Less Than Kin, a transformers fanfic

Title: Less Than Kin
(Series: More Than Kind)
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.
Fandom: Transformers
Continuity: TF2k7, parts and pieces of the movie tie-in comics (Reign of Starscream, Movie Prequel, et cetera).
Characters: Optimus Prime, Megatron, Ironhide, Starscream, Blackout, Barricade, Frenzy, Brawl, Bonecrusher, Bumblebee
Warnings: Violence
Summary: An exploration of how, perhaps, Megatron came into his madness, and what Cybertron might have been like before war tore it apart.
Author's Note: Rewrite of the 'Matters of Honor' fic, due to plot changes necessitated by information revealed in source material(s). Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

Prologue:

The wreckage drifted through space, pieces and parts spread in a glittering trail, bright against the darkness. A gleaming trail of fragmented scrap lazily spun out into the emptiness, expanding outward from the buckled remains of what had once been called a ship, burned black and yet cold in its death. Its inner belly had been torn wide, exposed, struts and supports left hanging weightless in the great void. Liquid floated from broken coolant lines, coalescing into thick gobs of blue-green substance, bounding off in a slow dance as they struck the abandoned ruins. It was a testament to cruelty, a warning marker left to ward off further intrusions. And what creature would not know fear, seeing how thoroughly decimated the impressive defenses had been? Who would not feel the sickly sensation of mortal terror, when they beheld the soft, twisted bodies within, placed as an offering and a threat?

The few electrical impulses still firing within the battered and torn ship arced across the narrow gaps, like fluttering eyes, blinded by stars and nothingness. The vessel rumbled, the dying groan of a great beast, the final dregs of its power shifting to its last function, the final command of its long dead crew.

The beacon, from deep within, pulsed, slowly, rippling out into the nothingness. The last remaining lights flickered, and dimmed, drawing in upon themselves in dying curls. The silence settled in once more, the utterly soundlessness of space creeping in.

From the deep places in the black, the pulse was heard.

From the darkness between suns, it was answered.

Chapter One

Of Firm and Fair

"I don't like it."

Optimus squinted at the skyline, jagged spire-towers framed in sharp relief against the slow-burning stars. His aura flickered, briefly, in a soothing comfort-vibe, soaking up the last brush of Spark-energy he would know for some time. Ahead of the pair, Trypticon was deathly… quiet, devoid of energy signature. It felt cold and wrong, like dead things, like broken things, though he knew it teemed with life. The generators whirred and buzzed mindlessly, monotonously, throwing out a comforting city-blue to welcome them in, soft against the hard angles of the city-bunker. Sparks and specks of color flashed briefly between distant stars, marking drones patrolling their airspace needlessly, their minds as empty as the generators' hum-song.

But there was no thrum of Cybertronian life, no hint of casual Sparks in the city before them, and that alone was enough to make Prime hesitate.

"You never do," Optimus said lightly as he could manage, ignoring the less than charitable look Ironhide tossed him. "I must speak with him. He will be more… receptive to my physical presence." At least, the Lord Protector would be less hostile to the proposition than he would be if Optimus had borne a Senator in tow. Though, in a sense, did not they travel alongside him even now? Was it not at their behest that he had traveled so far from home?

"He can find Iacon easily enough, I would think," Stubborn to the last inch of him, Ironhide huffed and crossed his arms. He eyed the waiting inclined platform without the least attempt to mask his distaste, optics flashing bright and blue. Optimus treasured that color, savored it for a moment; he would not see its like again for some time.

Ironhide shifted his gaze back to Prime's, grunting, "And you're going in alone," like it was the least surprising thing he'd ever heard.

Optimus nodded absently, optics drifting over the glowering insignia before him, the jagged symbol of their militant brethren. And above that, the visage of the Lord Protector loomed, mouth agape in a war scream, gleaming in what little light was offered, rage and hate and nobility given form. "As I always do. I trust him."

"Mmph."

"Your eloquence never ceases to astound me, Ironhide," Optimus replied with painfully false gravitas, stepping up the long platform and toward the waiting maw. "I will return soon. You may return to Iacon. I can escort myself afterwards."

Ironhide made a stutter-clank of blustering protest, a mumbled, "Like slag and cesspools I will," under the discordant sound, which Optimus politely ignored. The Sentinel unit – uninvited and unwelcome in his half-kin's home by his very nature – leaned against one of the inward-curving support spires, tracking Prime's progress up the ramp. The sheer aura of disapproval emanating from his blocky figure, Optimus was certain, could stop a planet's rotation with will alone.

Mindful of that heavy stare, Optimus declined to turn, to meet familiar blue optics one last time before plunging himself into that vacant black.

Instead he waved vaguely over one shoulder, a parting gesture before the city swallowed him whole.

It was slightly disconcerting, this perverse lack of discernable Spark-fields and sheer auditory quiet. Optimus examined the nearest wall intently, feeling as if many optics were upon him at once but unable to track a one of them. Oh, they were there, he was absolutely certain, observing him, word likely already having reached the Lord Protector of his arrival. The walls were guarded by more than sensors and drones; soldiers unnumbered moved, unseen, through the gridlock and narrow streets. The young and the untested, those designated as common fodder on the outskirts, denied the heart of the compound – Kokular – where only the Lord Protector and his chosen subordinates resided.

So Optimus waited, his only company the lonely flare of thrusters on high, and the restrictive confines of the ground level.

Growing ever more uncomfortable – how could any being bear to call such a tomb a home? – he turned slowly in place, taking in what sights there were to be had. The city had been designed as a bunker, a fortress; it had none of the graceful arcs and arches of Iacon, or the rambling geometric complexity of Altihex, or even the beautifully structured symmetry of Praxus. It simply… was. Scarred and sharp and crouched, waiting on the dark side of the planet, a beastly, creeping assembly without equal.

Prime, with the utmost caution, reached out, and, spreading his blunt fingers, stretched out to rest the digits within a particularly deep set of grooves. The Guardians had a more expansive span of hand than he, of course. A wider spread of claws to better reach fleeing enemies, he supposed, after a moment of speculation. Visual tactics to further instill horror within their enemies, perhaps.

And who would not fear such rending talons, reaching for their most vital components?

He hummed in discomfort, vocalizer making a dry click, a tinkling sound that resounded off into the emptiness like a gunshot. To his credit, he didn't start, merely reclaimed his hand and wandered on, trying hard to keep his footfalls quiet and failing rather spectacularly.

The acoustics of the city-fortress made every clanking step amplified a thousandfold, echoing off into the impassive sky above. In Iacon, it would have been all bustle and motion, flashes of vivid color at every turn, the conflicting and soothing tide of Spark-energies constantly in mingle, spreading comfort through casual contact. Loud, certainly, but the reassuring hum of city-dwellers, where one sound was no more out of place nor jarring than another, and fellow Cybertronians filled his vision from end to end, terribly occupied with the business of living.

In Trypticon, it was deathly still, shaded over by the blank grey of unrefined metal, scored with burns and scratches and dents, and too proud to hide such disfigurement. There were rumors – always rumors, petty gossip revolving around the elitist Guardians – that Trypticon had once been more than a city, a city-Guardian, massive beyond understanding. A monstrous, hulking thing of instinct and fury, once employed as a mobile war station when Cybertron was new, when Prima and Maximo first brought their kind into a sentient, enlightened age, Builders and Guardians. Such a vast and terrible profile it presented, it was not difficult to imagine the steady purr of generators a rising growl, the minute vibrations coursing through the city-bunker the first tremors of violent life—

"Prime."

Startled out of his musings, Optimus guiltily jerked away from where he had been stooped, inspecting a particularly long claw mark. He whirled about, hands snatched to his chest like a snooping attendant caught mid-uplink in private files. "Er," He said by way of explanation, dropping his gaze down to meet that of his escort's.

The dull-witted yellow of an Alpha drone's optics stared up at him, huge and unpleasantly absent of perceivable comprehension. "Prime," it repeated, passively demanding suitable reaction to the address.

Already uncomfortable – some part of him vaguely embarrassed by the proximity to the half-creature, such an affront to Sparked life – Optimus glanced away. "Send for an escort, drone." He already felt like half a fool; was Megatron so shorthanded that he sent mindless Alphas to greet his Prime-brother? Or was it for the sake of insult, the Lord Protector perhaps having learned of the purpose of Prime's visitation, and expressing his disapproval?

The drone stiffened slightly, cyclopean optic pulsing hot and fast. Prime nervously wondered if it was malfunctioning, as those of Alpha classification were wont to do.

"My designation is Dreadwing, commander of drone units stationed at Trypticon," It – he – spat, all cold affront. "I have been charged with your escort to Kolkular, Optimus Prime, at the High Lord Protector Megatron's behest."

"Oh. Er, my apologies…" Optimus broke off, mortified beyond reason.

"The High Lord Protector awaits, Prime," Dreadwing said stiffly, brushing by Optimus with his awkward head held high and proud, bearing for the center structure of Trypticon.

Optimus hesitated only a moment more, then set off after him, his longer stride easily eating up the distance between them. He studied Dreadwing from behind, perplexed; every part of the Guardian was piece for piece cast as an Alpha drone, anonymous lines and angles speaking nothing of the obviously fully sentient life behind his soulless optic. A few, slight modifications, true, now that he took the time to study the soldier before him more carefully, but nothing readily apparent to a casual glance.

Glancing around, Optimus wracked his processor for a topic of conversation, some way to amend his assumption and soothe the Guardian's ruffled pride. He was met with a blank; there was nothing in common between them that he could use, nothing to really bridge that icy disdain written in the taut sway of Dreadwing's shoulders.

Resigned, he kept his silence, pacing after the Guardian through the eerily deserted streets.

In their wake, red optics glinted, flashing bright and knowing, and above, mindless drones moved on their endless patrol, as impassive as the ever watchful visage that loomed over them all.