team is the punchline of a joke.”  Egreata leaned back in her chair, still glaring down at him.  Artuz could not stifle a shiver at the look.

Her eyes glazed over and softened.  “I want to help you, dear.  Really, I do.  But you have created a team that has a low chance of being taken seriously, especially if they don’t start winning.  We had a potential thread of the audience being afraid of the Cybertronians, given how many Quintessons were brutally murdered at the other entertainment hub.  Granted, it wasn’t these Cybertronians, but I had hoped we could capture that same vibe.  You understand, don’t you?”

She stood from her desk with a fluid motion, gliding over to him before he could react.  He tried to recoil, remembering the last time she had been this close to him during his interrogation and punishment. 

“Hush now,” she said, grabbing him with a tentacle.  “The past is in the past. You were given a heavy burden that was really too much for you, too soon.” She crooned a little as Artuz whimpered at her touch.  “That is why I am here to assist.”

Artuz knew he was being blackmailed a little.  Egreata was connected.  She could make his life miserable- had made his life miserable.  But she wasn’t part of the Games staff on purpose.  She was a socialite, a talk show personality, a magazine editor, not an employee of the games.  If he accepted her help, and word got out that she was pulling some strings to manipulate the Games, then he would likely be dismissed.

Potentially… tried. In front of a judge. Again.

She wasn’t leaving him much of a choice.  “Egreata, please don’t do this-”

“I’m just helping you, Artuz.  It’s not really that big of a deal,” she laughed lightly.  “No one will know.”

Artuz squirmed in her grip for one more moment, and then slumped.  There was no way around it.

“What… do you want me to do?”

Egreata gave a breathy laugh and released him.

“I know what we need.  An old favorite to reinvigorate the betting pool.”  She went back to her desk, sitting down elegantly as she pulled up her computer display hologram to start clicking away.  “This will require some planning, so continue to operate as normal.  If they lose, make sure they understand the consequence of losing.  Make them uncomfortable.”

Artuz tried to swallow the retort he wanted to give her that he knew how to do his job.  But he figured it was better to let her think she had full control of him. “Of course, mistress.”

“Keep me apprised if anything else comes to light.  You’re dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Rodimus sighed.

“Quit sighing,” Optimus said.

The jerk.

Rodimus was already very much over his teammates and trying to work with them. It was clear it was impossible, and half of them were “morally reprehensible” anyway, as Ultra Magnus would have said. They weren’t really redeemable or Rodimus’s version of “cool dudes he wanted to hang out with.”

Except for Ratchet. Ratchet was pretty on the mark, and while he seemed older and maybe more scared of stuff, he was still Ratchet. And Drift would want Ratchet taken care of.

Just thinking about Drift made him want to sigh again. Just thinking about any of them back on the Lost Light, doing their thing, having fun without him- Well. They probably weren’t doing much without him. They were probably looking for him, hoping to find him, and when they did, this place wouldn’t know what hit it!

…probably.

“So, Ratch,” he said as they were led back through a series of white hallways, trams, and tunnels. “You did good out there.”

Ratchet had been kind of quiet since the Sharkicon died. The corner of Rodimus’s mouth went into a half-grimace. Ratchet wasn’t attached to the thing, right? Those things were kind of hive-mind pests.

“No thanks to you lot,” Ratchet replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Where were you?”

“Fighting,” Megatron said with an almost-dreamy look in his optics. Speaking of Sharkicons- did that mech ever accidentally bust a lip just talking around those sharp teeth? Rodimus wondered if he had filed them himself- he kinda seemed the crazy type to do that to inspire fear in his enemies.

Optimus chose not to respond as if he were above it all- typical. Not unexpected, but somehow still infuriating.

Rodimus frowned slightly. “I was trying to find you again,” he said, a little chastised. “I’m sorry we got separated, but I couldn’t control these-”

“It doesn’t matter about them,” Ratchet said. “Kid, you gotta worry about yourself. You’re never going to be able to control them- you don’t have anything they respect.”

Rodimus blanched and almost stopped walking. “Excuse me?” he said, flaring his plating.

“Oh, you made the sparkling upset,” Megatron said, amused behind him.

Ratchet glared over his shoulder and affixed Rodimus with a steely gaze. “Ask them if they respect you.”

Rodimus opened his mouth but instead just glowered at the floor. He didn’t need their respect; he just needed them to follow his damn orders! He was a captain, for crying out loud- and he knew what was best for them! He knew he could get them out of this mess if they would just listen to him.

“I need to be able to rely on you,” Ratchet said quietly. “At least you. I don’t like either of these other two.”

“No pressure,” Rodimus muttered.

Ratchet exvented and said something like “mechling” under his breath. But Rodimus knew that tone was definitely affectionate.

They had walked for a lot longer than Rodimus had thought they would have to reach back to their quarters- or prison? Anyway, it didn’t seem like this was the same place as their old room.

“Hey, android friends, where we going?”

Their guards said nothing; their long strides and spindly frames continued to propel forward without indicating that Rodimus had been heard. Rodimus pouted, suddenly very annoyed and planning to give the weird androids a piece of his mind, when they all spotted their tiny Quintesson handler, Artuz, waiting in the hallway.

Megatron perked up, which was probably a bad thing. Ratchet slowed his steps slightly, hanging towards the back.

Rodimus waved. “What’s up?”

Artuz’s face was hidden behind his purple mask, but it was kind of interesting that Rodimus could tell he was glowering.

“I am very disappointed!” Artuz said, his tentacles waving around in frustration. “What was that pathetic display?!”

“It was called carnage,” Megatron offered helpfully. “Something I’m sure your pathetic little body has no idea about.”

Artuz rolled his helm as if he were rolling his optics. Or… eyes. Whatever he had under there.

“You are so annoying,” Artuz ground out. “And because you lost, you have been downgraded to some quarters that barely qualify as a hovel. This is an embarrassment.”

He flicked his tentacles at a door that opened. He strode in, perhaps expecting the four of them to follow. Rodimus cautiously looked over his shoulder to look at his comrades, who peered at him back. Only Ratchet gave him any reaction, which was a very unhelpful shrug.

Rodimus sighed and strode in after Artuz.

Inside were four berth pads on the floor. There was a trough on one wall that appeared to have some solvent in it, and then on the other side was a cheap, small energon dispenser.

“Cozy,” Rodimus said flatly.

“It’s awful,” Artuz bemoaned. “You’ll hardly get any rest, and then you’ll be exhausted for the next couple of games.”

Rodimus snorted. “You actually sounded concerned about us for a moment.”

Artuz turned to face him, staring at him for a moment. He surreptitiously looked up into the corner of the room, and when Rodimus followed his gaze, he saw a small flat camera embedded in the wall.

Rodimus looked back at Artuz with confusion on his face.

“When you win, I get lauded. When you lose, I get… rebuked,” Artuz replied. “It’d be easier for the both of us if you could win, darlings. They can make your living situation even worse.”

Rodimus huffed his vents in frustration as he heard the others follow into the room behind him. Megatron had put up a token resistance but was just laughing as he was electrically shocked and dragged in by the androids.

“Trust me; if I could figure out a way to win, I would have. I guess. Not really sure I want to do your bidding,” Rodimus replied hotly.

Artuz shivered. “You do risk deactivation if you continue to be difficult. And my unfortunate fate is tied to yours.”

“Then perhaps you should find a way to help us win,” Optimus said.

Rodimus wanted to shoot him a glare for its sake but found he kind of agreed.

“I can’t- I can’t cheat,” Artuz replied. “Maybe you lot really do need help,” he muttered. “I suppose assembling a team from across the multiverse means you have no basis for understanding each other. Or perhaps you aren’t properly motivated to even try yet.” He held up his tentacles in a shrug. “I suggest you do some research on the display. Perhaps you will become more enlightened.”

Artuz snapped his tentacles, and a display screen appeared on the wall, materializing as if from nothing. It turned on and began showing a feed of what looked like entertainment shows.

“Your next game is tomorrow,” Artuz added as he walked back towards the door. “I suggest you try to get over yourselves by then, for all of our sakes.”

There was something hollow in how Artuz said that, and Rodimus furrowed his brow. Then he and the androids were gone, and the door disappeared.

Megatron grunted, pulling himself off the floor. He walked over to one of the berth pads and pulled it into a room corner. He laid down, closed his optics, and presumably went to recharge.

Mech hadn’t even cleaned up, getting all those weird and suspect fluids on his frame from the fight on his pad. Rodimus tried to share his disgust with Ratchet but found he had already walked over to the trough and had begun to clean up in silence. Optimus had followed shortly after, taking up all the room. Rodimus would have to wait his turn.

He didn’t really like the vibes of his comrades at the moment. It reminded him of those moments right after the war ended, and he and Bumblebee were arguing about staying on the planet or trying to leave to find something better to inspire hope. It seemed like they were all correct, in a way, based on their experiences and not trying to mess each other up.

Well, maybe this Megatron, but that was beside the point.

Artuz was right, though; they needed to find common ground or some reason to work together soon.

He turned and decided to watch the display while he waited. It seemed like trashy television with tons of commercials, jump cuts, weird sound effects, and now a talk show.

But then he realized it was all centered around the games.

He narrowed his optics and stepped closer to hear it better as the sound had been turned low.

“… a risky move from Artuz! Do you think his choices were in response to his last team?”

“Who can say, Casterious? I’m surprised the Game Wardens let him source Cybertronians again, no matter if they are from the multiverse!”

“Again?” Rodimus murmured.

“Yes, that was quite a surprise. But it really energized the fanbase, don’t you think? Praise for the decision was pouring in shortly after it was announced. I think there was a hope that maybe they had managed to get the old crew back, but it appears no such luck. And this team, while impressive-looking, is more of a joke.”

“Agreed!” said the other Quintesson, lounging on a couch. “Though maybe that’s all part of the plan? They are the underdogs who will make a comeback?”

“Disengenia, are you implying the games are rigged?”

There was an awkward pause, then the two Quintessons started chuckling, and the whole studio audience broke into laughter and amusement. Rodimus just watched with a growing sense of unease in his tanks and barely noticed when Optimus had joined him to watch the display.

“Imagine,” Casterious said, wiping a fake tear from his laughing masked face. “Let's run a reel of some of the best moments in recent game history that couldn’t possibly have been scripted. You had to see it live to believe it!”

The screen faded to black, and then some footage started up.

Rodimus’s optics went wide.

The screen jumped from scene to scene with devastating quickness, never waiting too long on a single shot. The first scene was a brutal spearing of a mech through the abdomen, just as they had turned their back on their comrade. Another was an organic creature tearing apart an opponent, limb by limb, and then using their body to attack more combatants. Another gruesome scene of many creatures drowning in a pool of acid, being eaten by Sharkicons, or burning to death tied to a stake.

The worst part was their faces. It was authentic and raw, and Rodimus could feel himself growing nauseated. There were so many- and it was all violent, appalling, and horrendous.

Rodimus had to clench his fist to stop it from trembling.

“Primus,” he heard Ratchet say behind him. Rodimus looked behind him and saw even Megatron had decided to open an optic to watch. His face was set in a frown, but otherwise didn’t react.

Rodimus flinched when someone who looked a heck of a lot like Prowl got his throat cut, and the studio audience cheered in reaction.

The reel finished, fading back to the delighted host and guest. They pattered on and on, praising the former Game Designers, Game Wardens, and the previous mentors who made it possible. Lost somehow was the mention of the participants as if they had nothing to do with the entertainment they had provided at the expense of their lives.

Rodimus exvented through his denta. He wasn’t really surprised at all this- the signs had been there that they were merely pawns in some kind of death game- but for some reason, actually seeing it, and what could happen to them made it seem all a lot more real.

He decided he didn’t want to watch anymore and turned his back on the display. The farther he got, the less he could hear, so he dragged his chosen berth pad even farther into the room. Satisfied he could no longer hear the shows, he went to the trough to wash himself.

His hands were trembling, but he managed to clean himself off. The solvent was lukewarm and cheap, but it got the job done. He supposed it could always be worse.

He turned around to see the rest of his comrades had grabbed a berth pad and pulled it into the four different corners of the room, turning on their sides to face away from each other as they tried to get some recharge.

Rodimus sighed quietly, suddenly hit with a pang of awful loneliness.

He went to his berth pad, and faced the center of the room before allowing himself to sleep as well.