CHAPTER SIXTEEN

XXX

With each visit, Megatron found himself more at ease with the organic.

Amicus was not like the others, he decided. He said things as they were, not beating around the proverbial bush and attempting to inject feelings into their conversation. It was also interesting to see him share information so freely, not questioning Megatron's desire for every drop of information he could tell him. Some of it was outdated, and with each day more of his knowledge was expiring. Megatron wished to capture as much as he could before the organic became little more than a waste of space, thus he visited frequently and with haste.

It was a pity, truly. Amicus was a breath of fresh air, possessing none of the stumbling foolishness which plagued the Decepticon subordinates. Megatron had found himself looking forward to his visits with the organic, needing the change of pace after his constant yelling and frustration with those who were incompetent. Not all Decepticons were morons, yet far too often Megatron felt as though he were trying to herd Cybercats on circuit boosters.

Through these conversations he received glimpses of the organic's past life, before he was enslaved to the corrupt Sentinel Zeta. From what he gleaned, the young man had once been royalty, sold to the Prime in exchange for precious metals not found on Earth - but plentiful and virtually useless to the Cybertronians. While one could initially assume the trade-off was not so bad, because after all Amicus went from one life of luxury to another, the raw truth made it very clear it was only the snake, Apophis, who won in the end.

Rarely did Amicus hesitate or downright refuse to offer information, but when he did the pattern was distinct: he refused to speak of what happened to him within the walls of this court. Megatron was not naïve; every trickle of dignity had been rung from Amicus' flesh, and he had no doubts the cruel Prime found new methods of humiliation. To his credit, Amicus hid it well behind a mask of poise, that of which only slipped on a few occasions.

Megatron gazed down at him, the woeful creature lightly twirling a glass of energon in his hand. He lounged on what he had once off-handedly referred to as a "chaise," a sight which was not unfamiliar to the warlord. If the human was not lounging he was striding gracefully around his platform, pacing as he spoke with the occasional wave of his hands.

They had just finished discussing the latest bits of information Amicus could give him, almost as thorough of an informant as Soundwave, which Megatron begrudgingly considered impressive. The organic was more intelligent than he originally gave him credit for - and he thirsted for knowledge perhaps just as much as the Decepticon. He always had an inquiry about the Cybertronian race, culture, idiosyncrasies.

Megatron had incorrectly assumed Sentinel Zeta had supplemented the organic on how the Cybertronians functioned, the purpose of their various mechanisms and how they operated. No. He had been kept in the dark, his questioning reprimanded with unforgiving punishments; he was to do nothing but bare himself for his master without hesitation. As far as the mech was concerned, the organic he tormented was a body designed for his own consumption; the mind within it was inconsequential.

"If you would indulge me, Set," Amicus' blue eyes drifted from his drink to the Decepticon, "you are capable of moving individual parts of your exterior without the use of your hands. I assumed such a thing was universal among your kind, however some appear to move various areas of their body which others cannot - or are not privy to moving. Why is that?"

This question, for example, demonstrated to Megatron just how ignorant he was. Amicus' ignorance, however, was not his fault, and the tyrant truly did not consider him any lesser for it. Burning anger sparked in his chest, his hatred towards the Prime only intensifying.

"You are referring to our ability to transform," he replied, not bothering to try and simplify his explanation; the human was smarter than that. "It is the most fundamental part of a Cybertronian - so fundamental that those placed in charge, the Council and their False Prime, based our entire society around it. What one could transform into dictated their status and class. The more useful and simultaneously eloquent the form, the higher they were placed. Though, it always helped to be raised into a higher caste."

Amicus tilted his head. "Transformation? Into what?"

"Whatever one was forged with," Megatron's digits subconsciously touched his flank, his familiarized servo able to feel exactly where the biomechanism inside hummed quietly. "This is achieved with the assistance of what we call a transformation cognition, T-cog for short. Seekers such as Starscream transform into flying alternate modes. Others become construction equipment, emergency . . . vehicles." The translation was not direct, however he assumed Amicus could see the big picture. "One can change their alternate form, however that is typically frowned upon, as it is usually considered an attempt to 'class jump.'"

"They transform into something other than what they were born with to achieve a higher societal status," Amicus clarified.

"Correct."

He finished his glass. "What do you transform into, lord Megatron?"

The human had not expected the ensuing pause, gaze returning to his master to see he was conflicted. At first, he assumed it was because, perhaps, he could not transform, however that was an odd handicap to have. Amicus also guessed that if such a handicap existed, the warlord would have refused to answer his questions in the first place, as such an important trait was bound to be sensitive.

"I elected to have a war build once I became fully immersed in the gladiatorial ring," Megatron finally spoke, carefully circumnavigating explanation. "My alternate mode is a militarized . . ." He struggled to find the word, unsure how to translate it. "Flying vehicle."

Of course, though he was given the option to ask the tyrant to elaborate on his alternate form, Amicus went for the throat.

"You could not transform before, could you?" The statement was in the form of a question, yet it was a statement all the same. "Prior to your choice of build."

Fanged denta bared down at him.

"That is nothing of your concern," Megatron snarled, a warning that he was treading into dangerous waters.

"Perhaps not," Amicus set his glass down, ever so calm. "However, I am familiar with those who cannot use their T-cog. Bastet is incapable."

The revelation was said so casually by the human, yet his Cybertronian audience was completely taken aback by the audacity of him sharing such confidant information. It was uncharacteristically gauche of Amicus, despite his graceful delivery.

Red optics stared, Megatron figuring out whether he should feel angry, upset, or shocked. Currently, it was a combination of all three, however he needed to latch onto one in order to focus on speaking a coherent response.

"That information is not yours to share," came the hiss.

Amicus' gaze did not waver, nor did he give any indication he was afraid. "Apophis informed me that you were, in his words, a 'low-class miner who believed he could change Cybertron.' The Cybertronians which resided here were also slave-class, my liege. Does it surprise you, then, that they were denied the same fundamental right as you?"

The observation struck a chord within Megatron, and he realized Amicus had put several puzzle pieces together to reach such a conclusion. He supposed he had never considered the Cybertronians of this room slaves, truthfully having not really considered them at all. Had he paid more attention, it should have come as no surprise that Bastet was incapable of transformation. Amicus had merely been stating what he believed to be the obvious.

His voice floated over once more, though a little softer. "I apologize, my Set. I have overstepped a boundary."

"You did, but you were correct," Megatron finally found his words again, his rage simmering down as he finally oriented himself into Amicus' perspective. "I should have assumed as much earlier. Are you aware if Bastet still possesses his T-cog?"

"I was under the impression that one needed it in order to transform," Amicus countered, his confusion clear.

Megatron suppressed the chills which swept across his frame, all too aware of the many ways one could prevent a Cybertronian from utilizing the organ. "Correct, however most . . . slave masters prefer to place suppressors on the T-cog, on the off-chance they desire the slave to transform or . . . require a fresh donation if theirs becomes damaged."

The venom with which he spoke the words was far more toxic than any scorpion's, his optics bright with fury. Yet Amicus was not intimidated by his rage, taking it in easy strides.

"I am unaware, then," he said, waving a hand dismissively. His fingers were noticeably devoid of any bejewelment. "Bastet was a member of this court longer than I. And I have my doubts he would know - he was brought here as a young mech, sold to Apophis just as I was . . . for a different price."

Megatron tried not to imagine just how young.

"Regardless," Amicus continued, "if you are capable of restoring his T-cog, giving him something so important that the very foundation of your government rests upon it . . . I would be forever grateful to you, lord Megatron. Bastet is my most cherished friend; if there is any way I am able to negotiate a price, I will most gladly do it."

The tyrant looked at him in surprise. Never had Amicus requested anything from him outside of the occasional luxury such as Engex or a specific scent of solvent; and never had he begged to this caliber - if what he was doing could be considered "begging."

"And what is it you are willing to negotiate?" He questioned, his optic ridges pressing closer together. "You have nothing to offer me."

"But I think I do," the young man tilted his head, locks of hair sliding over his shoulder, "my undying loyalty."

Megatron paused, not having expected the answer. Immediately suspicious, he further prodded the ever cryptic human.

"Such a thing is useless to me," he pointed out, "as you have agreed to share any and all information with me in exchange for your life - regardless of your loyalty, which you stated was to yourself."

"Perhaps," Amicus rose, the silken fabric of his clothes - the only comparison Megatron could draw was to a toga dress - whispering softly. "Yet my life holds little value to me; and once you have exhausted me of all information, it will be equally as expenseless. I am indebted to you, Set, because you freed me from Apophis, and I pay you handsomely with such information. My currency is limited, and I understand you are an expensive man. But, my loyalty is something that I may argue is far more valuable than what you give it credit for; it is the reason I continue to live each day, why I insist on survival despite my circumstances. It is a part of me I have selfishly kept, and I wish to give it to you."

He made a compelling case, the Decepticon had to admit. There was no consequence if he were to reject such an offer, except . . . Amicus admitted his own life was meaningless, speaking of it as if it was a rusted token. There was no fear of consequences - and if Megatron declined, Amicus could become difficult, bargaining that his resistance would buy Bastet his T-cog. Megatron could not truly punish him because he would not care. By accepting his loyalty, Megatron guaranteed his cooperation. He guaranteed that nothing would be held over his helm by the crafty organic.

Amicus allowed him to think it over in silence, twisting the bangle of gold around his wrist to occupy himself.

Another question still lingered in Megatron's mind.

"You would give your all to me, just to give transformation, function, back to a mech who watched Sentinel Zeta torment you for seven years," he meant seven of the human's years, naturally, which was a significant chunk of the creature's already meager lifespan.

Blue eyes, for once, did not meet his gaze. "Bastet had his own share of pain," Amicus glided across the topic, making it clear he was not about to peer into its depths, "and he has been through much. I believe it is only fair to further liberate him - and give him all that I can."

Megatron assessed him with a curious expression, attempting to puzzle out what he meant.

"You are preparing to die."

"My knowledge of your world is finite," Amicus said calmly. "And eventually the information I can provide you will either be outdated, or I will simply run out. After that . . . well, you made it explicitly clear that organics have no place here on Cybertron."

The words on his glossa died, leaving the dictator staring at the human. It occurred to him that yes, while he did occasionally recall that Amicus' usefulness was running out, he had never truly formed the thought of how he was going to kill him when the time came. For some reason, Megatron just assumed he would eventually expire, a body found by either himself, Bastet, or even Soundwave.

His spark subtly pulsed at the thought.

"To no longer care about one's life, to welcome death, goes against the very laws of nature," he stated instead. "What would you attempt to give me in exchange for your life?"

"It would be an unfair trade on my part," Amicus said, Megatron suddenly very aware of how close his toes came to touching the edge of the platform, realizing he had been quietly taking a step every so often towards him. "As I would be left with something I do not wish to have. There is nothing I would willingly offer for it."

The warlord tilted his helm, no words passing between them for a long, long time. Amicus had once again looked away from him, and he watched as a single blink brought forth droplets from his eyes, the tears rolling down his cheeks swiftly.

The feeling appeared to startle Amicus, as he immediately brought a hand to his face, curling his fingers around his lavender sleeve and quickly wiping at them, turning his back to the Decepticon.

"Forgive me, lord Megatron," he said, the throaty syllables of his language punctuated by breaks in his voice. "I . . . this is unbecoming of me in your presence."

This was the first time he had ever seen any organic cry, surprised Amicus was even capable. Even when they spoke of painful parts of his past, he still remained composed and rarely paused to maintain it.

Yet it was very telling - Amicus was being genuine in his feelings. He really, truly, found no value to life.

"Do not feel the need to apologize," Megatron said evenly, "you were merely speaking the truth."

The human took a deep breath and tilted his head back, his face upturned to the light and his eyes closed. There were still remnants of tear tracks on his cheeks, which glimmered when he moved his face a certain way. He took several more deep breaths in this position, regaining his calm façade within moments.

"I find it interesting that you, the leader of the Decepticons, hold as much value as you do in the truth," he said, opening his eyes.

"If speaking the truth is deception, then we are gladly guilty," Megatron answered him, deciding it was best for them to close the conversation for the day. It was clear Amicus needed some time to recuperate, and there were other matters which required Megatron's attention. "I will leave you for now. Expect my return tomorrow."

Amicus just nodded, taking another deep breath. "Very well. Until then, Set."

Megatron turned away, his heavy steps clinking against the floor and echoing in the silence - appearing to do so much louder than usual. As he stood and waited for the atmospheric chamber to equalize and return to Cybertron's particular gas balance, he reflected on what Amicus had shared.

He knew all too well how the human was feeling; and while he did not outright pity him, Megatron could sympathize with his situation. Though he would never admit it out loud, he and Amicus had far more in common than one would assume at first glance. Former slaves, liberated only to face more challenges ahead - in Amicus' case, living was just an inconvenient side effect of his freedom.

It was a lamentable situation, and the tyrant decided it would be a mercy to kill Amicus as swiftly as possible to end his miserable existence. It was the least he could do, even if he never found satisfaction from the action.

For once, he did not take sadistic pleasure in the thought of killing an organic being.

XXX

The next time Megatron met with Amicus, the human acted as if his brief breakdown had never happened. He did not attempt another apology, everything in the past now left there. Their discussion continued as normal, the dictator easily slipping back into their question-and-answer dynamic, gazing down at Amicus as he sat in a chair.

By the end of their interview he was quite satisfied, pleased to see the human still had plenty of knowledge to impart on him. Though Megatron could have Amicus spend hours sharing everything he knew with Soundwave, he much preferred to have this moment act as a break from the insanity which was the Cybertronian civil war. Within these walls there was nothing but himself, and the human's calming nature.

Once Amicus had finished informing Megatron of what he knew about the classified Autobot facilities on Tyger Pax, there was a long pause of silence, as if one or the other were unsure what to say next. Like most days they were aware this particular session had reached its natural conclusion, and finally Amicus read the room enough to venture his questioning.

"I am still puzzled over your capability to transform," he said, though it was partially reluctant, reminded of what happened the last time he had brought up such a topic. "Because despite the limitations placed on some T-cogs, such as with . . . slaves, I know of few who were still capable of moving certain parts of themselves, though one would think they were inhibited. Why is that so?"

Megatron paused, truly unsure himself. He swiftly sifted through what he knew of T-cogs - which was almost as thorough as that of a medics, given he was quite paranoid about what he considered his most precious organ - in order to formulate an acceptable answer. Amicus was ever patient.

"The nature of a T-cog suppressor is to restrict energon to the organ," Megatron explained, "to completely deprive it would guarantee its rust and destruction; and to a high-caste 'owner' who wished to preserve it on the off-chance they needed it . . . that would not do. Therefore, while one cannot draw in enough energy and resources to fully transform, they are capable of minor tweaks to their physique, be it moving a piece of armor or mass displacement."

The human blinked, one of the many ways Megatron learned projected his confusion. "Mass displacement?"

He paused. Of course he would not know what it is. "A part of our natural biology is to transform into . . . vehicles. However, we are restricted by our own mass - to an extent. With displacement, we are capable of reducing our size and have a wider selection we may choose from."

Amicus furrowed his brow, attempting to visualize such a phenomenon. "Then . . . where does it go? How is it possible for you to simply remove a part of yourself?"

"There are a few theories," Megatron waved a servo, "many believe it goes to our subspace. Others think there is another dimensional storage unit entirely specifically created to accommodate our missing mass."

"Subspace?"

"It is a . . . dimensional pocket, on a unique frequency for every Cybertronian. We are capable of storing various items in it, though it takes energy."

The glow of Amicus' face dimmed just a touch. "Ah. I have seen a subspace utilized."

Megatron realized what he meant, and elected to not ask nor attempt to imagine the details. Instead, he grunted in acknowledgement, continuing his original explanation. "The subspace theory is more widely accepted, however there is the question as to why some Cybertronians are capable of displacing more mass than others. It appears as if there is both a physical limit and an energy limit."

"Curious," Amicus tilted his head. "What is the smallest any one of you has achieved?"

Another pause.

"I have managed to significantly reduce my mass," Megatron confessed. "As of right now, I have only been resolute enough to displace 50%. Naturally, the more I attempt, the more energy it takes. I suspect that may be my only limit, as I have never hit what many describe as a physical 'wall'."

The human was surprised, the expression evident on his face. He took a moment to process the information, a finger tapping against his cheek the only indication his mind was at work.

"I wonder just how far you could go," Amicus' blue eyes flashed in challenge, standing, "and I believe it would serve as an excellent demonstration to me of this concept. Would you be so bold, my liege, as to humor me?"

The resulting stare was hardly a surprise, as never did one have the audacity to request something as frivolous as extreme mass displacement to the lord of Decepticons. Though at the same time it should have come as no surprise to Megatron that only Amicus would brave such a question; even the most forward of Cybertronians could not compete with him. The worst which could happen was the warlord said no, something Amicus did not fear.

He had good reason to refuse; such an endeavor would easily burn through his energon supplies, and place him in a vulnerable position. If any of his mecha - save for Soundwave - discovered their master in a compromising state . . . he could not afford to display any weakness.

"What do I have to gain for providing you entertainment?" He questioned, added sharpness in his words revealing his slight offense to such a request.

"Nothing," Amicus admitted, once again making his way to the edge of the platform. "This is purely for my own curiosity. Should you refuse, I will respect your decision, my Set."

Having usually experienced groveling, or force, at this stage in similar negotiations, Megatron was slightly taken aback by the response. Though he had not expected Amicus to get on his knees and beg for mercy, he had anticipated the organic either to press him on the matter or take a couple steps back. Instead, he had left the choice fully up to the metallic titan, prepared to absorb any answer which came his way.

His optics narrowed. Soundwave. Is this room secure?

There was a brief pause, then information pinged to his CPU - there were no cameras, and Soundwave was the only one present outside whilst his master performed the interview.

No one is to enter these doors - no one. Inform me if there is an emergency.

A positive acknowledgement told him Soundwave understood perfectly.

He refocused his attention on Amicus. "I will demonstrate this mass displacement to you, if only to satiate your inquisitiveness. You are to speak of this to no one."

"I assure you, lord Megatron, I say nothing of these meetings even to Bastet," Amicus stepped away from the edge. "You mention this process burns a plethora of energy. If that is the case, I will prepare some energon for you."

With a swift, graceful turn of his heel the organic turned his back to the tyrant, making his way to what appeared to be a fanciful dispenser against the back wall. His steps were light and silent against the carpet, the silk fabric fluttering around his bare feet and fingers as he appeared to glide towards the contraption. Megatron had seen him use it a few times before, a trickle of energon coming from a spout and into the cup in Amicus' hand. He never wasted a single drop, fingers curled around the glass in an elegant fashion.

The warlord realized he had been distracted by watching the organic move, rarely having seen him do so much motion in one go - it was oddly hypnotizing how everything seemed to work in synchronized rhythm.

Amicus set the glass down on the table upon his return, offering Megatron a warm smile accompanied by the flutter of his lashes, his arm extending outward towards him.

"Will you join me?" He asked, the question innocent. Fingers flexed outward from his delicate hand, the motion moving the bangle at his wrist and causing it to twinkle.

The question jolted Megatron from his assessment of the organic, composing himself before focusing on his T-cog.

Mass displacement was little more than a reflex for them, however it was one he needed to be careful with. He felt the draining effects every time he used it, though it was admittedly very rare; he much preferred to remain as large as he could physically manage. Despite its connotations, his work frame - and the war frame built upon it - had given him the advantage of size and strength.

He started slowly, carefully monitoring his energon levels as he continued to diminish his size, gauging just how tall Amicus was and electing to remain at least a few units larger than him.

The world around him swiftly became quite large, placing into perspective for perhaps the first time just how little Amicus was. It also highlighted his weakness, his fragile human body subject to the whims of his Cybertronian captors; if even Bastet attempted to pick him up, or carelessly flicked his digit, the human would break every piece of endoskeleton he possessed.

When Megatron stopped the procedure he was far below the platform, though he did not see Amicus peering over the edge. Finding no other way up he transformed, feeling extraordinarily odd being able to access his alternate form at such a paltry size. Everything appeared to be in working order, even if transforming and landing on the platform made him very, very dizzy. Now simple things he used to do with grace and stealth felt jarring, realizing he might have moved too fast and before he could allow his systems to recalibrate.

"My liege," he blinked, regaining control of his senses to see Amicus was standing before him, offering the glass of energon. The liquid reflected in his blue eyes, his gaze far from judgemental or mocking. It was as neutral as always, if not with a hint of intrigue.

He took it, not hesitating to drink as Amicus made inventory of his frame. There was something akin to wistful wonderment in his inspection, his head tilting in several directions as he looked. The tyrant would have thought it objectifying had Amicus not displayed genuine, innocent curiosity.

"I always considered your frame to be remarkable, however up close . . . it is breathtaking."

Had he the reflex Megatron would have choked on the last drops of energon which slid from his glossa and into his intake, the warlord focusing his intense vermillion stare on the organic with a hiss.

"And what is the meaning of that?"

Gaze remaining ever calm, Amicus met his optics. "Exactly as I said, my Set." He reached out, fingertips wisely halting well before they could caress arm plating. There were several beats where he did not speak, eyes drifting down to look at outstretched fingers, his voice softer once he began again. "I have seen many different types of frames, some more unique than others . . . but none have impressed me in the same manner as yours."

Megatron watched him, probing for anything, anything at all which would betray Amicus' true meaning. And yet, just as he always had, the human spoke with honesty. He did not dare attempt to manipulate through lies, laying bare the truth and allowing the tyrant to decide for himself what his intentions were.

His eyes swept over his silver frame, gaze resting comfortably at the mech's Decepticon insignia on his chest. His fingers quivered, hovering above armor as if in conflict with his inner thoughts. "May I touch?"

The inquiry for consent caught Megatron further off guard, having expected him to just reach out, making him tolerate the odd sensation for an agonizingly long time before fulfilling his curiosity. The halting of the fingers had not gone unnoticed, yet he had merely assumed the human had no idea where to start in his touching. Instead, he realized, it was because Amicus had been reminded of what it felt like to be cosseted without permission.

Red optics settled on blue eyes, then he nodded.

"Yes, you may," he acquiesced.

Warm flesh touched the cool metal of his upper arm gently, more of a whisper than an actual caress. Instead of the gelatinous feel Megatron had been expecting, the soft touch was firm and smooth, with enough give to remind the warlord that it was not another Cybertronian which touched him.

Amicus took his time, running his hand down Megatron's arm, even touching the dangerous cannon which rested on it, taking in the grooves and crests of his armor. His eyes followed each stroke, moving down to his wrist, then to his digits. Delicate skin teased the sharp edges, and though a single misplaced graze could cut him open, he did not seem concerned.

Amicus picked up the servo, moving each clawed digit and staring with fascination, dipping into seams and even running a finger along the creases of his palm.

An involuntary shiver ran across Megatron's frame - it was not something born of pride, however, it was different, foreign. The sensation was pleasant, that he could say for certain.

The organic did not seem to notice, bringing the servo up to his cheek, pressing the hard metal against soft skin.

Reflexively Megatron cupped the cheek, watching with fascination as Amicus's eyes slid closed, relishing in the gentleness of the action. He realized Amicus might not have just wanted him to be this size merely for curiosity's sake, but for some semblance of reassurance from a being he could pretend was human. Was like him.

They were no different, Megatron mused, brought back to when he decided Amicus was not like his fellow organics. He was no Cybertronian, but . . .

His thumb ran across his cheek, extra careful to not cut the delicate membrane. Lips parted in response, leaning into the touch as his eyes opened once more.

Amicus' own hand reached up, touching smooth metal along Megatron's face. They traced around his optics, careful to not directly contact the delicate machinery, working down the side and touching his derma, then his chin, before it fell to his chest.

"Do you wish to see more of me?" The question was soft,the fingers of his free hand touching the edge of his short, purple dress, at his shoulder, inviting the Decepticon. It was only fair, as Amicus had taken the liberty to take careful inventory of Megatron's build, and his own was obscured by his clothes.

The Decepticon did not see the point, wondering if there would be any reason to. He had not been curious before, and not long ago he despised the idea of seeing more of Amicus' skin. Now, he did not give it a second thought, and truthfully he had not considered such a thing as a payback for what Amicus requested. It was not in his realm of interest.

"No," he said, though his voice was equally soft. "Finish your exploration. I do not have much time to linger."

Something flickered in Amicus' eyes, however it quickly disappeared before the tyrant could make head or tail of it. Carefully dropping the dangerous servo back to its owner's side, his hands returned to Megatron's frame.

He reached up to flick his fingers across strong shoulder pauldrons, tracing the curved points there with fascination. Slowly his hands wandered down, every touch light and respectful.

Megatron watched in silence, feeling crackles of energy zip across his nerves every time Amicus dared to slip into a transformation seam, the wires there particularly sensitive. A natural reaction to a natural phenomenon, as each seam sacrificed protection for flexibility.

And yet fire, not nearly as intense but still present, smoldered through him with every new touch. Instead of finding absolute disgust with the contact, or even indifference, he found the sensation oddly satisfying. He equated it to the first time he had ever felt Cybertronian fabric - the metal had been spun and woven so thinly it was deceptively soft to the touch, gentle across his frame in a way nothing else was.

Nothing except for Amicus.

He left no part of him, save for a few areas, untouched. Wisely, Amicus did not caress his neck, nor dip low around his crotch piece - or, for that matter, beneath it. He did kneel down to observe Megatron's legs, which was oddly strange and sent more chills down the mech's back struts. Yet he controlled himself, keeping his ventilations even and stilling his armor. The strange affect was one he did not linger on.

Finally, Amicus pulled away.

"Thank you, Set, for allowing me to look," he offered a smile. "Should you be curious . . ."

"I will not ask that of you," he replied evenly, making his stance clear. There was momentary hesitation, then he felt the need to reiterate. "You are to speak of this to no one."

"Of course," he bowed. "Thank you for obliging me," he said, very much genuine. "I am sorry if I have taken your time or energy unnecessarily."

"There is no need to apologize, Amicus," the words came out before he could fully process them, and while they were true he wondered when he had decided to become so forgiving to the organic. "If you are finished, I will take my leave."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"No," the answer surprised the human, and his inquisitive gaze prompted Megatron to provide further explanation, "I will be on the front lines at Tyger Pax, utilizing the information you have given me to secure it once and for all for the Decepticon cause. I expect it will take many days."

"I see." A pause, then Amicus did something most odd. He took the tyrant's hand, bowing at the waist smoothly and lightly planting a kiss to his knuckles. "Then I wish you the greatest success in battle, my Set."

The Decepticon was unsure how to feel about the gesture, however an overwhelming sweep of shock nearly drowned out the rest of his emotions. Though Amicus had bowed to him before, it felt more like a formality and empty display of respect. Normally, not only would he be repulsed by the idea of an organic setting their lips on him, he thought of the action as a pathetic display of groveling and weakness. Yet here . . .

It was Amicus, being Amicus, and that was the only way he could describe it. The complex human never ceased to amaze him.

"I will further question you upon my return," was all he could manage to say, grateful when the human dropped his servo, having spent what felt like ages hanging on to it. Amicus merely nodded, stepping back and allowing him room to transform.

Megatron once again felt some dizziness when he returned to his full height, however it was much easier to recover. His stabilizers hissed softly in protest when he moved a little too quickly, for some reason not able to get out of the room fast enough.

He knew why - the interaction with Amicus had left him reeling, both physically and mentally. Even if his exterior appeared calm and collected, he was thoroughly confused about the swirl within him.

Even as he stood in the atmospheric chamber of the room, preparing to return to the Cybertronian environment, he could not shake the feelings of his hands.

Soundwave stood outside of the doors just as his master expected, the third in command tilting his helm up to gaze at Megatron in silent inquiry.

"We leave for Tyger Pax within the klik," he instructed his lieutenant, switching over to the Decepticon dialect with ease. "Prepare our troops for deployment." There was another pause, cerise optics lingering down the hall as he thought.

Without question the silent mech did just as instructed, a brisk nod informing Megatron the tasks were en route to completion. Satisfied, the warlord began his trek to the staircase, intending to head to the roof where he would take off. His systems would need a bit more refueling to make up for the energon lost during his dramatic mass displacement, however he could do such a thing once he reached the nearest front-line encampment.

And perhaps, simultaneously, the biting wind of the flight would cool the flames which danced across his armor.

XXX

"He was honest with you," Jack whispered against the very same armor, laying in bed as Megatron murmured the story to him, the young man's head tucked beneath his helm. "Ironic."

"Deception may be my nature, but I understand the value of the truth as well," Megatron pointed out. His sharp claws lightly caressed around Jack's back, the soothing motion in tandem with his slow, deep ventilation cycles. "Yet Amicus was a curious case. Only once did he ever lie to me."

"About what?"

"Another time," Jack felt when the tyrant moved his head. "It is nearly the first hour of your day; and I suspect you yearn to sleep."

Scrap. Another long night. "Another time, then," he acquiesced, settling fully under the covers. He readjusted so his shoulder - curse him - did not ache as much, curling against the Cybertronian frame.

Digits once again stroked the back of his head, running through his hair and ensuring he was as close as possible to Megatron.

Fire raced across my veins with every touch.

Just as it does with mine.

He closed his eyes, not daring to even feel that kind of defeat. Just because it was a similarity did not mean he was going down the same path as Megatron. He could not afford to. Forcing himself to take calm, relaxed breaths, Jack waited for sleep to take him.

It did, finally, sweeping him up and carrying him away, dreaming of vivid blue energon and flames across its surface.