A/N: Otherwise known as "Where are all the Cons?"
I kind of love Megatron. Regardless of whether he runs an evil company, he's still kind of adorable and urbane and hopelessly intelligent. I want to bring him a cappuccino and sit in his lap until he feels better.
You didn't read that last part.
Characters: Megatron, brief Bumblebee cameo, Lugnut, Strika, ALL THE SEEKERS OH MY GOD at least in mention (but I warn you, I've combined Greedy Dirge with Liar Ramjet, because seven siblings is just one too many…), Shockwave, Soundwave, Starscream, SWINDLLLLLE, Scrapper, brief Cyclonus.
Pairings: Squint-and-THERE-WILL-BE Megatron/Starscream, implied Lugnut/Strika.
Warnings: Megatron's depression might be contagious, so run away now D: But I BEG you to imagine his deep rumbly voice with the last bits of dialogue, it's just PRICELESSpshhhht. Oh and a bit of foreshadowing for Odd Couple.
Megatron's No Good Very Bad Day
One very brisk December workday, not at all suspicious in any way, Megatron was walking down the sidewalk towards the glossy purple high-rise that was his company and life's work. He was finishing the last of his morning coffee, which was just how he liked it: very, very black. Like his heart. The sun was shining. Birds might have been singing, if they ever sang around Megatron…
Which they didn't.
He stopped at the newspaper-vendorbots, because that's what he always did, and gathered his six samples of what the world was up to. He liked seeing in text and judging for himself what was important: he never trusted such things to briefings or summaries, and scanning papers was somehow soothing to him, reminding him of his merciless grip on America as he saw his company's name in print three or four times a morning. He turned, ready to cross to his building and begin his newest day of morally questionable machinations, but suddenly stumbled back: with no word of warning, a very yellow child on a tiny orange Sumdac scooter zoomed across his path and through a nearby puddle, sending a tidal-wave of filthy, cold grey water splashing up onto Megatron's designer suit and pants.
D-Con's distinguished President stood in front of the vendor-bots, frozen down to his Italian leather shoes. Farther down the sidewalk, the child cursed and pulled a screechy turn, then did nothing more than gape dumbly at the older man and the shock on his handsome face—a shock that was quickly curdling into anger. When Megatron moved—just a disbelieving flick of his fingers to clear the water dripping from his papers—the teenager gulped audibly and turned tail, yikesing tensely as he zoomed off.
A sudden urge to kill the boy died quickly when he realized it would not fix his grey silk suit. He plucked at it, eyeing the traces of black oil that were greedily setting into the material. Megatron scowled and tried to disregard the thousand-dollar loss, one hand still wiping fruitlessly at the ugly stain as he scaled the steps to his company.
Once inside, he had to find out for himself, by pressing then jamming at the unresponsive red button, that the elevator was broken. Megatron's office, by virtue of his position, was on the top floor. Mouth curling, the older man turned and headed towards the stairs as he removed his soaked jacket and straightened his blood-red tie, wondering how this day could possibly get any better.
"You are useless—Hell, I could kick you all out and Megatron wouldn't even bat an eye! He hired me first! I can do everything you can and do it better, don't you even tempt me!"
"Replace me? You aren't fit to lick my shoes!"
"Pompous jackass!"
"Useless, sniveling little weasel!"
"Idiot! Idiot-idiot-idiot!"
"Momma's boy," Thundercracker hissed evilly, and with that, Starscream's narrow, scheming little face went white with rage.
Shrieking, he tackled his older brother, both of them soon twisting and snarling in a bundle on the floor as they attempted to punch each other in the gut. Skywarp hopped from foot to foot at a safe distance, biting his nails, looking up at the door every three seconds and begging them to stop.
"Oh, I do so hate to see our brothers fight," Dirge purred from his desk, where he was leaning over the back of the chair to watch with greedy, shining eyes. "I always worry they'll hurt themselves…!"
"Then do something! Do something!" Skywarp squeaked, too terrified of being struck to even come within a foot of his older brothers' vicious struggles.
Of all six Seeker siblings, one would think Skywarp would be the one to huddle under his mother's wingspan--but not when their mother was a callous, calculating feline who would sooner slap her sons (and daughter) and throw them to the nursemaid than coddle them. They nearly killed her, after all; she had little to no regard for the squirming balls of meat that had nearly ripped her unto death in four grueling fifteen-hour labors. But if she was to feel warmth for one of her infinitely flawed offspring, it would be the miserable medium: Starscream.
His setbacks weren't so crippling as the others'. She couldn't even reason with Slipstream, as the viciously intelligent young woman hated her on principle, and besides that, their mother had the sneaking suspicion her only daughter was a raging lesbian and dearly didn't want to get into that. A multitude of flaws though Starscream possessed, there was something to be made of the boy who, even from a very early age, showed remarkable potential for being a devious little wretch fully deserving of her genes.
She was a social ladder-climber herself: she had secured her infinitely loaded husband with underhanded tactics and an immovable mauve smile and matching nails. The Seeker heiress still viewed her clutch of children as the final cinderblock that would make divorce far too difficult to attempt, and in that way could abide their existence with a smile.
Affectionate as a she-cat could be, Starscream's mother taught him everything she knew about scheming, beating the odds and beating those who would not permit him to rise. He became her student and her only child, perhaps absorbing some of her cattier, heartless qualities along the way, and the rest of his siblings detested him for it. This was also quite unfortunate, as they couldn't stand each other in the first place, and happened to work at the same company within mere feet of one another's desks.
Thundercracker grunted as Starscream attempted to shove him underneath a desk, D-Con's second in command still aiming for that one precious smack in the gut as his sibling shouted about how inferior he was. Skywarp was nearly shrieking in nerve-wracking anguish by the time Megatron passed by the open doorway, stained jacket over his shoulder; the youngest of the triplets suddenly quieted with a pathetic squeak when the President loomed up behind him, level with the still-ongoing scuffle, his grey eyes blazing.
"Excuse me."
The President's deep, deep rumble was enough to freeze them both, ages-old hatred be damned. Starscream, on his back as usual, looked up and his eyes widened. Thundercracker cautiously (if angrily) did the same, gaping behind him where their superior stood with his arms crossed dangerously.
"And just what are we doing here?" he asked softly, one thick brow creeping up towards his impeccably combed silver hair.
Thankfully, they didn't fawn or make excuses or honestly think they had a chance of getting out unscathed—this was too much of a ritual by now. He would deal with them later. Wasting his time would only make that 'dealing' more unpleasant.
The brothers separated, still glaring at each other, but sullenly went back to their work. Megatron, hiding a sigh, began once again on the forty-five-floor-high path to his office, sending one last glare over his shoulder to make sure they stayed in their seats as he left what was basically a nursery for one very, very flawed family.
Yes, they were quite pretty, but did he have to hire all of them?
He was only allowed one moment of relief once the doors to his office clicked shut. He had multiple calls waiting, all of his call buttons blinking an alarm red. Frowning densely at the callboard, smelling disaster already, Megatron sat himself in his leather armchair with a thoroughly exhausted groan and accessed the first line.
"Mr. President, I have troubling prospects for the launching of the new AD missiles. According to the approximations on price and assembly as projected by the technical staff, the entire project will be doomed if so much as one investor backs out--"
Perhaps more brusquely than he should have, he rerouted Cyclonus' call to intel. He was a valuable man, true, but just listening to his dark monotone and gloomy forecasts about the entire business crashing down about their ears made Megatron want to rub at his temples. Next, the President actually looked at the waiting calls, choosing between the names below each button. There was one man he could count on being totally impartial…
"Soundwave, updates?"
"Affirmative: problem. Prometheus Black escaped from prison last week."
"What? He was due for release in a month! Why couldn't he just sit still?" Megatron roared, rocketing from annoyed to aggravated in an instant, then gritting his teeth. A week ago? Why didn't anyone think to tell him?! He snorted. "Bring him in, then, if he's wandering the damn streets."
"Further complication: Black re-captured. Security doubled. Privileges revoked. Legal advisers considering relocation to mental institution."
No--his plan, decimated! He had made a special deal with the state penitentiary that Black would be released after his term was served and come immediately into his employment, and it had taken no small amount of talking. He needed the man's researching skill for the next wave of bio-weapons! Without him, the project crashed to a halt, and now he was being shipped to a mental institution?
"Set up a conference call with officer Fanzone. See if you can negotiate with the state prison. I need Black in one piece, not trussed up in a straight jacket, as charming as the man looks in white," Megatron snarled at length, reaching to switch lines, but Soundwave's powerful electronically-synthesized monotone stopped him again.
"Prediction: results negative. Black attempted lethal assault on Sumdac heir. Previous deal broken: penitentiary sentenced him to no less than ten years. Considering life."
Surely the urge to bang his head against the desk had a lot more to do with his stained suit than the fact that life was conspiring against him in every conceivable way. Surely.
"You have your orders, Soundwave. Execute them."
A pause, then—
"And get that goddamn voice synthesizer fixed so you sound like a human being!"
Click.
"OH GREAT AND MIGHTY MEGATRON, YOUR INGENIUS PATROL SCHEDULE IS WORTHY OF EVERLASTING PRAISE AND YOUR DEFENSES ARE RUNNING FLAWLESSLY WITH YOUR TWO LOYAL—"
Click.
Lugnut.
The ex-wrestler was so grateful to be picked up out of the entertainment business, even if it was for sake of being security (or 'dumb muscle', as Starscream preferred to sneer), that he had nothing but praises to sing about the silver-haired entrepreneur. Again and again. On Megatron's lunch break. On his cellphone. Leaving messages. Sometimes longer than five minutes, all filled with disturbingly passionate vocabulary that sounded all the more disturbing in that dumb roar of his.
Although Lugnut and his massive lady-love made an incredibly fearsome and mustached team, equally adept at flanking the front gates of D-Con industries and carrying shipments of illegal substances to waiting trucks, it was still… rather obnoxious. Rubbing at his eyes, Megatron accessed the next channel.
"Oh Mr. President, powerful and gracious, could I but beg for the tiniest morsel of your precious time to—"
Click.
Sunstorm. More of the same, save in a sniveling, greasy tone. The most obnoxious of the Seeker brood, in a way. Megatron truly had no need for sycophants and found their blabber irritating: it was only their unwavering loyalty he needed. Wretches like Lugnut and Sunstorm would be best mute. He clicked to another channel.
"Megatronnnnn! I've been waiting for ages for you to drop me a line, how's my favorite customer?" the man on the other line cooed, connection as velvety-clear as his voice.
"Make your point, Swindle, and make it quickly," the warlord intoned fearsomely. "I am in no mood for well-mannered prevarication or inane flatteries."
"Well, uh, if you put it that way—"
Swindle laughed, plastic and forced, apparently to buy time as he rustled around with something, possibly adjusting those horribly tacky purple glasses of his.
"If you want it straight, Mr. President, there's been a bit of a delay with the shipments. Not that it's a big one, mind you, but—"
"Explain."
"Our holder, uh, dropped out. Said it was too much to handle! Too big, too risky, yadda-yadda. But no worries, I've got a guy! He's the perfect hermit for the job, lives on the edges of Detroit and agreeable as a kid with candy given the right pay-off! He's carried for me before, we're practically set."
Swindle chuckled brightly, detailing the expected drop-off dates. Megatron stared stonily at the opposite wall, finger once more poised above the 'end call' button.
"Just take care of it. I need those weapons."
"Of course, Megatron, y'know you don't need to look any further than me! But if I could steal a moment of your time to possibly interest you in an addition to your—"
Click.
His eyebrow raised as he found he had another call from his communications officer, who never forgot to tell him anything.
Click-click.
"Soundwave?"
Only rustling answered him, then his communication officer's voice filtered in, flat and far-away. Megatron grit his teeth.
"Soundwa-a-ave."
There was a pause and then footsteps, then someone clattering with equipment.
"Apologies. Ravage stepped on intercom."
"What? I told you, there are to be no pets in this office," Megatron hissed out, having reminded his third of just such a thing yesterday, when he found Soundwave watching the scrawny black thing lap milk out of a bowl on his spotless desk. "Get rid of that cat before I throw it out for Shockwave's target practice. Now! And don't let those two goddamned nephews of yours into the office again, that's what the nursery services are for!"
Click.
Click-click.
"Yo, uh, Megs—we gotta bituva problem heah, 'bout the place you picked for the new outpost?"
"What is it, Scrapper?" he asked dully, the sound of clanking and construction work in the background, along with the bad connection, driving him to squint.
"It's uh, not dere anymore."
"Whaaaaat?"
He had paid over one million dollars for that plot. If he paid a million dollars for a plot of land, he expected it to be there when he sent people to work on it!
Megatron's sculpted hands were flat on the desk, mouth open in a flabbergasted and ultimately furious gape: it was a pity that the dense construction worker couldn't see his expression, or else he might have cleaned up his answer a little bit.
"Uh, it's, uh, not dere. It used ta be, but it ain't anymoe." There was some rustling and three sharp clunks. "Is dis thing on?"
"How can an entire plot of land simply… get up… and disappear?" Megatron growled through his teeth, feeling the color rise in his neck as Scrapper yelled at Mixmaster to check and see if the line was plugged in, then apparently rammed his mouth so close to the speaker it caused a squeak of feedback, making Megatron boil.
"Eyeyey, don't ask me. I don't make the land, I just build on it! And I'm tellin' you, Megs, this whole foundation-layin' thing ain't gonna go no further cos'a, uh, lack a infrastructure and a, uh… well, hell-- just a great big goddamn hole, if ya get what I—"
CLICK—snap.
Megatron removed his finger from the end-call button; it remained jammed into the machine. He'd broken it. His anger crested and deflated in one incendiary, exhausting second, all somehow encompassed and symbolized by that miserable broken button. Despondently, he shifted up three rows and poked in another button, shutting the entire thing off.
Before he could sit back in his chair and knead his face to death, there was a polite knock at the door.
"Parcel for you, sir."
Shockwave's deceptively urbane voice, almost weak, filtered in through the com-speaker. Megatron pushed the button to unlock the door and his most trusted subordinate walked in, prim pace matching his pallid complexion and the disturbingly long fingers which had locked around not a few throats in his time. Shockwave reached his desk and sat the basket down in front of the older man, who only reached for it because he had to.
It was a care package of sorts, with crackers and other nasty packaged things, clearly only meant to display the bottle with the golden liquor sitting in the middle of all that useless hay-stuff. Megatron plucked at the tag. It was blank.
"An apology for this morning, I believe."
"The seal is broken," Megatron grumbled needlessly, glaring at the slightly ripped wax around the neck of the bottle. It was just a little crack, one possibly endured in shipping, but coming from the man it did…?
"I noticed as well, sir," the other man noted, clearly bored. This was not at all the most clever thing Starscream had ever thought up, and he'd become so accustomed and desensitized to the second's attempts to attack their President that the sub-par nature of this particular jab almost depressed him.
Megatron eyed the bottle, heavy brows low. He hated it when Starscream was hasty. He hated it even more that he wasn't in the mood to be impressed by his scheming mind or enraged by his treachery, much less toss away what was once a perfectly good bottle of Crown Royal. It hit the bottom of the trashcan with a horribly heavy thunk, contents glugging out. Shockwave bowed as if to dismiss himself, but his superior only let him get halfway across the room before slumping over his desk.
"Shockwave…" Megatron rumbled miserably.
"Yes sir?"
"What have I done wrong?"
Shockwave paused tactfully, sole remaining eye blank as the rest of his plain face.
"That's a rather large question, my liege. Where and with what focus should I begin? Furthermore, to what definition of wrong are you referring—functionally incorrect, ill-executed or moral?"
Megatron sighed deeply, finally leaning back in his big leather chair with a forlorn creak. Then, as Shockwave watched in confusion, the President righted himself, pulled a glass out from his desk, fished the dripping bottle of Crown Royal out from the waste-bin and poured the rest of it into his glass, hardly acknowledging his bodyguard's budding protest as he threw it back in three scalding gulps.
His glass hit the desk empty, followed by his head, both with a hollow thunk.
"I'm surrounded by idiots."