History of the Bayverse-Thrall I.

First of two parts delving into a day in Megatron's life before the war.

Thrall I.

A grim, dull, waning blue sky envelopes the arid, barren land of Azotus. It is a colour akin to that of an ageing kingfisher, a bird once adept in all the ways of acquiring its prey, now on its very steps of imminent mortality as it loses the vibrance of its decaying plumage. This is a creation of the Firmament Engine, a mechanism developed by the original 13 primes of Cybertron to grant an atmosphere unto the young planet and protect its ensuing inhabitants from the blinding radiance of unforgiving stars and painful rays of ultraviolet that emanate from the binary star system. There is no semblance of a consciousness to be found within the engine, but today it echoes as though it yearns to convey the despair of Azotus that has consumed it for now 98 million years, the reign of the current Prime of Our Planet, Sentinel Prime.
A damning haze of scorching gases consumes the swathes of dunes and eroding cenobium rocks, which give the state of Azotus an appearance resembling the deserts of the far away planet earth that consumed it during its days in the Permian, now 248 million years before this day. Amongst the Lyceum of Iacon, it is known that Azotus has not always harboured this repugnant form. But it is known that its decline from a lush land capable of harbouring thousands of civilians started 30 million years from The Day of Their Departure, when the primes had chosen to ascend into the arms of the progenitor unknown to shield the matrix from The Wretch, The Anathema, The Adversary, The Fallen- when a great malediction had consumed his essence as to jeopardise all creation as Cybertron had known it. The consensus remains such, that a change in Cybertron's orbit resulted in a greater concentration of the Tartaros winds around Azotus and eroding the cenobium rock as to turn it into a bleak, greying dust. But there has been no challenge unto this, for no evidence of material quality has come forth to prove otherwise and rebuke the Lyceum.
A single monolithic structure and its surrounding complex are found at the core of this derelict and desolate landscape, and while the conscious beings of Cybertron have forsaken Azotus, on occasion does it hold the planet's most vile, brutish, and deplorable custom: the gladiator arena.
Seated are 100,000 in tally, a stadium drunk to the lees. A podium just out from one point to accommodate the host of the show, unveiled not yet. It is a superficially serene occasion, for naught a bicker is uttered, akin to the etiquettes of an opera. Gone are the days of hollering, for now buttons of approval and disapproval are present on either side of a seat, on the right and left respectively. But the urge to see the most horrific acts of violence, the shedding of the Cybertronian lifeblood for futile cause, the perfect body of a Cybertronian ripped and torn beyond repair, is an oafish calling that echoes like a horde of barbarians within their consciousnesses. Ponder yet not for the bets that go amongst this crowd. Seldom is the game held, for the award is such so immense for the winner, and seldom yet is it full house. Someone was to fight upon this morally egregious day, as to materialise this congregation of righteous savages.
Senator Cicero emerged onto the podium, activating his amplifier as to speak unto a crowd 100,000 strong in his most feeble tone. He announced the first gladiator, and thus a most ordained gate opened with a pleasant sound of polished metal to welcome him. The crowd clapped at a somewhat passionate intensity, just as much to keep him motivated but just low enough to assure him that maybe, just maybe, victory may not be his.
The second gate opened. Dimmer yet did it appear because of the grim shadow projected onto it by the height of the arena walls. They opened at a much slower pace, with the squeaks and screeches of unattended axles pervading through the monolith as they revealed four silhouettes. Though the ordinary may be deemed non-existent were their silhouette to appear in such a darkness, but these were beyond unmistakable: The Tetrad of The Prime of Our Planet. The four oldest, most exalted of the regiment of the Guardian Knights. They are to forever stand guard for the hall of Sentinel Prime, but when unleashing Heracles the Kaonite onto the pit, it was considered a necessary procedure to have him chained by these four and these four only. At 30 feet in height, they were just short enough to pass through the gate without ducking. But the light yet revealed someone amidst them, in a hunched posture, even loftier as to not fit its head under the top of the gate despite his crooked posture. It was seen even clearer, four chains connected from their arms and onto the figure's arms and legs, and two chains then bound his arms and legs in shackles that allowed the most minimal movement. They stepped into the fighting ground, the figure now revealed after ducking his head seemingly deeper into shame, too gargantuan as to not even come forth without seeming out of place. The sable unblazed verdant was now more apparent unto the crowd, and they clapped in further appraisal of those who ensure the security of their blessed leader. But the intensity lay not in their presence, but the shackled one. This is the filler of the house. The means of the occasion. Heracles.
A shadow consumed the top half of his countenance as he stood still shackled in pained ignominy. 35 feet tall, the average civilian amongst the Nations of Iacon is but dwarfed by his loftiness. But in exaltation they stood ever higher, literally so as they sat in their elevated chairs while his feet were pressed against the blazing dirt. Herald of The Host of Kaon, but even a janitor may find himself leader amongst his village. In his form he stood distinct from all who surrounded him, serrated with spikes and chasms across his body that ensured the swiftest strikes and damning manoeuvres but yielded terror even to the bravest. Jaws of sharpest teeth he had possessed, but in his standing his lips stay firmly shut as though the very idea of showcasing his true biology would make him rife with loathing. Is this really the filler of the house? Even yet with his crown-like crest and most impressive shoulders, he could not dare look up to the podium. Who stands with such shame around an audience that yearns for him? At the ends of the chains bounded to the arms of the Tetrad, a hexagonal module with a logo of Sentinel Prime's face was seen, with a bright purple light indicator slightly visible for those closer to the fighting ground. This was an electrocutor set to the highest value, which would kill an average Cybertronian in a calculated 20 picoseconds if triggered.
Heracles turned his head to his left, still in a lowered posture. With his keen eyesight, he could pinpoint remarkable members amongst the horde. There he witnessed Bacchus, representative of the colonial planet Velocitron, known by a simpler yet nickname of "Jazz".
Oh, how he despised Jazz.
Velocitron was one of the first planets taken under the Empire of Cybertron regime taken on by Zeta Prime 20 million years after the ascendance into the arms of the progenitor. Jazz was the newest representative of the planet under the rule of He, Sentinel Prime, all too popular amongst the masses of the Nations of Iacon. Heracles deemed it all too absurd that while his peoples were left to grovel in the scorching dirt of Kaon, working until their spark gave out, this foreigner from another planet was given all the luxuries that he could be endowed with. "I was born through Cybertron, I will die through Cybertron. Yay to the blessing of the matrix upon the sacred artefact of Velocitron, but this is the world where the primes were born and where the All-spark resides. What doth Bacchus offer to our kind in all his blessing? Even my youngest protoform is worth a hecatomb of Bacchus and his throttlebots. It is a truth that I do not know the will of the primes, but surely the great Sentinel Prime must realise that he cannot be without lapse in judgement", he had once conveyed in private to Cratus, known by many in the war to come as "Blackout" for his impedance of the Quintesson communication framework during the Campaign of The Pestilence held against the trillions of their species now rendered extinct through the exploits of Heracles as the Herald of the Host of Kaon, implacable and unyielding.
Many of the ventures of Jazz made Heracles only fraught with bitterness. His ostentatiousness was, for him, a blight upon the Nations of Kaon, and they did abandon of learning and of imagination as he became a revered one amongst them. Every time a new display of his new alt modes, accessories, and pleasure tubes was made known throughout the Nations of Iacon, its light would cause a deep disturbance onto the Kaonites. It was by order of Heracles that all hatchlings and infant protoforms be shielded from this in their quarters, and be taught of the ills of hedonism and internal rapaciousness that formed the core of the adoration of his vile advertisements. Though they may not value learning anymore, the peoples of Kaon must still be of sound reasoning and lead the future generations into evermore enlightenment. Heracles would joke that perhaps Jazz had no spark, that he was an automaton piloted by a virulence attempting to plunge Cybertron into a chasm of ignorance, and that only a firm dissection in two by his massive, clawed hands would be the most just means of proving so.
But now was not the time. Far from it as Velocitron is from Cybertron. Upon this day, someone shall perish by his hand, but it was not Jazz. Certainly not. Even though it would be a spectacle to transform into his jet mode, launch into Jazz, and pick him apart on some peak in Azotus. But spectacle is exactly what Jazz would love. Oh well.
To his right he had then turned to examine the crowd. Some tall, slight figures clad in a rich magenta-coloured armour plating sat together distinct from the rest of the crowed. The face of Sentinel Prime was yet again visible as a mark on their left shoulder. Praetorians. The honoured guards of the senate of Cybertron and its colonial planets. Seldom do they leave the walls of the Iaconian Fortress, but today they have left. Perhaps the dreaded one has accompanied them today, their leader, but she is evidently not present for he would recognise her first were she seated there as well.
But one of the audience was perhaps not so malignant. A massive hum tremored underneath Heracles' feet, and though none of the guests could hear it, the extremely low frequency registered in Heracles' acoustic sensors. Now, he raised his head just high enough as to point his eyes upward.
An unusual guest was with them today. The arena itself may have been 100,000 strong, but another guest worth 50,000 stood outside. This was the leader of House Onyx, also known as the Gigantes, known by the moniker of Poryphyrion. He had a most otherworldly appearance to him, with colossal shoulders and a bizarre countenance composed of six eyes, with a pair of three on each half of his face. They were a vibrant, beautiful blue, harbouring a kind of innocence completely unseen in the other blue-eyed members of the Nations of Iacon. No visible mouth was apparent, but he could speak in a tremoring voice that could boom across cities through his voice box. Due to his immense height, far towering over even the monolithic stadium, he was stood far away from it and bent down at an angle that allowed him to see the fight clearly without any intrusion. Heracles stared at him with his bright orange eyes, like the stars which Cybertron revolves around, and Poryphyrion noticed. It was not of fear, of execration, but of pleasance. He was rewarded with viewing this show for his leadership of House Onyx, and a light was shining from his left shoulder to record a hologram of the occasion to convey unto the rest of the Gigantes. It was more so like a surprise birthday visit rather than an "honour" for Poryphyrion, for all he knew was being in a joyous mood and making sure his friends were happy. He slightly waved his left arm, with the massive bulk of a Hyperion plasma charger, as a gesture of greeting, and tilted his head to convey further noticing. Heracles softened his eyes and slightly smirked, the giant's gesture made him forget his task for a moment and made him appreciate the planet he toils away for. Alas, this lapse in memory was only short-lived. The bitterness consumed his face yet again, and he brought his head low as to see the opponent in front of him.
22 feet tall, with plates of a rich, shiny, and somewhat uncanny blue colour, with yet golden plating around his knees and shoulder blades. He was armed with a Helios sword in the right arm, and a massive shield in his left. A novice fighter, confident but mislead, possibly trained only in the art of the pit. Two bolts upon his helm signified two victories, a mark of accomplishment that Heracles rejected wholeheartedly. It seems as though he harbours some substance for the haughtiness with which he elates himself for the crowd. Heracles examined the shield even further to find the outline of an emblem. Yes, his lanistae was none other than Senator Cicero himself. Yes, he too has given into the bookkeeping that runs perniciously amongst the audiences. But it would depend on whether he wagered against his acolyte or for. It would not be the most pleasant image were he to have yearned for currency at the advent of his own acolyte perishing upon the Pit of Azotus.
"It is something I am pondering upon this moment, what was the name uttered for this fellow?"
Icarus the Trailbreaker. He recalled it with a total accuracy. Excellent. But it did not occur immediately unto him at the moment It was announced. An opponent even unworthy of even the lightest inkling of attention.
Heracles was released from his chains by the Tetrad, the cuffs between his wrists and ankles opened as to grant him full freedom of movement. He thus pulled out his double-ended Argos spear.
"In the name of Sentinel Prime and all His glory, may the battle begin!" spoke Senator Cicero. It was time.
Trailbreaker raised his shield in a defensive stance and began encircling the battlefield. It was standard for the opponent to follow suite. But how much time would it take? Just roaming around aimlessly, letting the opponent charge, have a tender clash, leave, a battle of attrition worthy for the likes of Leonidas, known by a more ubiquitous moniker of "Brawl". But Heracles wasn't about attrition; even if someone the likes of Brawl were to engage, they would not waste their precious time on a squabble with the likes of Trailbreaker. This ends very soon, oh dear.
Heracles transformed his right arm into the infamous flail, and charged straight onto Trailbreaker in a lowered posture now akin to that of an apex predator, going against Trailbreaker's training for such an occasion. "All the simulations under Senator Cicero had the opponent encircling defensively for the first portion, what now will I do?".
He was at least prepared for a charge. Usually. He could deflect hits with his shield. Usually. Heracles swung the flail straight into Trailbreaker's shield, and though Trailbreaker attempted to deflect the attack, he was rendered flustered as the top half of his shield now lay shattered, though his corporeal form still untouched. Ensuing immediately after, Heracles dealt a backhand blow against the bottom half the shield, now squashed beyond hope of utility. Expecting a kick from the immaculately bulked legs of Heracles, he skittered away and got back on his feet now in a more aggressive stance with both hands on his sword. Heracles retracted his flail. Perhaps he was trained for this occasion too, Heracles thought unto himself.
Trained he was indeed. Pathetically so.
With a deceptive charge, he attempted a swing on Heracles. That charge, that angle, that grasp on the grip, this was all 500,000 years ago. That was the first and so far only gladiatorial fight where Heracles was struck, a seven-swing sword attack pattern that was able to deceive Heracles and result in contact of the blade against the region right underneath the left portion of his chest. This was an accomplishment of none other than the great Warpath, perhaps the only Iaconian to command a profound respect from Heracles. Though it ached his spark deeply, he laid low Warpath that day anyway, though in awe at this deception. This brat right here abused Warpath's cultivated skill and ardour for some simulation against Heracles upon this day, using his memory as merely a ploy to achieve some kind of mundane victory. A desecration of a dead fighter's memory.
Heracles blocked the first six hits effortlessly with his spear, and upon the attempt of the seventh and final blow, he let go of the defence of the spear and furiously shunned away the Helios sword.
Trailbreaker was now left staggered, though still on his feet, his head pointed against the sands momentarily before he shifted his optics up to see Heracles in the face. Heracles was yet still lowered to have an equal centre of gravity as Trailbreaker, and thus his mouth was right against Trailbreaker's face. Something sparked in him, to do something different today. Perhaps he shall use this occasion to actually entertain today, the sole purpose of this pit.
Trailbreaker shrieked in unfathomably lame fear as Heracles opened his mouth wide to reveal a set of terrible teeth. Heracles launched his jaws against Trailbreaker's right cheek, and clenched them for a fraction of a second before tearing off a chunk of Trailbreaker's cheek and his entire face plate. He got up and spat it aside immediately for the ointments were all too filthy against his ravenous mouth. He stood up straight at last to showcase the full majesty of his size, though staring down slightly upon a now defiled Trailbreaker.
For ten whole seconds, Trailbreaker was kneeling down weeping in immense agony and shame, with screams so shrill as to pain even those seated at the highest seats. He was shaking terribly, holding onto his now ruined face, and though he would attempt to fake a commanding voice the full extent of his pitiful youthfulness was on full display in auditory form. It felt akin to an eon however, to see this expeditious conflict end in this slow, disgraceful torment of another. After 10 seconds, Trailbreaker attempted to put his hands away from his face and look at Heracles; but the moment they locked eyes, Heracles transformed his right arm into his flail once more, and with a backhand swing, the crying ceased immediately as the brutalised and maimed head of Trailbreaker was sent flying away, with one of his optics crushed and the other pulled out of its socket to expose the wiring. 2 seconds later, the blue light from the optic went dark, and the darkness of the night enveloped his spark. It was over.
Heracles heard an uproar of buzzes this time. As expected, more buzzes of approval were there than typical, for the destruction of Trailbreaker that Heracles did was much more than they could have hoped for. Poryphyrion let out a hum audible for the entire arena, but still akin to a whisper as to not damage the acoustic sensors of everybody in Azotus. He seemed to be pleased with the outcome. However, Heracles was soon overtaken with guilt, for as much as he may have disliked this Helian, it was unjust to leave a fellow Cybertronian in such guilt and suffering in front of such a massive crowd. Alas, there was no changing of what was done. Heracles looked onward onto the visage of Senator Cicero. A look of despair. Heracles was wrong, Senator Cicero hoped for Trailbreaker to win, actually, a most illogical belief. Did he truly believe that Heracles would've forgotten Warpath's pattern that resulted in Heracles being struck, and that it would be sufficient to eventually slay Heracles? What would happen once the Herald of the Host of Kaon were to perish? Surely the unrest amongst the planet would render it unwise to hope for Heracles to be struck down. But it didn't matter much to Heracles, so long as he received his reward and could grant ample energon to the peoples of Kaon once again.
Heracles retracted his flail and placed the Argos spear back on his back. The Tetrad emerged again to bind him in his chains again, and he was ready to receive the gladiatorial award of 3000 energon nourishment units.
"You are to meet with the Great One first", conveyed Beowulf, first of the Tetrad, to Heracles in a harsh, somewhat muffled tone.
"Of what does He wish to speak of unto me?"
"That is not yours to inquire."
"Harked."
After all the audience members had departed, and Poryphyrion was carried away by a Cyber Auxilia ship the way a mother carries her child after a great spectacle is over, Heracles was brought into a remote meeting with Sentinel Prime in a holographic medium. Suddenly, the Tetrad and Heracles were in the palace of Sentinel Prime. But it was no illusion to these five now accustomed to it. Sentinel Prime was facing away from Heracles, with both his arms grasping each other behind his back.
"D-16, there is something I need to inform you."
"What is it, my lord?"
"Your reward for this victory shall be halved down to 150 energon nourishment units."
Heracles was left utterly frozen at this malediction. After all the ceaseless work of the peoples of Kaon to support this entire planet and its colonies, this is how Kaon is rewarded?
"But my lord, that is beyond unacceptable-"
"You are not to decree that. More portions of energon lakes are drying up, the flowing energon is only more and more constricted. Greater demands afflict the other planets. We cannot spare the standard amount for you today."
"But my lord, we manufactured 300,000 nourishment units' worth of energon last stellar cycle. Why now can I not get a hundredth of it through my own victory? Kaon is one of Cybertron, we too are your people, just please understand these dire woes that afflict us!"
Heracles attempted to walk over to the hologram of Sentinel Prime with his last words in pitiful desperation, only to receive a shock from Arthur the third of the Tetrad for seemingly attempting to harm a hologram of Sentinel Prime. Heracles let out a distressed wail before falling to his knees.
"I'm afraid this is the only decision that we could make. We appreciate you and your peoples' hard work, Heracles, but we cannot spare 3000 nourishment units for your nation. It pains me to make this decision, definitely so, but there is no other way. This conversation is over."
Heracles looked down blankly at the ground. How would the peoples of Kaon accept this? The only reason he engages in these horrid fights is to get more energon for his people, so that they may not starve and get to rest, learn, and grow with their brethren. But the decision of Sentinel Prime was ultimate, there was no challenging it now.
The Knights dragged him up and set him free. For now that the gladiatorial ceremonies were all over and only a few non-civilians were in Azotus now, he was no longer shackled. An archaic ship with rich symbols and bas-reliefs engraved descended down to take them as passenger, and they were headed back to the palace of Sentinel Prime.
Heracles took a seat on one of the larger chairs available in the Azotus complex. They were designed with a classical grandeur, created when some of the greatest heroes of Cybertron had been the sole inhabitants of Azotus and required mighty seating areas for them to bond with each other after duels. An age of better times was gone now, for Kaon had to secede Azotus to Sentinel Prime after the Reign of Fire which ended 7 million years ago.
Heracles was beyond distraught. No explanation he could give unto the Kaonites would be without implacable choler. It would be damning were any cohorts of the Host of Kaon to be tipped into the Tartarean fury, for the only punishment for it is execution as per the decree of Sentinel Prime. The feeble award was to arrive much later in the day, and the Payload and Vortex clones later so. Perhaps he should call for them now instead of delaying it in despair.
"Legate Mixmaster, I request 300 Payload clones for retrieving the gladiatorial award in the state of Azotus."
"Lord Herald, I grant unto you this request. 300 Payload clones inbound."
"Thank you, Legate Mixmaster."
These lads are too big for any carrier around. Though they can arrive sufficiently fast enough as to not spur exasperation over a delay.
"Legate Brawl, I request 300 Vortex clones for lifting the gladiatorial award in the state of Azotus."
"Done."
He was always a little quieter than the other Legates. But even this seemed too minimalistic. Perhaps an "I pay heed" could have been enough. But Leonidas embraced a refined manner of speaking wholeheartedly. There was no changing that forevermore.
"Thank you, Legate Brawl."
Heracles tapped out of the Argos sphere. This was the communication system unique to the Kaonites. Once they grew to a certain age, they could seemingly telepathically communicate to others of the nation without having to as much as use their voice box. It would take a while to get used to it, however, and beginners need to exchange names to recognise each other's sparks as they became more accustomed to the system. It was possible to formulate small groups wherein a select few Kaonites could communicate and everyone in the group would hear it. Sentinel Prime wished to adopt such a mechanism for the Iaconian regiments, but in its current stage is still inferior to the Argos sphere for communication. Blackout has devised an engineering cohort to refine it even further, but does so with reluctance and scepticalness for how it may be used against the peoples of Kaon.
Heracles sat in further reflection. He will wait for the Vortex and Payload centuries to arrive, and will thus inform them of what has happened as to not cause an uproar that could get them all punished if not slain. Thus, could a disturbance of the peace be averted from. But the decision to rebel is entirely on them. Will they, or will they not? Though he could attempt his best for the latter to occur, but with the turmoil in Kaon, he could only hope.